Terror gripped Floyd, his footfalls barely audible over the crowd marching inexorably after him. The people of Madrid, it seemed, had become less hospitable than the travel agent led him to believe. Bad timing put him in a foreign country on vacation at the same time that accursed pamphlet about Altterrans hit the streets.

Loose garbage littering the street set Floyd tumbling into the gutter. His camera flew a few feet in front of him and snapped a picture- a photo that would make someone rich. Someone other than Floyd, who was more concerned about getting back on the move than scooping up the device.

Floyd fled. High school track prepared him for distance running, though this scenario never crossed his mind.

The restaurant he vacated was a charming little place, the food delicious, the service beyond compare. The patrons, however, were not so kind. Shortly after he sat down at the table, its quaint checked tablecloth illuminated by gaslight, the whispers began. Floyd began to notice people staring at him from behind menus, or over their meals.

It wasn’t until Floyd’s meal arrived that he noticed the amount of attention he was getting. People glared, and it perplexed him. His mind told him it was merely a cultural faux pas. He continued chowing down on his meal, trying to figure out what he could have done.

With the bill, the waiter brought something else: a salmon-colored pamphlet titled “Altterra – Facts For the Uninformed.” Across its front scrawled the words “”We know what you are. You are not welcome here.” Floyd looked up from this ominous message and saw that several patrons had already gotten to their feet and were approaching his table. At least one person chasing him now no doubt just wanted to settle the check he’d run out on.

The street wasn’t safe. Desperation forced him to start looking for alleys to dart down, dumpsters to dive into, anything to get him out of sight until the riot was over. The crowd was lagging behind, even after his fall. Just a little further and he’d get his chance to duck out of sight. At least, he would have.

The quick glance over his shoulder put him face-first into a street sign. He thought the pain was splitting, but he reevaluated that appraisal in the moment his head connected with the pavement with a load crack. Night sky kaleidoscoped overhead while he struggled to regain his composure. Several arms reached out to him, helping him back to his feet and revealing a puddle of blood reflecting in the street lights. Too late, the identity of his saviors dawned on him. In his delirium, he muttered his last words.

“Could someone take my wallet back to the restaurant and pay the check? Use the Visa; it has a lower interest rate.”