Never tell the truth when a lie will do.

[Markovnikov]

"Show me your papers, civilian."

Monday peered above the top of his book, mildly preturbed by the the harshness of the tone. A trio of jackbooted thugs in their red and black uniforms towered confidently over his park bench, casting short shadows in the morning sun.

"Your papers. Now. Before I make you eat your book and arrest you for resisting arrest," spat the one with the largest hat. The pins on his lapels said sergeant, and his voice did nothing to hide naked disdain for anyone not in his uniform.

Monday feigned a blank look as he reached into his coat pocket - his fingers briefly deliberating between the papers of Victor Mansen, 35 year old gardener with a Doctorate in Petunia cultivation, and Kristoff Steubenson, 33 year old specialist codebreaker and Captain in the Intelligence Service.

"O-one moment officer," Monday stammered, pulling out a leather bound booklet. "Here it is - I h-hope this is satisfactory."

The patrolman reached with a gloved hand and snatched the Ident-Card packet, jabbing it into his obviously long abused datapad.

"Good. Now you will explain why you've been sitting across the embassy for -"

The reader beeped, the self-satisfied smirk drained from the officer's face. He stood up straight and saluted.

"My apologies, Captain S-Steubenson, s-sir." The patrolman stammered urgently.

The other seated patrons of the cafe began to stare - a patrolman adopting such a tone of voice was both most unusual and intriguing.

"Are you m-mocking my s-stammer, Sergeant?" Monday could barely contain his amusement. Captain Steubenson was a risky choice, but it was infintely more entertaining.

The two patrolmen to the sides looked at once mortified and amused at the Sergeant's gross misfortune. The Sergeant shuffled nervously, contemplating what he could possibly say to avoid digging himself further into a hole.

Monday decided to be merciful, waving his hand in a half salute and half dismissal.

The Sergent looked dumbfounded, but relieved at his reprieve. He was quick to shuffle off with his two compatriots, trailing nothing but apologetic gibberish. Monday returned to his book.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

As the last rays of the evening crested over the building behind him, Monday closed his book with a soft thud.

"That was phenomenally stupid," said a raspy voice behind him.

"It worked, didn't it?" Monday continued to look forward, away from the voice. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his Ident-Card packet, holding it up for a glove to gingerly grab.
"There should be foot patrol schedules, passphrases, and outer gate codes in there, straight from a security datapad."

"Where did you even get an Intelligence Service tag?"

"i'll tell you back at the ship, once the others take care of the rest of the job.."