This is it -- our comeback tour coat. Post-scandal. Post-overdose. Post-prison. Portofiro 96, baby. Half the crowd dies, the other half name their kids after you.

Secondhand olds and newish fakes.

Fashion has a short memory, anything worn long enough to have been faked is already ancient.

Your heart convulses at their mention.

The dockworkers must have had more information on him. Find out what you can, if there are Weeping Eye here, you need to know why.

The Weeping Eye do not care about knock-off toys. If they're here then something is happening levels above her head.

You're familiar with the coat -- this is the man who tailed you through the bazaar.

Let the Boatman know you're in the Weeping Eye's sight: it may twist his arm.

Prayers won't help. Let the Boatman know you're in the Weeping Eye's sight: it may twist his arm.

Let the Boatman know you're in the Weeping Eye's sight: it may twist his arm.

The coat sounds familiar -- this is the man who was talking to your special asset in Foto 24.

The man in Foto 24. Were the Weeping Eye that close to you already?

Your natural enemies. The ones who took you all apart five years ago. Hackles rise.

La Luz, the techno-fascists. Why would they send Operants to Portofiro?

Fear in her eyes. Like you're being watched.

Her movements are fitful and tremulous -- the arched back suggests a lifetime spent on her feet, contorted over something.

She peers out from behind the pages, eyes softening. She has deemed you clumsy enough to be trustworthy.

She smiles and leans back, endeared by your threat.

You spot a flash of light from between the pages before she ruffles them away from you -- she's hiding something in there.

PSEUDOPOD convinced her to buy stock that she can't move, impressive.

Impressive that he was able to win this woman over. He inspires empathy. Valuable trait.

The former. Ask him again.

She sighs, nostalgic.

She flaps her hand, dismissing space exploration as a logistical inconvenience.

You better hope she really does forget it -- that was a question worthy of a child pretending to be an operant.

Never should have let you out of the freezer.

No she did not.

She said hussy.

Without that song, the bomb is purely decorative.

Following her line of sight, there's no sign of the guardia municipal officer who was loitering there itching himself earlier.

Following her line of sight, there's no sign of a guardia municipal officer.

A flash of light from between the pages. She's hiding something in there.

Look at those lights! Evenly diffused? Impeccable alternating pattern? That thing's not a bootleg.

The words 'La Luz' makes your shoulders close in, as if bracing for a hit.

Notice that the broadcast is in Mircean -- not Luzian. Dubbed for a foreign audience.

Troubling, especially if Luzian cultural exports are what they primarily consume.

A man of strong opinion that he's not afraid to shout about. Even to children.

The Luzians must be getting better at bypassing the blockage.

Ridiculous. These wobbling, open-chassis abominations can barely function on solid ground.

A mere four-hour flight, but there are no commercial flights between Portofiro and the Illuminated Empire.

Some Portofirans refer to Luzians as 'strange cousins', a nod to this island's colonial past.

Certainly not part of La Luz. It's a wealthy state in the Developed World, known for its bogs and poets.

Yeah, tell them how bad everything is. They need to know the horrors that await them in this world.

THEY'RE TOO FAR GONE ALREADY.

Perhaps you should let children be children.

The boy seems confused that he has to explain this.

Your tongue runs along the familiar edges of your canines.

He's missing a few.

They're both wrong! You're a wolf-human hybrid, capable of channeling the agility and strength of a beast in the body of an unsupposing woman.

These kids are lost. Their hearts belong to techno-fascism.

Checks