What a splendid time to be alive. A bottle of Coca Cola was a nickel, a family could buy a Ford for 490 bucks, zeppelins and Lindbergh were crossing the Northern hemisphere, and women on the street were –dare he utter it- showing their ankles. What a swell time indeed.

Every time Sergeant Alfred F. Jones walked Times Square in New York City he had this feeling. The flashing lights, the big cigarette advertisements, that poor, poor, traffic light in the middle of the intersection that tried too hard at its job. Sometimes he would imagine he was a foreign tourist, or some time traveled cowboy from the 1800s, and he was seeing his city for the first time.

Out of the corner of his eye Alfred noticed something that instinct had instilled in him and fellow policemen to notice: idiots. Some mentally impaired dolt was standing at the intersection, gawking at the lights, like he really was some old coot out of the past. About to get splattered into a bloody mural by an old Model T.

Forget the Scopes Trial, Lady Darwin had somewhat of a place in keeping idiots off the streets. Like the crack of a whip Alfred sprang, his stride long, lopsided by the heavy Colt pistol holstered on his right hip. The contrasting gleam of his gold badge on the almost black fabric of his uniform easily parted the crowds of people.

"Hey you! MOVE!" Alfred snatched roughly at the man's lapels and pulled him clumsily back up onto the curb before a car shrieked by. The young man, startled, but realizing of his mistake, stared at him with wide blue eyes.

"Entschuldigen Sie bi… I-"

"What the hell were you doing?" Alfred asked, adrenaline toning his voice.

"I..I…"

Alfred understood the situation now. Looking like he'd never seen so many lights before. He knew this type. I smell you. Fresh off the boat.

The man seemed horrified. He quickly started pawing about on his person. "You say I smell like a boat?"

He hadn't meant to say that out loud. But the person did speak English. Well, he couldn't be too bad. For an Irish-Jewish-Italian-Polish-Greek-Russian whatever he was. "No, you don't really smell like vomit," Alfred appeased.

The young man did not seem pleased with this, and continued looking confusedly about on his person. "Easy," Alfred soothed, almost apologetically. "Where are you from?"

"Berlin."

"Ah! Good old kraut. Well, if you speak English, and you're not here to start a war, I say you'll do just swell. What you here for?"

He didn't answer. Perhaps he already had some sort of occupation lined up. Though most likely not, most people's reasons for leaving were similar.

"Whoo, you can say that again. There's a bunch of you here. Your whole government is collapsing. Egg worth a kabillion marks? That coup Whatzisname threw a bit back. Jailed the bastard, didn't they?" Alfred started walking out of the square and encouraged the stranger to walk with him.

"Yes, but the judge was rather sympathetic. He was only to serve a few years."

"Mm. Anyway, shouldn't be too hard for you to find work. See those signs in the shop places? Dunno how well you can read em. They say 'if Irish or Italian, you need not apply.' The only immigrants we really like are the English. I guess the Germans are alright, hard workers, they are. When you're not trying to start a war, I mean."

"What ethnicity are you? Certainly you must be some of those things," the man said.

"Oh sure!" Alfred replied warmly. He jerked a curved thumb to the hollow of his collarbone. "Make no mistake about it, I'm made out of boat peasants too! Old 17th century puritans and gold hunters. Probably English, Scots-Irish, Dutch, maybe some German. But my ancestors came here earlier. And unlike 60% of this city, I get to say I'm a natural born American."

"And better to everyone else."

Alfred was generous enough to pretend not to hear. He stooped low in his stride to pick up a newspaper someone had dropped, he disliked litter. Stocks were up today, according to the headline. "You got a wife back home you're sending the dollars back to? Got family in town?"

"Well, supposedly my idiot brother got on the wrong boat in the Netherlands and ended up here."

"Awuh!" Alfred chuckled. "Don't worry. If he's that stupid, he's probably already dead."

That quip didn't much seem to comfort him. It would be hard enough to find someone in this city already without having to check the morgue. The German sighed and placed a palm to his brow. "I need a drink. Do you know of a place?"

"Sure do."

Alfred started unhooking the handcuffs from his belt. Eyes wide, the German danced quickly back with an athletic military swiftness that almost made Alfred hesitate in his confidence he could subdue him. "What are you…?!"

"Here's a hint, Jerry ol' pal. Don't try the Oktoberfest here. I'll have your ass in the glasshouse before you can even say 'bitte!'" Alfred warned.

"I apologize!"

That was Sergeant Jones's job. Bust the speakeasies and the kneecaps of every gangster on Manhattan Island. He had earned a reputation as unbribeable, and was on the death list of the Italian mob because of it. But Alfred had never been outgunned yet, and never planned to.

"Alcohol is illegal here, and getting involved with it will get you in bad company. So I suggest you get used to life without it."

"S-sorry. I had forgotten."

"Yeah well, I can't arrest you just for talking about it. There's little Germany down on the lower east side, why don't you go make some friends?" Alfred pointed northeast. Likely not knowing what or where the lower east side was, the man inclined his head, and quickly left.

-Elizabeta Héderváry-

It had been a long night, and Elizabeta was counting her money. She wasn't sure who most of the people on the coins were, but as far as she was concerned they were her good friends. There was Indian Head, Little Brown Beard, and Round Glasses. With most of the coins it seemed the artist had ran out of creativity by the back side, and just drew an eagle or an American bison with a large penis. The big silver coin with the Roman goddess was her favorite. A quarter. She was the only female on any of the currency. Fairly plentiful, beautiful, armed and armored, the decent amount the woman was worth made her quite respectable in Elizabeta's eyes.

There was a saying she had heard. It was by Italian immigrants in origin, but she found it applicable enough. 'One, the roads are not paved in gold. Two, they're not paved at all. And three, you have to pave them.'

"Aren't you out a little late?" the strange voice that disturbed her then wasn't in English. In this part of town, perhaps he thought he could get away with it.

But she recognized the language and responded anyway. It was generally the second one taught to children in her country since the days of the Austro-Hungarian empire. "Was just about to head out," she replied in German, packing up her day's earnings without looking at him. "The next job."

"Streetwalking, perhaps? I wouldn't mind a go."

A wave of indigence lanced through her at the suggestion, but she refused it to manifest in more than a stiffening of her eyebrows. "I'm a fortune teller."

She had been sure a minute ago the light filtering though the brownstones had been rosy, but the sky had unarguably shifted into the night spectrum. Hazy halos of orange light blurred around distant streetlamps, like fire through dirty glass, and the streets were deserted besides her and her newest visitor.

He extended his palm with a beautiful smile. "Well, tell me my fortune, pretty woman."

What a snake. She dropped the hand unceremoniously. "You're going to die young."

"Woe!" Stricken, the stranger grasped his heart, leaned back, and started spinning around in exaggerated death thoes. Upon seeing no humored reaction from her, he stopped and sauntered closer to her, placing his meaty knuckles on her tablecloth. She felt an irritation bloom in her breast, she had given him no permission to do that. He leaned close, his hair veiling over his eyes and his voice soft over chapped lips. "I've heard that one before. I think I want my money back."

"You never paid," she replied.

"Typical gypsy. Hiding the evidence."

"Actually, I'm catholic. But the people in this country don't seem to know what 'Hungry' is other than a condition of the stomach. So the Roma guise works out fine for me."

"We have something in common. I haven't found an American who can tell East Prussia apart from Lithuania. Not that I've asked many. Accent pretty bad over the English, y'see," he cooed.

"East Prussia..." she droned. "Is that a Polish island?"

She knew getting on the nerves of a man who was obviously trying to mug her may not have been the most intelligent route. But submission to other variants of street scum was simply against her nature.

"Madame, I would calmly request a refund to your services. Why, you barely even looked at my palm," he said sweetly, his fluctuating tone lowering pleasantly. He held his upturned hand to her, and from behind his back with the other, unsheathed a large knife.

"You should be ashamed, doing this to a woman," she hissed.

"Not particularly."

"Put that away," she ordered.

"No."

She sighed. Impatiently, the mugger flipped the knife in his hand, spinning it on his fingers before halting it and pointing it at her throat. He seemed to be pretty deft with it.

"Sir, the one good thing about this country," she trailed with an air of calm nobility, slowly sneaking her hand into the compartment under the table, "Is guns galore."

She stood, and jostled the Luger pistol in her hand, letting the rosy streetlight reflect along the barrel. She saw the man's face drain of any small amount of color it had. "Now how much do you want to bet that telling was inaccurate?"

Author's note:

Hello! Hopefully someone from my past is around to read this. I was starting to miss fanfiction. I had this story idea around for a few months but was nervous to get started. After accumulating a decent amount of research notes and drafts, I thought I'd release the first bit.

Hoping to hear from some old friends and some new ones,

CelticFeather