The moon was high in the sky and bright with the last of the summer light. However, the altercation with his friend and business partner weighed on Kincade, and he needed time to clear his head. So, in the time-honored manner of all true New Zealanders through a brisk walk, he had set forth to clear his mind and calm the blood. Hoping the crispness in the air would also work to put his facilities to rights. With any luck, he hoped the walk would generate and refine new ideas and plans for the future without the entanglements that military contracts entail.

The night air was sharp for this time of year, but the briskness of a cold day was a reminder that the country extracted a price for its bounties--the fortitude of its people. Particularly where the weather was concerned, often the Kiwi, as the New Zealanders called themselves, was to be seen with only a single layer of clothing in the depths of winter, looking to each person they passed to say see, "It's almost the summer." Above, seagulls rounded on the wind currents and screamed their relentless calls of warning and foreboding. February in New Zealand was technically still part of the summer, so the cold snap that had rolled in this weekend direct from the Antarctic was unexpected. Walking along the street, he noticed the new workingmen's club, the Thistle Hall, was still open.

He passed a large man who looked Kincade up and down, sizing him up. In the way all men do, after too many drinks and too little attention from the local lasses. The feeling that this guy was weighing his ability to dampen Kincade's evening. Kincade looked directly back at the man, who noticed the attention. "Nice night," Kincade said, changing the grip on his cane so as to be able to swing it like a club. The man smiled back, showing two missing front teeth. He laughed, saying, "Aye, brass monkeys, eh?" as if reading his mind about the cold and the possibility of cannonballs falling from the brass monkey corner holders. Kincade smiled as he continued past the Thistle, a working man's bar, and the sounds of revelry from within.

Then, as he turned down Mulgrave Street, a voice came from behind him, "Sir… Governor… Sir… please, wait." Kincade turned around to see a small boy.

Taking him in, he noticed his shoes. One of the boy's feet looked as though his foot was sausage stuffed into a casing too small for the content, and remarkably the shoe had a small heel, the same type a young girl would wear. The other shoe was clearly a man's boot and several sizes too large. The boy had wrapped his foot in a burlap sacking, presumably to fill the boot so that it would fit. The boy's clothing was torn but had been patched. This spoke to his parents, who cared that he appeared to be looked after, which was crucial in these modern times. The appearance of wealth and good fortune had become more important than the actual trapping of wealth or good fortune. Kincade judged these parents, for they did not appear to care that the boy was out, on the street, at this late hour. Or possibly they had turned him out to get a few coppers more.

"What is it, boy? Money for a meal, eh?" Kincade said as he fished around in his pocket.

"Yeah, Nah, but thank you for the offer. Right gentlemen are you, Sir," the boy said.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

"Then what?" Kincade inquired, glancing behind him to see if some ruffian was about to run a blackjack sap across the back of his head.

"Well, sir, you see, the man told me if I talk to you, he will give me a whole pound." The boy said, looking at his feet.

"Talk to me about what, boy?" Kincade insisted, the air of the night growing just a little colder. The Wellington winds were notorious the world over for being strong and fast. They lapped at his neck, and he lifted his collar in response.

Over the sound of the wind, Kincade picked up the clomping steps of a man boot slapping the pavement. The tremendous hulking monster of a man crossed into the corner of Kincade’s vision on his left side, with arms lifted and fists clenched and advanced on him. Spinning to greet the hulking aggressor, Kincade turned his back to the boy and placed himself before the threat. From Kincade's right side, an arm wrapped itself around Kincade's head and neck, dragging his back into an expansive chest. Crushing the boy between them, the boy forced himself free in short order.

The new thug's hot breath forced its way between Kincade's jacket collar and down his neck. A sharp thud and pain exploded in Kincade's lower back. The kidney shot forced him back, deeper into the chokehold. Kincade reached up, grasping at the arm wrapped around him, the cane clattering to the ground, fighting against the back pain, grabbing the forearm and holding him fast.

The man holding Kincade shook him from left to right and back again like an excitable dog with a rabbit, lifting Kincade off his feet. Leaving just the toes of Kincade's polished shoes scrapping the cobbles. The first man, the larger of the two, stepped into vision. His arm cocked like the hammer of a pistol, and then he pulled the trigger. The hulk's fist slammed into Kincade's stomach. Dropping down onto one knee, Kincade's own weight pulled the bulk of the man holding the chokehold down onto himself. That forced even more of the vital breath of life from Kincade's body.

"Lift him up. Let's see his face," a new yet familiar voice said.

As the man with his arm wrapped around Kincade throat started to lift him, Kincade's fingers settled around his cane that had fallen to the ground earlier. The thug lifted Kincade, and Kincade swung the cane up in an arc at the new man before him. His swing was erratic, trying to hit anything. He needed to get out of this, needed to get out, out right now—Kincade's cane connected with something, with someone. A cracking of wood rang out like the rapport of a pistol. There was a sound of fresh, moist meat slapping against the butcher's block. Kincade heard a yelp of pain, and a spray of blood hit Kincade's face with its unmistakable metellic smell.

The chokehold around his neck tightened. He could smell the man. He reeked of beer and smoke mixed with sweat as he gasped for breath. He pulled at the arm around his neck.

"Hold him still. You give him this," came the familiar pained voice.

The hulk's hand reached forward. The moonlight flashed on something in the man's colossal mitt. Then a sharp pain stabbed into his neck, the familiar and unmistakable feeling of a needle-piercing skin and the continents of a syringe forced into him.

"Stash him for no less than 3 days, then let him go. It will be too late then." The familiar voice growled.

"No… No…” Kincade squeaked as he thrashed against the hold. His breath was gone.

His vision faded to black. He made one last attempt, desperately pulling at the arm around his throat, with a warmth filling him, a familiar feeling from a past, not forgotten but buried in the back of his mind - morphine. Then, the darkness took him completely, and there was nothing.