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Foyle

Foyle scrambled over the Fairyworld fence to gain a few yards on his pursuers; it should have been empty, but instead a man in an elf costume is demanding to know whether he wants asylum.

“Uh,” says Foyle.

He glances over his shoulder, panting. The cops are arguing with a pair of burly druids. The gates remain closed.

“The theme park is technically a consulate,” says the elf. “Are you requesting our government’s protection?”

“What–okay,” says Foyle. “Yes?”

The elf smiles; his teeth are pointed. Foyle’s wondering if those ears are fake, and exactly what kind of asylum he’s accepted.

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