The train ground to a screeching halt, puffing a final few pale clouds from its ventilation shaft. Its arrival heralded the evening parade: porters in pressed burgundy moving forth to unlatch doors and assist with luggage; a steady stream of passengers eager to escape cramped carriages for purchased pleasures in the city above.

Augustine scanned the faces from a slight distance. As expected most of the first-class travelers were human, a stark contrast from the hunched orc porters - trying their very best to be more helpful and less menacing.

As this mismatched ensemble descended upon the platform, a soft melody echoed over the station. Every display screen flashed to an apparition of incandescent eyes and deep blue lips. <Thank you for riding Union Rail, we hope you enjoyed your trip> came its smooth, secretarial greeting. <All continental citizens please proceed to Checkpoint A.>

The passengers from the rear economy-class cars were catching up to the main crowd. Among them were grungy construction orcs, tiny goblin families in the tens, and even a stooped vampire sucking on his welfare plasma pack. As if in recognition, the holographic visage tilted its pupil-less gaze toward them. <If you fall under the description of orc, goblin, fairy, corporeal spirit, sentient undead, djinn, certified shapeshifter, or any other miscellaneous entity, please proceed to Checkpoint B for inspection.

Augustine tuned out the announcements, working his way through the thickening press of bodies congregating around the stairway. He glanced upwards for a second to where his partner lurked by the balcony, also keeping lookout for the asset. The request had instructed them to rendezvous on the lower platform.

Augustine was beginning to have his doubts when he caught sight of a bowler hat. It bobbed among the crowd of stragglers, and as his line of sight cleared he recognized a gentleman of porcelain complexion handling an ornate briefcase, as was foretold.

Aiming to meet him halfway, Augustine quickened his pace. But the asset stopped unexpectedly as two orc porters approached to assist him. One of the service orcs, the uglier of the pair, grunted something intelligible. And without hesitation the asset extended his arm straight like a robot, offering the briefcase.

It was not protocol to entrust government property to civilian help. Augustine stepped forward to say as much as the orc took the briefcase. He had a hard, gnarled face with a chipped tusk, and two tiny little droplets tattooed under his eye. Those tattoos - Augustine froze – they weren’t help.

His hand snapped to the holster beneath his suit jacket. The second orc turned, yellow eyes locking on him. Augustine drew his battle wand, but the orc was faster, whipping out a copper hand-cannon he’d lodged in his trousers. The orc snarled, and pulled the trigger.