The carabinero and his controller are deep in conversation.

The carabinero and his controller are deep in conversation.

They don't notice your approach.

Does anything stand out?

You can see that the woman is holding a silver medallion between the fingers of one hand.

Rasalhague, the snake charmer -- star of control and command. Associated with doctors, bodyguards and goalkeepers.

Her eyes don't settle on the carabinero even as he speaks to her.

As if waiting to be caught.

Something's not adding up here.

The back of her hand grazes the side of his face. He leans into the brief touch.

You are intruding on something far more intimate than an exchange of intelligence.

A bartender spy -- the perfect position to watch and ask questions. Her cover must be deep.

She is monitoring the situation around her as any operant would do... luckily, she's less experienced than you.

She's the bartender from the Fogged Mirror.

Alternative wording

She's the bartender from the Fogged Mirror -- Lucia.

Can I get a clear shot from here?

The woman's head is solidly in-frame -- but unfortunately, the view is of the back of her blonde ponytail rather than her face.

Attracting attention is a risk, but a better angle may present itself.

Snap your fingers.

The clatter of the bazaar drowns out the click of your fingers.

Whistle.

The woman's head turns to follow the high-pitched sound, but in the ambient white noise of the Bazaar, she cannot pinpoint its origins.

Alternative wording

Lucia's head turns to follow the high-pitched sound, but in the ambient white noise of the Bazaar, she cannot pinpoint its origins.

Profile. Clear view.

On second thought...

None the wiser to your presence, the carabinero continues his monologue to his controller, who's turned her gaze to the ground between them.

What's Ignatz really up to here?

He has made a show of bringing you into his secret fold, set you trials to pass, promised to confide his secrets.

This is choreography, not trust.

He idolizes you.

What? Why?

He must have kept watch on you during your last outing to Portofiro. Who knows what stories he might have conjured up of the two of you over these years.

I don't want him thinking about me at all.

Be glad he only followed you around the bazaar -- these people he is so fixated on are not even spies. They are just having some minor affair.

He stumbled on evidence of their trysts -- likely while following the woman around -- and in his espionage-obsessed imagination, he twisted it to suit his own interests.

Alternative wording

He stumbled on evidence of their trysts -- likely while following Lucia around -- and in his espionage-obsessed imagination, he twisted it to suit his own interests.

So there's no leak? No rat sniffing around the secret treaties?

You asked him yourself -- who would EMTERR even be leaking the details of the secret treaties to, anyway? And how could it possibly benefit them to do so?

It is a mystery.

Will he still tell me what I want to know?

He will tell you something. Whether it'll be useful, or even true, remains to be seen.

What is Ignatz going to do with the photos I take here?

Are you sure you want to think about that?

That's just sad.

It gets even sadder -- these people he is so fixated on are not even spies. They are just having some minor affair.

Is this a sexual thing?

Oh, it is absolutely a sex thing -- though thankfully not directed at you. These people he is fixated on are not spies -- they are just having some minor affair.

I'm a cautionary tale, not an aspirational figure.

The version of you that he has constructed in his head over the last five years is somewhere in between the two.

A maverick hero, fallen from grace and brought back for one last job...

So, this whole job is just to get my attention?

What does he want from me?

To be seen as your equal.

The job has nothing to do with the photos. It is about you.

The Ignatz you have met is a lie. A construct, carefully crafted and expertly played.

His buffoonery is a smokescreen, the deepest of deep covers.

It all clicks together. Ignatz has been playing the long game ever since he first saw you. Maybe he's been playing the game since the moment of his birth.

Gasp Maestro!

This is some Operant PROBABLE-level multi-dimensional chess that he is playing.

So then... who does he work for, really?

He spies upon the bank, and betrays the interests of the technofascists. That leaves only two options:

A freelancer?

A man who is loyal to no side but his own -- and to you, apparently.

Do not forget why you came here. You do not want to let Ignatz down.

...Opera?

Who knows? You have done little to earn anyone's trust -- only that of Ignatz.

So why has he sent me to photograph these people?

Perhaps as a sign of trust. Perhaps as another test. Are you not lucky that Ignatz is here to guide you?

I am very lucky.

I can't believe I've been so blind.

Wait -- is Ignatz a double agent?

How else do you explain a Portofiran dock monkey managing to ingratiate himself into the closed ranks of the Weeping Eye?

How else can his presence be explained? He was there when you arrived. He was waiting for you at the Pied-A-Terre.

It's time to act. (Go back.)

Scope the targets out from a distance.

The pair are focused on each other and oblivious to your presence.

Inch closer to take a good photo.

You move toward them without sound, a ghost on the pavement.

His hand hovers by her waist. He's about to make a move.

On his finger, a wedding ring.

Snap the photo.

A push of your finger, the click of the lens, just as he closes his palm over her hip and bends down to press a kiss to her closed mouth.

She closes her eyes.

She always closes her eyes at this part.

Still got it.

With your subjects none the wiser, you slip away.

Oh...

It takes a long minute for them to break apart.

Her body chases his a centimetre as he pulls away.

You're not supposed to be here.

You're not supposed to see this.

Too late. The light has been let in. They're trapped in the film now.

You need to leave.

Your footsteps suddenly seem heavier than usual. It's like your shoes have gained weight.

Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.

At the sound of your clumsy approach, the woman turns. Her eyes instantly drop to the camera in your hands.

Alternative wording

At the sound of your clumsy approach, Lucia turns. Her eyes instantly drop to the camera in your hands.

Don't look suspicious, don't look suspicious...

"Hey! What do you think you're doing?"

"Candid photography, I'm capturing the spirit of the streets."

"Capture it elsewhere," the carabinero glares, "you're interrupting a private moment."

"Yeah, that's the whole point."

"Bruno, let's just go," she mutters, turning her back to you.

Their voices trail behind you.

"Oh, sorry."

"Commemorative photo, remember your trip to Portofiro forever!" (Raise the camera.)

"We're not interested." His glare stops you in your tracks.

"Are you sure?"

"We're sure, thanks." She turns her back to you. "Bruno, let's just go."

"Me? Nothing."

"Do nothing elsewhere," the carabinero glares, "you're interrupting a private moment."

Say nothing, just walk away.

"That was kind of weird," you can hear her mutter to the carabinero as you walk away.

You've messed up.

Turn on your heel and walk away, fast.

"Excuse me, can we help you...?"

"Nope!"

Say nothing, walk faster.

Just take the photo.

A press of your finger, the click of the lens, just as she blinks and he opens his mouth.

It is not one for the gallery spaces, but both of their faces are most likely visible.

It's like someone's smeared petroleum jelly on the lens. Your gaze slides over people and objects, unable to find purchase on the soft-focus world.

Where are the buttons?

Buttons are primitive technology. The latest hot thing in Luzian engineering are electronic, touch-responsive screens.

Dark apparatuses designed to steal your fingerprints.

Poke the screen.

Nothing happens.

Poke harder.

A halo of indigo discoloration ripples out from where you've dug your finger into the screen.

Fondle the camera from all possible angles.

You fumble to reach the shutter control just as they turn away from you. A good thing, for a burst of pure daylight erupts from the tiny proprietary bulb above the lens.

You've botched it.

I'm going to leave them alone. [Leave.]

Heads bent together, the man with dark floppy hair and the woman in the pelota jersey are lost in private conversation.

That's a cop.

And she's... huh.

Well, she's the bartender from the Fogged Mirror.

Alternative wording

Well, she's the bartender from the Fogged Mirror -- Lucia.

The carabinero murmurs something to her, she frowns.

Listen.

You cannot hear the exchange.

Here you are, on an almost insultingly basic surveillance assignment.

Take out the camera.

In your hands, it feels consequential.

It'll be much easier to take a decent picture from less distance.

ONE SHOT -- MAKE IT COUNT.

The man matches Ignatz' description of the leaky carabinero.

The woman, too, lines up with the picture he painted of the mysterious controller -- right down to the mole on her cheek.

They match the description given by Ignatz, right down to the mole on the woman's cheek.