"Yo, habibti." Goat Eyes flicks his cigarette.

"Yo, habibti." Goat Eyes flicks his cigarette.

"Your name is... Goat Eyes?"

"The one and only."

"Is your name because of... you know."

"The eyes? Sure. You ever seen a goat? Their eyes are all bugged out, but you know they have that savagery inside them."

"I respect the goats. That's why I picked the name myself."

"I envy their life. Far less sorrow, more grazing."

"Good jumpers too. Versatile skillset."

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

"Goats can't be trusted until we fully assess their jump physics."

"Tell you what, you come up with some theories, I'll sell the t-shirts."

"Pasture-tier cryptonym. You need a rebrand... something that hunts."

"I'm good. Predators show up and break themselves on me. No claws, no stealth -- just full-frontal violence."

"Aspirational creatures. The perfect example of persistence without grace."

"They got those little beards. That's graceful."

Stare into his goaty eyes.

He stares right back, blinking slowly.

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.

"Are you from around here?"

"Nah, I'm no Quisach boy." His eyes crinkle in amusement. "I come here to work, and then I go home. That's about it."

"Why? You don't like the neighbourhood?"

"It's not meant for me, is it?" His eyes flicker, like sparks on metal. "Not these days. I remember being twelve, me and my friends coming here just to watch the pelota fights. Drunk fans going at each other with screwdrivers. There were bets and shit."

"But hey, I like tourists with money." He smiles, revealing a gap tooth. "And tourists love Quisach. It's got colours, it's got music. No better place to pass through before heading home."

"Good for business, I take it."

"And getting better by the day." His eyes flicker, like sparks on metal. "It's not what it was even ten years ago. Cleaner, you know? You won't see a Recreación fan catching a screwdriver to the stomach."

"Where's 'home', then?"

"Born and raised in Lower Viudas." He taps his chest with his left hand. "An hour away by tram, if the lines hold."

"And I'm Rustamian, like your tall friend." He smiles. "My mother came to Portofiro when she was little. Raised me on hibiscus tea and stories about the commune."

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.

"My mother's a Rustam woman, inland blood. Came to Portofiro with her parents when she was eleven." He smiles. "She raised me on hibiscus tea and stories about the commune."

"Never been to Lower Viudas. What's it like?"

"It's quiet, if you're used to shouting. Neighbourhood's made up of fourteen towers. Nestor had it built in the 50s. For immigrants, mostly."

"We got a barber, Timo, who does solid tattoos. Old khalti selling candles out the windows. Best bakeries in town." He nods. "You should visit. Bring your friends."

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

"It does sound nice."

"And you'd never know it according to those travel pamphlets they hand out. They got all of Viudas coloured orange in there. Like it's dangerous."

"Is it not?"

"Nah." He shuffles on his feet. "Sure, you got kids with glassy eyes, some break-ins. But we're civilised, yeah?"

"Old people, they think Lower Viudas should clean up. Look decent." He shrugs. "We're not the ones scared of poverty."

"This is what happens when people are separated from each other -- not like in the commune."

"See? This is why you're my girl. Knows all the language, would fit right in." He shuffles on his feet. "But, hear me, not everyone gets it, yeah?"

"Dangerous can be fun."

"Sure, but you won't find any of that unless you're looking for it. Neighbourhood business is neighbourhood business."

"Travel guide's one of your side-hustles, too?"

"Who else is gonna do it? You know how tourist pamphlets have coloured maps? Lower Viudas is orange. You know, for dangerous."

"The 'friends' part may be a problem."

"I'll be your friend. I'll be anything you want me to be." He smiles. "I only mention it because travel pamphlets have people thinking Viudas is dangerous."

"Are you affiliated with anyone?"

"I'm affiliated with myself, primarily. Why do you ask?"

"I'm asking if you're with the Azzurri mob."

"Oh. Yeah, we're tight."

Does this man have any regard for operational opacity?

"I'm not a direct member. That's for Azzurri folks only. But sometimes, they need things done, and sometimes, I help out."

"And you don't mind telling me that, a stranger?"

"You asked."

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

"Okay." (Move on.)

"Keep talking at me. I'm enjoying it."

"Just wondering if someone in your line of business has to be mindful of 'turfs' and 'allegiances' and such."

"Do you always talk like that? I mean, it's cute, but..." He shrugs. "No, there's only one big player, far as 'turfs' go. That'd be the Azzurris."

"Anyone ever bother you here? Say, the Guardia Municipal?"

"The GMs? Half of them owe me money. Some grew up in Viudas -- we fried plantains on the same radiators. Little Maurito still working the bazaar?"

"No idea."

"He's a decent guy. Don't let the uniform scare you away."

"If I were to stay away from anyone, it'd be the carabineros. These fuckers don't fix problems. They pull 'em out like teeth."

"And yet I hear that you hang out with one."

"Someone's been telling you little lies. Don't let them talk poison through you -- that's a dark road."

Bravado. Nothing else.

"And yet you hung out with Vespar?"

"He was different. Can't explain how. Rest of them are animals."

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

"Sounds like they've done something to you? Or someone you know?"

"A suspicion, that's all." He looks toward the horizon. "No good talking about it, won't change anything. You just be careful around them."

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

"Better stay out of trouble, then."

"You know how it is. You're in on this game, you better know how to play it, otherwise the consequences get nasty."

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.

"Wouldn't know. I don't talk to law enforcement."

"Yeah, you're not from here. Look, don't worry too much about the GMs.

"Wouldn't know. I don't talk to law enforcement." (Lie.)

"He is. Protecting the peace and all."

"Yeah? That's good, it being boar season and all."

"Let's cool it on you." (Change topic.)

"Take a break. I have a lot to offer."

"Let's talk about you again, Goat Eyes."

"Love to." He grins.

"Spoke to your boss over the phone."

"I don't have a boss. It's all me." A nod, accompanied by a two-finger salute.

"You don't have to pretend. I know you're bottom-rung."

"Wow. Girl wants to savage me," he says to an imaginary audience. "What did I do? What made you so angry?"

"He said you were a good driver."

"Don't know who this person is, but if they're sweet on me like that, then I don't mind if they sing about me from the top of the hills."

"How can I make an order with him?"

"I really can't help you with this, baby-girl. But whatever you do, make sure you don't put yourself in danger. There are dark forces out there."

Unshakeable. He will never budge on this.

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

"I'm going to make an order with him."

"You do what you must. But make sure you don't put yourself in danger. There are dark forces out there."

"Another thing about Vespar."

"Yeah?"

"How did you two meet?"

"We used to talk. You know, as professional men."

"You were his informant."

"Within reason." His gaze softens.

"He got me good. I was selling questionable hashish down in Party Alley at the time. I didn't see him get close. He taps me on the shoulder, I turn around, and there's the asshole, standing in his little GM outfit."

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

"Wait. When was this?"

"88. I was a kid."

"How'd he get you on board?"

"Vespar made it clear he wouldn't leave me alone. I could either talk to him once in a while -- or get long, daily visits wherever I deal."

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?

"And after that?"

"It was as he said. We'd chat. Within a couple years, he became a carabinero. I was moving up, too. The talks became less regular -- better that way."

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

"Made you his snitch, didn't he?"

"Ugly word, that." His gaze softens, right eye slipping farther astray.

"You don't mind telling people you were an informant?"

"I was young, Vespar offered protection." He scratches the side of his nose. "It's Portofiro, you know? GMs and people like me, they work two sides of the same street."

"Did you like him*?

"He was alright." He blinks, slowly. "So how'd you two meet, anyway?"

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

Terrible night. I was a mess.

Officer Sondo asks for papers. You have none. The tuk-tuk isn't yours, either -- but you don't panic. You smile.

I saw something in Vespar, didn't I?

Potential -- for your still-fledging Portofiro network. And so, you made a move.

I lit up the fires of Perpetual Revolution in him, recast Portofiro's streets as post-historical frontlines.

Dawn. You and Vespar walk out of the Fogged Mirror, with plans to meet the next day. Vespar's pending cryptonym: VIRTUE.

"Yo. I asked you a question. How'd you meet?"

"By chance."

"And so you found each other." He nods, slowly. "I dig that."

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

"It was a work thing."

"It must have been more. The way you looked, just now." He taps his chest with a finger. "There was something in here."

"I think we were meant to meet."

"He made people feel that way, didn't he?"

I pitched the big picture as highly-beneficial self-interest.

I offered him a place in the grand machine of the future.

Nobody respects advanced drifting, that's the problem.

I'd thrown up twice. That's technically sober.

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.

"Think he might've arrested me one time."

"He got the best of us. There'll be a lot of criminals walking free with him gone."

"I don't fully remember, to be honest."

"As long as you don't totally forget him." He taps his chest with a finger. "Keep him in there."

"Do you know how he died?"

"Line of duty." He hooks a thumb into his pocket. "That's what the obituary said. Didn't mention the specifics."

And he just happened to come across it?

"What did it say, exactly?"

"It's been years, but I'm sure it was the usual shit. 'Mourned by his brothers', 'fell in steadfast service to Portofiro'. You know, all that honour talk."

Words that echo of marble, drums, and banners.

"How'd you get hold of his obituary?"

"It was on all the front pages." He drags a hand along his moustache. "Carabineros don't die every day. When they do, they get these fancy pieces published."

Rings honest enough, but there's something more.

"But you read that one."

"Guess that's true." His tongue presses against his cheek. "Look, I hadn't heard from the man in a while. So, you know, I kept an eye."

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

"What do you think happened?" (Proceed.)

"Only two possibilities. His own brothers, for failing the 'brotherhood'. Or the Azzurris." He sniffs. "Figure it was the Azzurris."

His employer? What's he heard?

"News of a dead carabinero usually comes with jokes and shit-talk. Maybe drinks." He sniffs. "But sure as the caped boys were quiet -- so were the Azzurris."

"Think they had a reason to go after Vespar?"

"He'd been on the shit list for a while, I'm sure. Maybe he pissed off one of the pakhans." He tucks his chin down. "Doesn't matter. The uniform's reason enough."

"And..." He shuffles inside his coat. "Vespar didn't look too good, the last time we met. Like he knew something ugly was coming."

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

"It doesn't bother you, knowing your bosses may have done it?"

The young man stares at you for a long time.

"As much as Vespar's outfit bothered me." His jaw shifts sideways. "You stand by everything your employer does, habibti?"

"No."

"Some people think work is an allegiance. It's not." He scoffs. "They pay me for my time. I keep the rest separate."

"This is different."

"Nah." His misaligned eye wavers, drifting off-axis. "No way."

"What if you ever find out who exactly went after Vespar?"

"There's this old Rustamian saying my grandmother liked." He tongue pokes the inside of his cheek. "'Some truths arrive already carrying a shovel'."

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.

"Tell me about the last time you saw Vespar."

"It was a chance encounter. Saw him in East Quisach. He had this sad box of frozen shrimps in one hand, a bag full of booze under his arm."

"I told him, 'Man, the fuck you doing all the way out here?'. Vespar, he grinned like an asshole. 'Fuckin' supply run.' I followed him back to his place."

"When was this?"

"Late 91. A few weeks before... Yeah."

"We hung out for an hour or so. And then he told me he needed to get back to it. Showed me the door."

"And you just left?"

"Habibti, who do you think I am? I told that fuck to roll with me, that I'd get some solid food in him."

"But he just put that smile on again and said, 'Sure, gimme an address. Maybe I'll find my way there." The man before you deflates.

Not wanting to be seen together. But why?

"And you parted ways after that?" (Proceed.)

"Yeah, but before I left, he had a question." He half-smiles. "It was about the day he first approached me. You know, our 'chats'."

"When you became his informant."

"Yeah."

"The deal, back then, was that I wouldn't talk to him about Lower Viudas. Ever. I was firm, you know. No talking about my people."

"Did you even have a choice?"

"Just my balls -- which, legally, were in his hands. He could've said, 'fuck your pride' and hauled me off to the carabineros. But he didn't."

"Right. So what did Vespar want to know?"

"What I would've done if I'd only had two choices that day: turning on my people, or a gun in my mouth."

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

"I put two fingers in my mouth, as a reply. Vespar gave me a hug and just said, 'My man'."

A strange, terrible clarity blooms:

The Weeping Eye tried to flip him.

But he didn't go for it.

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

One of us, until the end.

"And then he pushed me out the door." His smile falters. "That was that."

"You miss him?"

"It's still 'fuck carabineros' every day, as far as I'm concerned." He flicks his chin. "But I'm willing to give him a pass."

"It was enough. Thanks, Goat Eyes."

The young man offers you a sombre nod.

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

"What'd he ask?"

"Was he on the clock or something?"

"Seemed to be. Vespar's own clock, maybe."

"He lived in East Quisach?"

"Crashing there, more like. Some dingy little apartment -- not his." He sighs. "Reeked, too. His 'guerrilla office' he called it." Suddenly, his expression darkens.

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

"Enough about Vespar." (Go back.)

"Yeah. Something more cheerful, huh?"

"I was wondering if you know someone called Vespar."

"Vespar." He straightens his posture and gives the surroundings a glance. "Friend of yours?"

Defences going up -- but curiosity as well.

"He was."

"How can I help?"

"I heard he passed away. Is that true?"

"Yeah. Must've been four, maybe five years ago." A corner smile. "Man, feels weird, hearing his name."

So that's it. He's gone.

Asset VIRTUE: confirmed ZEROED OUT.

"More of a professional acquaintance."

"Alright." He studies you. "What's on your mind?"

"Doesn't matter. Do you know him or not?"

"If it didn't, you wouldn't be asking." He studies you. "What's on your mind?"

"Do you know the way to the Bootleg Bazaar?"

"Right across the roundabout. But you don't need to mess with that, all the hustle you need is right here."

A steady crowd noise drifts over from that direction.

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

"Has a guy from the Superbloc spoke to you recently? Suit, glasses, bald spot."

"Forget about him. I can give you everything he can, and more."

"We're not together -- me and him."

"Even better. We can just get a boat, you and me, sail somewhere tropical -- get to know each other over cocktails and deep-fried tenderloin."

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

"This is serious. Have you seen him around here or not?"

"I'm always serious with you. But, okay, I can see that fire in your eyes. I haven't seen him, promise."

"Forget it."

"Hey hey, don't be like that. I haven't seen him, okay? That's a promise."

"You know anything about the isolated building over there?"

"Why you asking me? You went in there, didn't you?"

"Wait. You saw that?"

"It's right across. I stay vigilant. So again, why do you ask?"

"I'm curious about what you know."

"I know I wouldn't have gone in there myself, that's all."

"I was asked to keep an eye on it, not along ago." He flicks his head toward the building. "You know. Just in case."

The Azzurris smelled something was off about it, then.

"Your employer has an interest in the place?"

"Baby-girl, there are many questions I haven't asked you. Being a thoughtful, caring man."

A courtesy he'd like to be mutual.

"Just stay away from there -- that's all I'll say."