"I already told you, miss. You can't come through here. Try the other entrance." He waves you off.

"I already told you, miss. You can't come through here. Try the other entrance." He waves you off.

"Can't let you past. We got a Mother situation."

"What's going on?"

"Just like I told you. Mother's out for her constitutional. I'd stay out from the backways if I were you."

"I need to get by. There's a man following me."

"A man?" He glances behind you, with zero subtlety. "There's no one there. And you got better odds with a man than with the Mother."

"It's a boar. She can't be that dangerous."

"The Mother took out a whole squad of carabineros once. Bullets bounced right off her hide. Ate the faces off every one of them, and their big hats too."

"So where I should go?"

"The main entrance, to the east. Please do not panic."

There's another way: The old fire exit.

You might have better odds if you go by the south and come up through the rusty gate.

Your mental map of the area is woefully incomplete. You'll be working at a disadvantage here.

"I'll figure something out." [Leave.]

"Good. Maurito always advises that." He waves you off.

"Then let me through, there's no mother I can't take on."

"You don't get it. I'm talking about the Mother of Thousands, queen of the backway boars. She's been spotted. It's not safe for civilians."

"Mother?"

"The Mother of Thousands, queen of the backway boars. She's been spotted. It's not safe for civilians."

"Didn't I tell you to remove that outfit?"

"Did a pantsless man run past you?"

"Your colleague, is he? Said he was missing a sock shipment earlier." He points north, toward the Backways. "Went in there. Surprisingly fast."

"The businessman, yeah?" He points north, toward the Backways. "He went in there. Wonder if he found those socks."

"I'm looking for my pantless colleague. Again."

"Your colleague's really having a day." He points north, toward the Backways. "He went in there. Guessing you're both in trouble, sock-wise?"

"Is he a friend or something?" He points north, toward the Backways. "He went in there. The man's fast."

"Have you seen a pantless man running around?"

"Sock colleague of yours, is he? You'll find him by the docks." He nods to the west.

Colleague? How does he know that?

"Why didn't you stop him?"

"I did, then I let him go. Poor bastard was having a shit enough day as is, with his missing sock shipment and all."

Why would PSEUDOPOD be using his persona at this time?

Run. Don't waste time.

"What did he tell you, exactly?"

"Something about a whole lot of working-class socks gone missing. And how 'Melita' was going to chew him out."

Relax. Let it pass over you.

"Who's that?"

"Figured that's his boss, or maybe the missus. Either way, wouldn't want to be in his... socks." He smiles.

"Good one."

"Maurito nailed it."

Just groan.

"Hey, that's my best one in weeks."

"Shit."

"You never heard that name. You will forget it at once."

"I'll find him soon enough." (Go back.)

"Wish I could be there to see it."

"Thanks. I better go sort this out right now." [Leave.]

"Glad someone is."

"Sure, he's by the docks." He nods to the west.

"You can tell me about the Bazaar."

"I can tell you Petre the music vendor's a major asshole. I asked him about an old Blood Golem disc, and he told me he'd rather tie polystyrene blocks to his feet and jump in the canal than look for it."

Doesn't make sense. Why not go for something that sinks?

"Polystyrene floats, I'm pretty sure."

"I told him as much. He said that was the point. His demise should be slow, so that I'd hear him scream for hours."

"Sounds drastic."

"I don't get why he brings up all this violent stuff all the time. If he ever goes through with it, there won't be any shock value. It'll just be sad."

"What's Blood Golem?"

"Blood Golem is a band. Blood Golem heals all wounds. It's the sound that raised us from shit-crusted upright apes into humans."

"Big mistake. We were better as monkeys."

"The antithesis of Blood Golem, that. Sounds more like primitivist folk trash." He spits on the ground.

"Blood Golem might've been banned where you're from. Their post-sludge is too revolutionary for most places."

"What's their sound like?"

"Primal. Filthy. Slow. All-ending. Like an army of giants are growling underwater while smashing cliffs together."

None of these words make any sense to you, either singly or -- even less -- in combination.

"As a matter of fact, too powerful for most Portofirans. It's like nobody cares about our own music anymore. Or art, really."

"Never heard of them."

"You're a fan of Blood Golem?"

"Blood Golem heals all wounds. It's the sound that raised us from shit-crusted upright apes into humans."

"What's the Portofiran music scene like?"

"Dying. Maybe dead."

A tremendous sadness courses through him.

"Just ten, maybe fifteen years ago, there were feedback parties in that alley, right behind the bazaar. Anyone who played loud enough could jam. You'd hear the distortion three canals away."

"We had local zines, too -- Ossos do Som, Vadio Sonico. You'd know a zine-maker by the puncture wounds on their fingers -- from all the needlework."

"Needlework? To make magazines?"

"We didn't have printers, but the old women taught us. Aunt Carmuna too. You thread black ribbon through a Calvera-5000, glue paper to scrap envelopes, then hammer the pedal. Clack, clack, clack."

"Each one was just a few pages long. A good zine-maker could crank out four, maybe five per hour. And each would be unique."

"What happened to the local music scene?"

"Drowned in Luzian syrup. Now the kids are singing about some beaches they've never seen in a false falsetto. Dressed like toothbrush ads too." He scratches the back of his neck.

His sleeve slides up and, for a moment, you see the hint of tattoos, black and dense.

"Maybe it's just a fad, and the next one will be local. Maybe I'm just getting old."

"I have something else in mind." (Change topic.)

"Alright." He adjusts his belt.

"That does sound like him."

"Does he hate you, or just your music?"

"I suspect he mostly hates himself."

"I was wondering if there are any jails around here?"

"Hmm." He smooths his moustache. "I've already warned you about pretending to be a carabinero, so what would you want with a jail?"

A better question: why are you bringing this up, sans subterfuge, to a Guardia Municipal officer?

"Oh, curiosity. I heard there was one by a water-lock, near the roundabout."

"Sounds like someone's pulling your leg." He frowns, hard. "Only building I know of over there is some woo-woo poetry journal."

Push. There's something there.

"'Woo-woo'?"

"You know." His little finger shoots upward. "Fancy and all. What with the poetry."

"Does this journal have a name?"

"Think it's called The Noscorrentes Review. After the sea, yeah?" He purses his lips. "Wonder if it's supposed to sound deep or something."

"As far as Maurito knows, there's no jail or anything of the sorts around here."

"That's just a prison for ideas."

"Yeah, I don't indulge in that stuff, but I'm sure some people do. Think the place is called The Noscorrentes Review. After the sea."

"Not a jail jail. I meant the historic kind. For tourists."

"Yeah, we don't have those here." He stares at you blankly. "Never understood the concept myself."

"Just... trying to make conversation." (Back down.)

"Not very good at it, are you?"

Woops. Time for an intriguing exit!

"I have a bit of a thing. For jails."

"A thing? What's that mean?" His right eyebrow lifts up, slowly.

(Bite your lower lip.) "Big metal bars. Communal showers. Jails, you know?"

"No, I do not. And there's no jail around here." He leans away from you, ever so slightly. "But to each their own, Maurito says."

"Hmm?" He smooths his moustache. "And what's a foreign sock person want with a jail, exactly?"

Are you actively trying to sabotage your persona?

Neither of you know much about socks. But unlike him, you can improvise.

"It's for market analysis. As I'm sure you know, carceral buildings affect commerce."

"Right." He mulls it over. "Sure, that makes sense. Has to do with margins and... the likes."

You're not dealing with the sharpest anything here, in case that needs to be said.

"Carabineros have detention sites up north, but there's no such thing here." He nods. "Good news, yeah? Business-wise."

"That's an odd question." He smooths his moustache. "Mind telling Maurito what a tourist wants with a jail?"

"I think someone's following me. Can you help?"

"Hmmm." He leans to the side, glancing behind you. "You're fine. There's nobody there."

This amateur might as well have shouted 'Hello? Any stalkers around?'.

What are we expecting here? A miracle?

"Very discreet of you. Top-tier stuff, man."

"Guardia Municipal training is second to none."

"Can you do anything to help?"

"Well..." He studies you, from top to bottom.

"Maybe the skirt is a problem? It draws in the eyes, you see. Scientifically."

"I don't think that's the problem here."

"Hmm. Did you flirt with him, perhaps?" He nods, slowly. "Is it possible you're imagining it? And keep in mind, just because men walk by doesn't mean they're looking at you."

He's working off a memorised list.

"Theoretically, what's the charge for telling a Guardia officer to 'eat shit'?"

"There'd be no charge, as long as the officer isn't feeling physically threatened." He frowns. "But it'd be quite rude."

"Eat. Shit."

"Maybe you angered this man, with the foul mouth?" He shakes his head. "Either way, it seems you're in the clear. Glad Maurito could be of help."

"Nevermind." (Drop it.)

"Glad Maurito could be of help."

"Forget it." (Drop it.)

"Do you know where Tempo is, by any chance?"

"Can't say I'm familiar with the name." He offers you an exaggerated shrug.

As a member of the Guardia Municipal, it's unlikely he can openly talk about a bootlegger.

No part of him is even trying to actually pretend.

"I only ask because I was told Tempo is gone."

"Missing people's reports are handled by the Carabineros, not the Guardia Municipal." He frowns at you. "That's procedure."

"Understood. Could you point me to anyone who might help?"

"Point you toward someone who'd know about a non-existent person? Why would I do that?"

"Would this help?" (Hold out 10 sol.)

"Ask Aunt Carmuna. She might know this person." Your sol vanishes into his pocket.

(Lean closer.) "What if we whisper?"

"I still don't know him," he whispers in reply.

"Were I aware of anyone conducting illicit business, formalities would be expected. Paperwork. Licensing. Inspections. It'd be my responsibility to report all inconsistencies."

An absurd reality demands an absurd performance to match.

"Really? You don't know a major bootlegger?"

He's not trying to hide the truth -- he's staying out of it, on account of the uniform.

"I met the dock thief. It's a monkey in the Animal Zone."

"The Animal Zone? Hmph, well, that is outside of my jurisdiction." He shrugs. "Someone else can deal with that."

"Anyway, apart from that, it's quiet around here. Just how I like it."

"Quiet's not the worst thing. Gives you time to reflect on your mistakes."

"The quieter the better, I'd say." His eyes glimmer, for a moment.

"Really, the hardest part's keeping people away from the boars." He points to his neck. "Hence this whole cream situation."

"Really, the hardest part's keeping people away from the boars. That's the big one."

"I saw some little boars in the backways. They seemed harmless."

"It's not the young you need to worry about. We're dealing with an infestation, and they get much larger."

"I haven't seen any boars."

"You're lucky, then. We've been dealing with an infestation for weeks. Backways are full of them."

"No enemies? No stakes? How do you live with yourself?"

"Last bit of action the Bazaar saw ended up with it burning down." He tugs at his uniform. "It's an alright life as is."

"Sounds like you don't do much."

"Believe me, I do plenty." He taps the copper badge on his chest. "Just by standing here, even. No better deterrent against crime."

"You were right. There's a monkey in the Animal Zone -- that's your dock thief."

"Pretty sure the dock thief is a monkey."

"Can't be, there are no monkeys around here. Unless..." He looks to his west, eyes narrowing.

"What are you looking at?"

"A place called The Animal Zone. Used to have a monkey inside but it's been abandoned for months now..."

"It's still in there. I saw it."

"Hmph, well, that is outside of my jurisdiction." He shrugs. "Someone else can deal with that."

"Yeah, surely not."

"Mhm." He gives the place a final stare, then reassembles himself.

"Yep, there's one in an abandoned building over there. I saw it."

"The Animal Zone used to have one, but it was shut down ages ago. It can't still be in there."

"From what you've told me, that seems the most likely scenario."

"Rubbish. There must be another explanation. A tiny, feral man, perhaps."

"Where is the Animal Zone?" (Proceed.)

"Just outside the western entrance of the Bazaar. But there's a big metal shutter in front of it now -- you can't get in."

Little does he know, you've already slipped in...

"It does seem ridiculous."

"There must be another explanation. A tiny, feral man, perhaps."

"Anything threatening the peace lately?"

"We've had instances of thefts around the docks recently. All the crates were ripped open in strange ways..."

"What's being stolen?"

"Anything and everything. Seems like the work of kids, if you ask me. Must be trying to scare people too, as weird noises have been heard at night -- screaming and howling."

That monkey!

"Sounds like a monkey to me."

Don't tell him.

"Apart from that, it's quiet. Just how I like it."

A monkey. You just know it.

Animal... rival...

"Strange ways?"

"Yeah, messily and without tools. Seems like the work of kids, if you ask me. Must be trying to scare people too, as weird noises have been heard at night -- screaming and howling."

"Everything alright there?" (Nod at his neck.)

"How bad does it look?" His hand, claw-like, hovers by a large patch of inflamed skin.

A smeared pattern, with streaked edges. You can rule out natural irritants.

"Looks like a chemical burn. Maybe an allergic reaction."

"Shit." He rubs his neck. "There is this topical boar repellent I've been using... Instructions said to apply generously."

Common boar deterrents: loud noises and strong smells, such as predator urine, placed in strategic locations.

"Boar deterrents don't come in cream form."

"Are you serious?" He glances toward the alleyways. "And right in the middle of a boar infestation too..."

"Does the label mention 'bear urine'? Because if not, you got duped."

"And here I was hoping it'd help." He glances toward the alleyways.

"Guess that's what I get for trying to keep the peace with these boars running around."

"Hardly noticeable, really." (Lie.)

"It feels noticeable. Might be the topical boar repellent I've been using. Instructions said to apply generously."

"It's... pretty bad."

"Shit. I knew it." He scratches at it, fervently. "I hope it's not the topical boar repellent I've been using. Instructions said to apply generously."

Scaly reliefs and cracked plates, like some diseased armour.

"You should be hiding somewhere far from human eyes."

"Tell me about this boar infestation."

"It used to be a seasonal problem." The line of his jaw softens. "Every autumn, some adults would come down, bold and hungry. But lately, it's more of a permanent residency."

"Wait. Come down from where?"

"The hills up north, as far as I've heard. Vale de Suspiro. You've got thorns, ferns, old trees. A nightmare to patrol."

"Are these boars dangerous?"

"At best, they're a nuisance. The little ones are fine, but the adults could take off a kneecap if you're not careful. And then there's the really big one -- the Mother."

The way he intones the word 'Mother' suggests a primitive monotheist before an image of his graven god.

"What's the problem with the little ones?"

"They don't seem so bad if they're alone, but they're never alone. Get five or six together and they can take down a grown man."

"How big are the big ones?"

"Oh, a hundred, one hundred and fifty kilos, easy. Enough to stop a tuk-tuk going full-speed. But even they got nothing on the Mother."

"Speak to me of this 'Mother'." (Proceed.)

"Massive, fur's all matted, covered in scars. Territorial too." He sniffs. "Preys on drunks stumbling back from Party Alley."

"My mother's the same way."

"You shouldn't joke like that. All mothers are special, even this one." His eyes go a bit glassy. "No love like a mother's."

No damage, either.

Touching. The kind of bond only two pigs can share.

"Sounds like you really admire this homicidal boar."

"Anything that can survive on the streets of Quisach has got the stars' favour, and I have respect for astrology. So when the Mother comes around, I do my best to keep civilians out of the Backways."

"How'd she get her scars?"

"Tusks, claws, knives, bullets -- take your pick. Every few years, some brave moron tries to take her down, but..." He shrugs. "She stands undefeated."

Must find... boar scent.

"Long-range missiles would solve your problem."

"Hah!" His smile suddenly thins to a slit. "Wait, you're kidding, right? A lot of people live here."

That's the problem here. Everyone demands results, but no one's willing to stomach the cost.

"Give them an hour to evacuate. Two, tops."

"But, the buildings..." He squints at you, hard. "Okay, you must be joking. It's just... your tone's pretty off."

"I was joking, yes."

"You know, this place burned down a couple of decades back." He rubs his nose. "You may want to avoid jokes about that."

"Where would a brave and skilled moron find this beast?"

"You got a weird glint in your eyes." His eyes narrow. "Let's not do anything stupid, alright?"

"Where would an armed and skilled moron find this beast, exactly?"

"I'll make sure to keep my distance."

"Good. You don't want to know what tusks do to stomachs."