"You should probably find your colleague."

"You should probably find your colleague."

The smuggler inclines his head in silent recognition.

"My colleague was here, wasn't he?"

"You and I already talked about this. I told you he wasn't."

Unfazed. Face like granite. The glasses help.

"Either you're lying, or Petre is. I'm going with you."

Alternative wording

"Either you're lying, or Carmuna is. I'm going with you."

Alternative wording

"Either you're lying, or the vendors are. I'm going with you."

"My memory's a little fluid these days." A quick reappraisal of you. "Ah, right. The twitchy communist. Now I have him."

"Yeah, your colleague was here. As you can see, he isn't now."

"People saw you talking to him for quite a while."

"Did he." He glances toward the stalls. "Ah, right. The twitchy communist. Now I have him."

Alternative wording

"Did she." He glances toward the stalls. "Ah, right. The twitchy communist. Now I have him."

Alternative wording

"Did they." He glances toward the stalls. "Ah, right. The twitchy communist. Now I have him."

He'll have a talk with the vendors later today. A firm one.

"A colleague of mine was here recently. Any chance you two talked?"

Alternative wording

"A colleague of mine came through the bazaar recently. I think you two talked."

"A 'colleague'." He rolls his cigarette to the other side of his mouth. "Go on."

"Sock merchant. From the Superbloc."

"There's a lot of coming and going in the bazaar. I don't get paid to keep track of it."

A decent performance. But you have notes.

"Odd. Petre said you're pretty well acquainted."

Alternative wording

"Odd. Carmuna said you're pretty well acquainted."

Alternative wording

"Odd. The vendors said you're pretty well acquainted."

"Let's not start off lying to each other."

The slightest hesitation. Skirting around a secret.

"You sure? A man from the Superbloc, probably asking a lot of questions?"

"I'm sure."

"Alright then." His gaze drifts back to its origin point. "Unless there's anything else..."

"May or may not have been wearing trousers, if that helps."

"It doesn't. But now I'm seeing pictures."

"Thanks." (Drop it.)

Heightened defences.

"Professional. Brown suit, glasses... late twenties to early fifties..."

"Fragile, balding, probably wouldn't have struck you as 'lead' material..."

Distinct frown lines form above the smuggler's mirrored lenses.

"What did you and my colleague talk about?"

"Socks, mostly." He tilts his head. "Not really my province. He was here to broker some kind of trade deal with the bazaar."

Now. Stop circling each other. Commit.

"No, he wasn't."

"Then he must've been a spy. With the Operant Bureau." A measured flare of cigarette smoke from his nose. "Like you."

A still moment. From a nearby rooftop, the sound of children playing.

Alternative wording

A still moment. Boats creak in the water. Nearby, something splashes.

This is the only way through. Darkness visible.

YOU DO NOT EXIST. YOU ARE MERELY THE SHIMMER OF A RIGHT WING PROPAGANDA MINISTER'S FEVERED IMAGININGS.

"I used to be. Now I'm just trying to make up for it."

"Sometimes the past gets ahead of you. Or falls so far behind that you start to lap it." A rough grin.

"Anyway. Your colleague. Seemed upstanding. Respectful. But I couldn't help him."

End of the line. The PSEUDOPOD terminus. He bounced off this man and landed somewhere in oblivion.

"Did you give him this?" (Show him the red disc.)

"No." He frowns. "What's on it?"

He's genuinely perplexed.

"I'm not sure. It made me see terrible, colourless things."

"Heavyweight. I heard a couple of tapes like that, back in the day."

"Coloured discs and these hi-tech formats... Not really my province either."

"This is Petre's deal." He nods to the north-east. "Runs the music stall. Unpleasant... but knowledgeable."

"'You But From a Dream', whatever that means."

"Me but from a dream. Interesting."

"That's what I'm trying to figure out."

"Can't help you. I'm only a courier. I don't skim off the top. And I definitely don't give away merchandise."

"Some deeply uncomfy static."

"Sounds like you got a bad bootleg. It happens."

"Petre said it was an Ultra Violeta disc. But a rare one."

"The Luzian pop thing... Seen the ads around. I'm unallured." He flicks his head toward stacked crates. "But you can assume half of those are filled with her music."

"Luzian pop detritus. The sort of thing you bring over, right?"

"Me, and anyone moving merchandise around here." He lifts his chin toward stacked-up crates. "Half of these are probably filled with Luzian discs."

"Why didn't you tell me this the first time I asked?"

"I don't like giving things up first." He shrugs. "Policy's served me pretty well over the years. Don't take it personal."

And because he's tense, beneath it all. Finger on trigger tense.

"He was alright when he was talking to you? With it mentally?"

"Very much so. Probably too with it. Shaky hands. Blotchy neck."

"But he did alright."

A polite round of applause for the support act.

"I need to know what my partner wanted. Why was he here?" (Proceed.)

"So it's 'partner' now?" A crease across his brow. "He wanted the same thing as you do, I assume. A meet with the boss man."

A face flashes in your mind unbidden -- heavyset, boyish grin, traces of the underworld clinging to him.

"And who's the boss man?"

"Tempo del Sur."

A familiar silhouette peels itself from the dark.

The black cigarettes you found were the hard evidence -- your former asset, TAXMAN, is here.

Your friend is here.

"He asked for Tempo by name?"

"By name," he nods. "Your colleague was very keen to speak to the boss. But I had to turn him away."

Tempo del Sur -- mid-tier deity in the local underworld, and once your asset, cryptonym TAXMAN. Also someone you once called a friend.

Your cerebro-spinal fluid turns to liquid refrigerant.

Even before you ask the question, the outline of a name is forming, letter by letter.

"Allegedly we're both spies. My regards to your sources."

"This is the Bootleg Bazaar. 'Alleged' part's taken as read." A rough grin.

"I prefer 'state-sponsored criminal'."

"Must be nice to have a sponsor." A rough grin.

"I'm not even really here -- I'm currently on a long haul flight back to the Superbloc."

"You look real enough to me." A rough grin.

"That sounds dramatic. He's just someone I work with."

"Okay, let's play it like that then. Vague colleagues it is." A rough grin.

Time to show. Cards on the table.

Now's the time. Pull back the stage curtain.

"Where can I find Tempo?"

"Boss man is the bazaar." The edge of a smirk. "He's everywhere you look."

You know a stonewall when you smack off one. He's waiting for you to put something together.

"Where'd my partner go after you turned him away?"

"He came back. Had to turn him away four times." He smooths back the hair on his temple. "After that, I lost track of him. But he didn't exactly walk off with purpose."

As the sun smears across rooftops, a man with a briefcase full of carefully-folded socks sits on a metal bench. He sits there for a long time, considering the tangle of alleyways that surround him.

"Did he threaten you?"

"No. He didn't actively threaten me." A slow drag. "Nor did I find him threatening."

"Did he cry?"

"He got very frustrated, but no, I didn't see tears."

"I'm proud of him."

"Well, that's nice." A slow drag.

"You called Tempo 'boss man'. He runs the bazaar?"

"Yeah. Whole kingdom." He sweeps a hand.

From day-player bootlegger to directing the full production in five years. Quite the ascent for an exposed asset.

"Tempo's boss man, big picture stuff. His new underboss keeps things tight on the ground."

"Underboss?"

"Teenage girl. Sixteen, maybe seventeen, but knows the score." He smirks. "Promising young bootlegger."

"A 'hussy', if the streets are to be trusted."

"Carmuna, right? Makes sense, I've caught the kid skimming her Luzian streetwear. But... not my style to narc on the underboss."

"Khalti just doesn't like authority. Having to take cues from Tempo's bad enough. A teenager's worse."

Khalti -- a Rustamian term of endearment for an older woman.

"I haven't seen her around."

"She's here and there. Be lucky to catch her, though. Fast footwork."

"I see. Something of a protégé."

"Could say that." He shrugs. "Been hanging around here a while, Tempo saw some potential."

"Teen crimelord with very little accountability. Got it."

"She's alright. Leave her be."

He's very fond of her.

"The teenage girl. I've heard tell."

"Very young, but knows the score." He smirks. "Promising young bootlegger."

"Does the boss man still smoke Ouroboros Black?"

"Both of them do these days. Why?"

"Found a shipment on the docks."

"Yeah, I ordered those." He takes a drag of his own cigarette and glances at it. "Not my brand, the fine stuff. Just making sure the bosses don't run out."

Not part of his job description. A caring gesture.

"It's the little things that keep you steady."

"How'd Tempo pull this operation off?" (Conclude.)

"Man's got a way of rallying people around him. Friends, allies, Luzian underworld contacts. Doesn't go in for sleep much either."

Maybe he bottomed his way to the bottom.

"Impressive hustle." (Conclude.)

"He does possess that, on occasion."

Tempo had many criminal-grade contacts in La Luz. Probably how he dodged the fallout after your network blew.

"How do I know you're not working against me?"

The smuggler offers a loose shrug and a head tilt.

He's not.

"Okay, then. Just checking. Many are."

The man nods steadily. The end of his cigarette crackles.

"I hope we're on the same side. Ideologically."

He turns his head, ever so slightly. You're almost sure he's looking at you. The end of his cigarette crackles.

"Just a couple of socialists socialising."

His head doesn’t actually move, but somewhere inside, he is no doubt nodding vigorously at you.

"Even if not, I'm sure we can still be friends."

"Maybe you're Weeping Eye. I can't even see your eyes."

He flips down his glasses a moment with a single finger, then returns to his cigarette.

His eyes are green. And very dry.

Why couldn't PSEUDOPOD get past this man?

Because his name is PSEUDOPOD. And the hushed arena awaits a different spy.

"You turned my colleague away because he wasn't me."

"And who are you?"

He's going to make you say it out loud.

Your name is the flood. Home turf. You have returned.

"That's really not important."

"I think it is."

"Hershel."

"Got another one?

Of course you do. Your true name.

"CASCADE."

He nods slowly. Rivulets of rain run down his sunglasses.

"Tempo was very specific, 'least he was to me. 'CASCADE or nothing.' He didn't want the Opera. He wanted you."

A rough voice down a splintering phone line: 'No silly cunts! CASCADE only, person to person! CASCADE or nothing!'

A phantom hand across the precipice, awaiting a return grip.

Shards of both past and present collide. In the wreckage, a jagged pattern forms:

1) Tempo, cryptonym TAXMAN, your dormant asset, contacts the Opera. INTENT: Unknown. INFORMATION: Unknown. REQUEST: Meeting with Operant CASCADE, only CASCADE.

Except they didn't tell me. They didn't tell me anything.

2) CASCADE STATUS: Frozen. DURATION: In perpetuum. Opera issues DIRECTIVE: Dispatch lead operant to Portofiro.

PSEUDOPOD -- right.

3) PSEUDOPOD: Active in-theatre. ASSIGNMENT: Meet with TAXMAN, retrieve message.

They wanted PSEUDOPOD to become Tempo's new handler. You were just here to smooth the transition.

They farmed out your asset, your friend, to some trouserless infant?

4) PSEUDOPOD fails to meet with TAXMAN. Requests CASCADE from Opera.

5) Timeline disrupted. Movements Unknown. PSEUDOPOD: Status changes to LOST.

Then I entered, stage right.

6) CASCADE: Status changes to REANIMATED. Operant arrives in-theatre -- unbriefed, unassigned, and...

Unforgiven.

Questions coagulate, but at their centre a truth catches the light.

You knew it all along. One of your people reached out for you.

This is my assignment.

"Here's how I see it -- or maybe how I don't." His voice refocuses you.

"The Weeping Eye come in heavy, start cracking skulls. Tempo gets a wild look in his eye and follows it out the door. You two spirits appear out of nowhere, full of socks and half-stories... And now we're all jumping at shadows."

"I'm Rustamian. Brought up to follow codes. I can't follow a code if I don't know what the fuck's going on."

Teeth bared, but nothing left to guard. Fear of the dark.

High pressure tries to expand from the direction of the Eastern Republics, but low pressure from the Noscorrentes region will continue to compete. Conditions likely to remain unsettled throughout the week, seek comfort in the familiar.

"I'm sorry you're caught in the middle here."

"We calling this the middle? Best laid plans. I was trying to slink 'round the edges." A short drag.

"Take me to Tempo. Let's go." (Proceed.)

"That's our biggest problem. Tempo's gone. Vanished." He unlatches the cigarette from his bottom lip. "I don't know where he is now. But I can tell you where he was."

Innocent use of past tense, but still, you don't care for it.

"That's his office up there." He nods to the northern part of the bazaar. "Tempo HQ. It's been locked since he disappeared. No one in, no one out."

"Any idea where he is, what happened to him?"

"I'd rather leave the guesswork to others."

"Maybe he went to ground?"

"I've worked for him for the past four years. He's never left without a warning. Not to mention instructions."

"Like me?"

"You seem to have a better grasp of the questions. Just about."

"Strong ethos. Fair enough."

"I think so. Both fair, and enough."

"Do you know anything about what Tempo wanted to tell me?"

"I don't. Wasn't entrusted with it."

He was hoping you could make sense of it.

"Sorry, man. They didn't brief me at all."

"Well. Makes a couple of us."

"But it was urgent urgent?"

"Extremely, to hear Tempo tell it." He runs a palm across his jaw. "Recently, he had many urgencies. Back on the blow, I fear."

Many old assets cry 'urgent' -- especially when they're looking for a handout or a favour.

Maybe it was company he wanted. A chance to palm away the frost and peer into the old days. For some, that counts as 'urgent'.

So either under a lot of mental stress or seeing ghosts. This message could be critical. It could also be nothing but branches tapping a windowpane.

"But you were expecting me."

"Boss man said you'd come, sooner or later." He runs a palm across his jaw. "Recently, he said a lot of things. Back on the blow, I fear."

"Then you're not much use to me, are you?"

"I'm doing what I can with what little I understand."

"Do the words 'all will be forgiven' mean anything to you?"

"Another one of Tempo's recent phrases. That one was for you, far as I could make out."

"I passed it on to your colleague -- thought it might get you here faster."

It would have. It would have brought you running. If they'd bothered to tell you.

"Another thing my superiors kept from me. Had to figure it out from a cipher."

"The sock boy put it in a cipher?" He tilts his head. "You spy people... very odd."

"It worked. Here I am."

"A little too late, I think."

"I have a lot that needs forgiving."

"That's between you and the boss man." He waves a hand, priest-like.

"Sounds like a coke thing."

"No doubt. But I'm pretty sure he meant it, too. Actually... I know he did."

"When'd you last see him?"

"A week or so back. Since then, nothing."

"Why haven't you been inside?"

"Because it's locked."

And from the other side, only silence.

"What if our man's been in there the whole time, in need of help?"

"He's not. Person and place... misaligned." He casts a hand around the bazaar. "Wherever he is, he's not here."

A hollow centre, expanding with every passing hour.

"In other words, Boatman, you don't have the requisite 'It' to enter."

"Let's see how you get on. If they've strapped a bomb behind the door, I'll be fine with lacking this 'It'."

"There could be something about this message in there though."

"Tempo's life is in there." He glances up at the office again.

"What he could organise of it, at least."

"You don't want to know what's in there, do you?"

"There's probably nothing in there but some accounts and a dusting of blow. But it's the knowing that gets you."

Better to know. Always better to know.

"I'll get in that office." (Conclude.)

"When you're done..."

Come straight to me. Never cross my path again. Both true at once.

"When you're done," he repeats.

"I hear distant thunder, Boatman. Shadow on the sea line."

"Is that what's coming next? Feels like it." A short drag.

"Welcome to espionage."

"Thanks. Do you know the way out?" A short drag.

He's rattled. And not used to the sound of rattling.

Pre-fucked by her so-called 'superiors'.

Finger on the detonator.

In the midst of a dissociative episode.

You didn't deserve this, PSEUDOPOD.

Motherfuckers.

Motherfuckers...

Shards of both past and present collide. In the wreckage, a jagged pattern forms:

Tempo called for help. For cavalry. For you.

He nods slowly. You catch an impression of his eyes as the light hits his sunglasses.

Alternative wording

He nods slowly. It's impossible to tell if he's looking at you in the half-light.