You step back to the tower of plushies.

You step back to the tower of plushies.

Their pelts are damp and shiny with rain. You expect the smell of wet dog -- there is none.

Look for a plushie for King of Trade.

There. Wedged between a dolphin and a winking unicorn -- the deformed shape of a monkey.

Queen-in-waiting.

It seems to belong at the next stall over, Malen's.

It seems to belong to the next vendor along, the woman with the big purple jacket.

What do we have here...

Soft animals. Mostly stylised blobs with little regard for real anatomy.

Beasts rendered ridiculous. Grotesque trophies.

Who makes these things?

There are brand logos on the sides, non-uniformly misspelled or upside down, but recognisably the same: ZOO-TÊXTIL, La Luz.

These are knock offs. Fakes.

In the Portofiran plushie scene, some of the knock off labels have become their own commodity, almost as sought after as the real deal.

La Luz: Expansive techno-fascist state known for high quality electronics, pogroms, and pop music.

These are... not that. They're knock offs. Fakes.

There's something sinister about them...

Boneless flesh bound in impossible colours, twisted into seductively pleasing shapes.

BRAZEN POLITICAL THREAT! THE PILE DECLARES THAT THIS TOO IS THE FUTURE OF THE WORKING CLASS: DEFANGED, FUZZY, SOLD IN A HEAP.

The different species are all numbered. #1s are bunnies, #2s cats, #4 an anatomically unviable whale. There are no #3s.

Must have sold them all.

Then what animal was so irresistible to the consumer?

You said yourself these plushies are sinister... what shape has breached containment?

What shape has breached containment?

Gotta be here somewhere... (Look again.)

There isn't a #3 in the whole furry ensemble.

Fuck off. Has to be. Root it out.

They're cute. Why are they so cute?

They could not tell you if they knew.

It's because they're defenceless. They trigger the impulse to nurture.

They trigger the impulse to crush. They're fuzzy so that they can withstand the violence of affection.

No, being nice to the plushie makes people happy.

Sounds very smug. Don't suppress the body's need to destroy, it's bad for the joints.

I do want to squeeze... really hard.

Until your arms tremble. And with its mouth sewn shut, the plushie can't tell anybody how badly it hurt.

THE 'PLUSHIE' ENCOURAGES BOUTS OF 'SUBJECTIVE IMAGINATION' IN THE YOUNG COMMUNIST, UNGROUNDED BY MATERIAL FACT.

IN THE ADULT COMMUNIST, POSSESSION IS A SYMPTOM OF ADVANCED NOSTALGIA PSYCHOSIS.

Where are you hiding, plushie #3?

Inside you.

What's it doing in there?

Nothing. Yet. Still-hunting.

Plushie #3 has shredded the social contract.

Plushie #3 will bite down on the neck of the world and fuck it 'til it howls.

Plushie #3 is you.

Where exactly?

Heart. Tooth. Claw. Intent.

Back again. Sidling around the kiddy stall like a slender nonce.

I'm checking out the colourful wares!

Classic nonce manoeuvres. Plushie #3 is probably stashed in the back of your van as bait.

Plushies aren't just for kids...

Textbook nonce talk. Plushie #3 is probably stashed in the back of your van as bait.

Fuck plushies. You're a spy.

Just seemed nice and 'low stakes' in the scheme of things...

Not your kind of stakes. Ascend.

This stall has been ransacked for #3s, it's disconcerting.

So is spying, when you're doing it hard. Try some of that.

Step away. [Leave.]

You turn back to the bazaar.

Plastic eyes teeming in the dark.

A hundred strong. If only they could move as öne.

Loose stitching and cheap fabric, the odd cotton haemorrhoid erupting at the seams.