"No rack for you! Pay up."

"No rack for you! Pay up."

The rack stands alone and unguarded but for a padlock on the plastic cover's zipper.

Find the cocaine jacket.

You find an opening in the plastic cover and sift through the rail until you feel matted fur.

Warm to the touch. It wants you to take it.

This coat is attention-drawing enough without also being stolen.

Take it.

You take the jacket from the rack.

Oh, Hershel. You've stolen from an old lady.

Bad idea, leave it.

You withdraw your hand, empty.

Nothing to do here. (Leave.)

You leave the rack alone.

Your arm would fit through the gap beneath the lock.

The lock is for show. People don't steal from Carmuna out of respect.

More likely that the dockworkers are keeping watch over her.

You return to the rack of clothing.

Browse the rack.

The rack sways with misspelled logos and forgotten styles. Cowboy boots, leather trousers, a long black skirt...

Kinda cool. But is that all you are, CASCADE? Kinda cool?

I am a visionary of cool.

You're special and you know it. You deserve an outfit that tells everybody else that you know it, too.

"Carmuna, do you have any extra special pieces for an extra special girl?"

"An extra special girl would not have to ask, menina. She'd be able to see the right thing for herself."

You'll show her. Search harder, search better.

Attention-seeking fashion does not befit an operant, CASCADE.

"I need your coolest threads. None of this will do."

"The threads will reveal themselves only to the right person."

The right person is you. Come on -- search harder, search better!

I have nothing to prove with showy fashions.

That's freezer talk. Come on! You're back in the game, CASCADE. Search harder, search better.

I don't really care about being cool.

Listen to yourself. Everybody knows that means you're trying but you're shit -- and the knowledge is fucking killing you. Get some style, some vision, show them how special you are.

"Carmuna, I can't find anything good."

"Good? What's the use in good? Don't look for good -- good is what gets people in blue jeans and collared shirts."

"Let your senses roam, menina. The right thing will call to you."

Find the best rack tat.

You let your eyes wander up and down the rack freely until they land on a stained white jacket.

Examine the jacket.

Smells like perfume, tequila, cigarettes. You slip it on and try to smooth down its faux fur mange. Your fingers come away with a coating of white powder.

Lick your finger.

An operant has already been zeroed on this assignment yet you put a strange white powder straight in your mouth. Do you want to die?

Bitter, numbing.

Those pop-head teenagers wanted glitter? Give them tabloid grime. Heartbreak on private jets. Tonguing a dictator and suing your label on the same day. Put on the fur, smile never -- watch them kneel.

"Your eyes guided you to a real garment there, menina. You could pass for one of those Luzian popstars in that coat."

This would definitely outfuck that other coat she was going on about.

"This isn't very me."

"Even better. "

"For you, 25 sol."

Buy the Faux Fur Coat.

"Good choice."

"You're short, menina. Come back when you make some more money. I'll set it aside for you."

"I'm a bit short on sol..." (Put the jacket back.)

"And Carmuna is short on patience, but she will set this aside for you. Come back with sol -- it will wait."

"Maybe later." (Put it back.)

The coat sends out one last bid for your attention by dropping a single acrylic nail on the floor by your foot.

"30 sol."

Buy the Faux Fur Coat.

"It smells like whore. I like that."

"Carmuna smells no whores. Carmuna does not know what whores smells like."

"I think this jacket has cocaine on it."

"Free of charge. See? Bargain."

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.

Sniff your fingers.

Sniff and lick your fingers.

Wipe away the strange powder.

A white streak despoils you.

You sift through the rack once, twice. Nothing catches your eye.

I'm too fancy for this rack.

Too dull, you mean.

You fondle each garment with care. Again, you fall short in the pursuit of cool.

Perhaps if I combined two pieces together?

With what? You're a spy not a seamstress.

Buy something.

Price tags rustle beneath your fingers.

"Discount for you, menina."

Buy Faux Fur Coat.

"Wear it well."

"Come back when you have the money."

Buy Brown Sweatpants.

"Very nice. Anything else?"

"You need more money."

Buy the Ultra Violeta T-shirt.

"Good choice."

"Not enough cash there, menina."

Buy Leather Trousers.

"Enjoy it."

"You can't afford it yet. I'll set it aside for you."

Buy Vaquero Boots.

"You will turn heads with those, menina."

"You are short on sol."

That's all for now. (Back.)

The rack sags a little in the middle.

Buy Faux Fur Coat.

"Wear it well."

"Come back when you have the money."

Buy Brown Sweatpants.

"Very nice. Anything else?"

"You need more money for that."

Buy the Ultra Violeta T-shirt.

"Good choice."

"Not enough cash there, menina."

Buy Leather Trousers.

"Enjoy it."

"You can't afford it yet. I'll set it aside for you."

Buy Vaquero Boots.

"You will turn heads with those, menina."

"You are short on sol."

That's all for now. (Back.)

The rack sags a little in the middle.

Hangers scrape against metal as you thumb through the racks. Foreign material shifts under your fingers, cool and unfamiliar.

I'm done here. [Leave.]

You turn away from the rack.

You approach Carmuna's rack of clothing, protected from the elements by a clear plastic sheet. No two pieces are alike.

Alternative wording

You approach Carmuna's rack of clothing, protected from the rain by a clear plastic sheet. No two pieces are alike.

Secondhand olds and newish fakes.

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