The trio goes silent at your return.

The trio goes silent at your return.

"What's back there?"

"Apartments."

"Whose apartments?"

The tallest of the three lets out a long, irritated huff through his nostrils.

They don't have to answer to you. Thus, they won't.

You are flea. Insignificant. Squishable.

"Perhaps you are lost?"

"What's going on inside the apartments?"

"There was a party," he says, calmly. "Invite only."

Alternative wording

"As I told you, there was a party," he says, calmly. "Invite only."

"I meant, what neighbourhood is this?"

They share a look between all three of them. The woman, tapping her shoe, snorts a laugh.

Foreign accent, questions about the area... you're nothing but a lost tourist.

"The Housing Campaign."

An apartment block housing hundreds of families who were displaced after their original homes were seized by eminent domain, victims of the city's mid-century ambitions.

"I need to get through."

"Street's blocked. Go another way."

"Why?"

"Nothing that concerns you." She wraps her arms around her own torso.

Unhappy to be stuck down here, on the street, when there is action elsewhere.

"You can ask the GMs -- we're not doing anything that isn't permitted."

"Let me through."

"There is no other way, though..."

"Then take one of your death-trap trams!" She hisses.

There are rumours that a high-speed bullet train is being constructed from Cicatriz-Frontera to the Tenantries of St. Ulwen, connecting Luz's thousands of miles of territory in a trip that takes less than a day.

"What are you doing here?"

"We are overseeing the dispersion of a social gathering."

Alternative wording

"As I told you, we are overseeing the dispersion of a social gathering."

"Keeping out party crashers. And making sure everyone gets home safe." She giggles.

Your skin crawls at the girlish sound, bubbling out of a woman who it doesn't at all seem to belong to.

"So... you guys like Vitor Campf?"

The silent one puts his hand on the woman's shoulder. She shakes him off.

Consider their clothes.

Verta9 sneakers.

Sacrophobe overcoat.

Crossbill jacket.

Not bootlegs or knock-offs, but the genuine article.

And much like their clothes, the trio blocking your path is genuinely Luzian.

Wait, there's not even a bit of ambiguity?

They're flaunting their Illuminado authenticity. It's intentionally unsubtle.

DOESN'T THEIR PRIDE IN THEIR AUTHORITARIAN HERITAGE SICKEN YOU? DOESN'T IT MAKE YOU QUAKE WITH IMPOTENT RAGE?

No one's confronted them about it so far.

Why not?

Fear. Bred-in, bone-deep, inherited.

The threat of La Luz has been passed down for generations in Portofiro, the colonial boogeyman in the night -- the shadow that bore them, beat them.

If they're not concerned about subtlety, that means they're not operants. Private security, maybe?

The few members of the Illuminated Empire allowed to expatriate find themselves in high demand throughout the Developed World as mercenaries and bodyguards.

Are they armed?

Your eyes scan the trio, trying to separate the individual from the collective.

Gun. Gun. Knife and gun.

And here I am, without knife or gun.

But you have your highly-trained body, your wits!

Those don't count as actual weapons.

Stroke your own gun in its holster.

Knowing it's only a quick-draw away sends a ripple of calm down your spine.

Purring in your pocket.

Look, when in doubt, it's always safe to assume the answer is yes.

Private security for who, though?

Whoever lives in the building just beyond -- a twelve-storey skyscraper.

With none of the griminess of the surrounding neighbourhood.

What do they have to be proud of?

Slick outfits, cutting-edge tech, a runaway economy?

Why not hide their allegiance? Seems risky.

This is the enemy. I'm outnumbered.

Play it cool. You've embraced the element of surprise that they've abandoned.

Knew it the second I laid eyes on them!

You are a highly skilled individual and the money that the Opera spent to train you was not even a little bit wasted. Also they really are flaunting it.

Should I start blasting?

Absolutely not. Holster your weapon, operant.

BOOOOOO. HISSSSSSS.

Slaves to mass culture. Someone should save them from the tide of mediocrity.

The drowning man often pulls his rescuer down with him.

Fuck, they look cool.

They may have coordinated.

Shit, should we have been doing that? A gäng uniform?

I need to get some new clothes.

You'd blend in better, undeniably. And people would probably respect you a lot more.

The latest fashions, with labels for brands you don't recognise.

They wear their clothes like the very mannequins they were sewn on.

Outfits made for these people. Or, people made for these outfits.

Impress them with your newfound knowledge of The Scene.

Alternative wording

Try again to impress them with your fashion prowess.

Nothing you say to these people will convince you of their coolness. You have become low status. You cannot hope to impress, intimidate, or integrate.

We fucked up so bad, Hersh, they're never gonna let us through now!

You just need to say the right thing, the right way.

Then they'll see... they'll all see how cool we really are...

"Oh, hey -- nice Vertas."

She flashes a glance at her feet, uncaring, and scuffs one side of the pristine shoes against the pavement.

Agh! Debased! Destroyed!

That's what she thinks of your 'taste'.

No dice.

Your attempted power move has backfired spectacularly. Now the Luzians are even more high-status than before.

Something about this rejection feels more than just embarrassing. It feels dangerous.

"Is that a Sacrophobe? Sick."

He grunts.

He couldn't care less about your opinion.

"Wicked Crossbill. I've got one just like it at home."

"Do you, now? I'm sure it's very close to the real thing."

The way you phrased that makes it sound like you're in possession of a knock-off.

Time to abort this whole operation before I embarrass myself further.

There's no shame in retreat. There is shame in being uncool, however.

"It is real, though!"

"No. An item like this is only available in Cicatriz Frontera. If it was legitimate, you would not have it. So you've been fooled by an imitation, or you're lying."

Sour sickness on the back of your tongue.

I don't need to prove anything to these people.

Of course you don't need to. But do you want to?

They're going to think you're a phoney. A fraud. A poseur!

Let them think whatever they want.

They will.

They're judging you right now.

I'm a professional fraud!

They wouldn't respect that, either. Best to just bail on the whole endeavour.

Maybe I could just say something about their taste... overall?

The longer you wait and stare, the more pathetic you seem.

I'm stronger than this -- I have nothing to prove.

They weren't interested in Kurt's proposal. Why would they respond to you?

"That young man over there said that you're brand ambassadors."

"That young man over there is a bit confused."

"I'll just be going this other way, I guess." [Leave.]

You can feel six eyes on your back as you leave.

The trio goes silent again as you approach.

"Back?"

Through Kurt's insight, you can see it now: everything they're wearing is the genuine article. No bootlegs or knock-offs here.

At your approach, three heads turn in your direction.

Look at their clothes -- these people are decked out!

"Looking for something?"