The ruler of a future kingdom, his throne already concrete in his mind.

A practiced calm. He knows how he looks and dares you to question the asymmetry.

He's reading you in return. A man trained by an informal school.

The Dream of Rustam. For eighty years, there were no kings or bosses -- only open councils, grain cooperatives, and radio poets. As the Developed World spread, the Dream cracked.

A place where you grow up with the same people, watch their faces change, their dogs die. It's home.

Does this man have any regard for operational opacity?

He's perfectly aware you're not from around here, much less a cop.

Bravado. Nothing else.

They had the rare kind of bond that cannot be described.

The outlandish jacket, the promises, the smooth flirtations -- all performance. But whatever he's feeling about this certainly isn't.

A warning. From the heart.

For you, as much as it is for him. Has to keep himself sharp, or that'll be the day he loses.

Carabineros: Portofiro's sanctioned police investigators. They report directly to the Prefectura and deal in actual crime -- murder, grand larceny, rape.

Unshakeable. He will never budge on this.

A respectable show of how to maintain one's cover.

You recall Vespar speaking of his time in the Guardia Municipal. A decade of low-stake days.

Making Goat Eyes look like a snitch, with none of the perks.

Party Alley offers options in bulk, if one is looking for ground-level sources. Why him?

It wouldn't do for an Azzurri associate to be too close to a carabinero, and vice-versa.

Tritos 91. A highly-inebriated Operant CASCADE (schnapps count: ??) is pulled over for 'reckless tuk-tuk driving'.

And for a moment, you're aware of a great hollow, shaped exactly like your old asset.

The details are hazy. It was some years ago, you were in the city for work, he pulled you over for something bad you'd done.

And he just happened to come across it?

Words that echo of marble, drums, and banners.

Rings honest enough, but there's something more.

He makes it sound like curiosity, but it's concern.

His employer? What's he heard?

Portofiro's largest organised crime syndicate. Who he no doubt works for.

A man leans over a fluted balustrade, savouring a pre-bed cigarillo. The Noscorrentes sea churns like liquid mercury. At his back, a suite of malachite and glass -- and a figure detaching itself from the wall, gun in hand.

Not wanting to be seen together. But why?

You feel it, already: a movement, a choice, and a consequence, looming.

A strange, terrible clarity blooms:

He'd gone to ground. Hiding -- or maybe just counting out the days.

One of us, until the end.

There's something you're missing, a piece that doesn't quite fit.

Holed up for days on end, frying your circadian rhythm for The Work. A mangled part of you craves it, always.

Defences going up -- but curiosity as well.

So that's it. He's gone.

Asset VIRTUE: confirmed ZEROED OUT.

A steady crowd noise drifts over from that direction.

Should have went west at the roundabout, by the sounds of it, not east.

Gentle heat on your skin, coconut liqueur on your tongue. He's onto something...

The Azzurris smelled something was off about it, then.

A courtesy he'd like to be mutual.

By whom?

Jacket: Pristine, not bootlegged. Nails: Recently manicured. Money: Made.

The words roll off his tongue, smooth as the smoky bergamot cologne he's wearing.

Theft, obviously.

'Fell off' the back of a tuk-tuk.

The way his lip curls -- revulsion, as if he'd smelled meat left to rot in the sun.

You know the feeling, and how to put it into words for him.

Both fake and shit.

Smells like rubber bands, hardly vegetal. It is also very obviously dry.

Someone's used to improvising pitches.

Astounding. Must've been harvested just a few days ago.

You don't have to use it to sell it.

He means that. If he said otherwise he'd be going against some kind of code.

This guy is a businessman first and foremost. No way he's not selling something if it can turn a profit.

Prove you can be trusted with the other drugs.

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Do we need to be part of his gäng? Seems like the safest option.

RELIGION IS AN ILLUSION MEANT ONLY TO HOLD CAPTIVES.

Of course. Religion is a drug for the masses -- it's code.

Hard to tell if he's genuinely worried about being exposed, or it's just part of the sell.

Definitely not. Operants cannot allow themselves to have such a vulnerability.

He's scanning you, as he has scanned many before.

A coded question. He needs to be let 'in' enough on the details to be willing to open himself up to risk.

No need to spill your guts, though, operant.

His posture spells it out: not at the moment, at least.

His right pant pocket creases around something narrow and weighty. A switchblade.

He's not lying, but it's not your lines he's interested in.

A high ranking member of the military, sworn to protect the Rustamian head of state -- back when the Dream of Rustam still was a state.

The bullet by your heart twitches, then stills.

A dash of nonsense to disarm you while he runs a checklist.

It's not the lines he cares about. Only your reactions to his reactions.

Could be another of his sales pitches. Could be...

People like him have an intuition for things like this. Mystic knowledge, passed down through the generations... this isn't good news.

The past you can account for... but the future?

Thud in your chest. Heart skipped a beat.

78mm barrel. Length: 150mm, maximum. Fifteen round magazine. And, crucially: the trigger's click must feel nice.

Massive. We want it big enough to drop something with hooves.

There are many crimes you may commit; none worse than mediocre aesthetics.

Steel. Superior feedback -- every bullet shuddering, while you remain still.

Go for polymer. You'll move with it, not against it.

Safety. No impact on performance, and it makes a really nice 'click' too.

A leash? No thanks.

You need to merge with the gun in your palm. Become one.

Something to keep your arm steady when it gets heated. Ultimate stability.

Keeping it quiet wouldn't go amiss.

Out of the question. He must be able to get you something sooner than that.

You sure about this? You already made your own gun.

You sure about this? You could just make your dream piece instead.

At the Novessa Greenhouse, you and the other would-be operants were trained on steel. There's something comforting in the familiarity.

No cologne this time -- only a faint, metallic scent.

Funny. Didn't seem like he had any problems asking that.

His balance is off today. He's favouring his left leg, like the right one can't be trusted. Like it hurts.

Old Viúdas shifted around him. There was a route traced for him, but he veered off. Around the corner, a car kept waiting, engine ticking. In the trunk: carpet and old rope.

He's tired. The kind of tired that comes from getting through the wrong version of the night.

Does his story hold?

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That's it. Play up the damsel in distress angle, it's his weak spot.

After a moment, his face drops as he realises what he has to do.

Triple-stitched premium nylon. Expensive.

Manufactured in Kino's Gambit. Slide coated in dark-grey finish. Fixed barrels, ported. Machined for high-accuracy pressure.

The killer inside you grins.

He came through.

The look of a kid pretending to be an adult in a room full of consequences.

Now it's all done, everything in him hopes that his concession will earn him a place in your heart.

And just like that, warmth radiates from him once more. If only it were that easy for you.

STATE-ISSUED, LOOTED OFF A CORPSE, OR SELF-PRODUCED. THAT IS HOW YOU GET A GUN. WRITE IT DOWN.

You agreed to the amount. You paid upfront. It's on him to take the loss.

His trigger finger twitches.

The tension before a stand-off is known to him, engrained.

While he looks relaxed, his elbows and knees are locked, deliberately tensed like a spring.

This is a man who knows guns, the mess they make. He doesn't throw out threats like that lightly.

Eyes aren't bloodshot. He's close to sober -- his reactions will be better than last time.

This path can only end badly, for the both of you.

Eyes aren't bloodshot. He's close to sober -- minimal reaction delay.

His smirk's gone. Just a tight line now, barely there.

Quick, pull your gun on him again. Just for kicks.

Easy. There's no recognition on his end. Not one dot connected.

Your deception holds. Excellent.

Poor guy. You should make sure he's okay, at least.

Professionally? Low-triple digits, by the time they put you in the Freezer.

You robbed the man and left. An apology isn't undeserved.

An amateur was outplayed by a professional -- there's nothing to explain.

Crap, the Azzurri delivery man. Get the gun.

Easy there. No recognition on his end. Not even a hint.

Your opacity holds. Pretend this is the first time you two have ever met.

Poor guy. He had such a rough night.

This must be the 'heavyset Rustamian' the bartender at the Fogged Mirror saw with VIRTUE.

This must be the front for the Azzurri mob, mentioned by the Boatman.

You've seen this kind of bravado before. He's running some kind of side-hustle.

Easy -- he's obviously not harbouring a grudge.

Worried.

He's thought about it, turned it over and over in his head until it all clicked.

In another life, he'd have made a fine operant.

How can we not love him? He's got all the makings of a top-tier gäng member. Solid right through.

A mild, yet regrettably symmetrical case of double-strabismus.

He can't take his eyes off your outfit. Must be jumpy around law enforcement.

The ruler of a future kingdom, his throne already concrete in…

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