"...and there you have it," the Anarchist Monthly editor said, leaning forward earnestly. He was about thirty-five, with glasses, slicked brown hair and a frighteningly earnest look to him. "As soon as the news came through of the SeeD mission success, the Government issued a warrant for you. Two days later they rescinded it, and sent officials over to claim all of the records that had anything to do with the warrant. Since then nothing's been going in or coming out of the government concerning you; and at the moment, all other trials being completed, it looks like they're going to play the entire thing as quietly as they can until people forget it all."

Seifer frowned. "So they let me go on purpose, then?" he asked.

The man nodded. "That's just the tip of it, too," he noted with the air of one about to give away a vast and terrible secret. "They're going through the logs, the records, everything, and erasing your name. Papers have stopped listing you, stopped printing opinion columns about you--and you can pretty much bet that Culper has a hand in that one."


"Spokesperson for the Presidential Cabinet," the man explained. "No one talks about it, but he has the entire media under his thumb." Nudging his glasses back up on his nose, the man nodded gravely. "They're trying to deny that you ever existed," he explained. "But not deny it outright--no, that wouldn't work, and it's not their style. They're just trying to make everyone forget that you existed."

Seifer's lawyer took the opportunity to step back into the room, with a look of shielded disdain for the man, his style, and his tone. "Are we done here, Mr. Almasy?" she asked.

Seifer glanced at the man, who leaned back for the first time in hours. "I've told all I know," he said solemnly. "It was nice talking with you, man, real nice. Hey, ah--you don't mind if I quote you in a few articles?"

Seifer shrugged. "Go ahead," he said.

"Oh, thanks, thanks," the man said, fishing something out of his shirt pocket and hastily scribbling something on the back. "Man, here's my card; I'd be happy to do business again knight, no knight, whatever. And here--" he finished writing and waved the card at Seifer, who took it gingerly, "--here's the name and contact information for Eia Wenns--she's a friend of mine; tell her that I sent you. You were having trouble getting a chance to speak with those bureaucratic pigs, right? Of course you were--everyone does; that's why they come to me for the low-down. But, yeah, she'll get a meeting for you. Trust me. She's a miracleworker."

Seifer glanced at the information, nodding. "Thanks," he said.

The editor gave him a broad wink over the rims of his glasses before pushing them up again. Then he went back to his stacks of paper, leaving Seifer and his lawyer to escort themselves out.

"Well?" his lawyer asked, glad to be out of the office and all of its assorted contraband. Seifer handed her the card, and she read over it. "...I'm sorry, Mr. Almasy," she began, "but I really can't endorse anyone whose contact information includes directions to use they alley door and a specific knock pattern. I have to admit that I was skeptical enough about this meeting as it was, but if you're going to continue in these quasilegal channels--"

"Right," Seifer said, waving her off. "How much do I owe you?"

His lawyer looked shocked. "I would highly recommend that you stick to the legal channels which I can--"

Seifer silenced her with one of his patented glares. "Something tells me I'll be fine," he said, with the sort of ironic angle to his words that reminded her exactly who she was talking to and what he had already done. "How much does it come to?"

The lawyer brushed off her jacket deliberately, making a small hmph noise. "The bill will be sent to your place of residence," she informed him curtly. "If you run into any problems with the law on your madcap escapade, please don't hesitate to call."

"I'll keep that in mind," Seifer said, and started to ignore her. After a moment, she got the hint and left.

Seifer turned all of his attention to the card. The address it gave was in Dollet--one of the cheaper housing districts about as far from the waterfront as one could get and still be counted inside the city limits. Given a full range of options (i.e. including more than bureaucrats and underground radicals) it would have been one of the last places he would have gone; however, lacking that range of options, it would have to do.

Now all he needed was a train ticket to Dollet....