An assortment of cargo crates sits in waiting, adorned with faint chalk marks and bright yellow labels.

An assortment of cargo crates sits in waiting, adorned with faint chalk marks and bright yellow labels.

Inspect the labels.

Machine-printed, crisp and official, with last week's date stamped on each one. They all bear the same logo: tiny gold dots in a precise, angular pattern.

Point of origin: 'Ministry of Mass Culture -- Cicatriz Frontera' -- the lengthening, gleaming capital of La Luz.

La Luz: officially 'The Illuminated Empire'. An auto-technocratic regime which has emerged from its slumber in recent decades.

These crates aren't 'smuggled' at all -- they're government-sanctioned from the Luzian Cultural Ministry.

INSIDIOUS IMPERIALISM. TODAY, THE SOFT POWER -- TOMORROW, THE HARD.

Look at the chalk markings.

A maze of hastily drawn letters and numbers stands in contrast to the uniformly printed labels above. The symbols range from A to D, zero to nine.

Imagine yourself as a bird, and the labyrinth grows familiar.

A map of the bazaar!

Each package marked with instructions on which stall it's to be delivered to.

Can't make heads nor tails of this.

You're not meant to be able to. It's not for you.

Look inside.

Black cartons of cigarettes are stacked in tight rows. One of them has been slit open -- two packs missing.

The sight reminds you of a set of stairs descending into the dark of the basement.

Who could have taken them?

These crates here aren't exactly state secrets. Anyone with a keen eye and nimble fingers could do it.

Still -- it'd be ballsy. They've been left out in the open.

Is this what they call 'taxation'?

Yes. More commonly known as theft.

THE SO-CALLED DEVELOPED WORLD EASING IT IN WITHOUT CONSENT.

Someone has had their way with these crates.

Even worse, they've taken the poor cigarettes home for sloppy seconds.

Trafficked and then violated. Sick world we're in, Herschen.

Steal a pack of smokes.

Around you, dockworkers move in predictable patterns. Your hands sync with their rhythm and find the carton's edge.

Under your fingertips, cellophane wrapping gives way to cardstock.

Lift.

You retract your hand, a single packet of Ouroboros Blacks clutched in it. The design portrays a snake eating its tail, embossed in gold.

Top-shelf tobacco. There's at least 500 sol worth of cigarettes in this crate.

Ash on a black fur collar. Piercing blue eyes through smoke, a laugh that could turn wicked.

Ouroboros Black was Tempo's favourite brand. When you picture his face, it's always with one latched to his bottom lip.

I'm sorry, brother. I failed you.

You wait for an answer from the universe -- forgiveness, condemnation. All you can hear is the noises of the bazaar, all around.

A seagull shits nearby, white splatter across cement.

He made his life. He knew the risks.

A man overly concerned about mortality shouldn't have been smoking these cigarettes anyway.

He knew they wouldn't be the thing to kill him.

Why isn't it raining? It feels like it should be raining.

Exit music for a spy. Standing in the downpour, breathing in the smoke of your dead friend's cigarette, drowning in ash and acid rain.

Sharing one last breath.

You're going to have to smoke it with the sun in your eyes. You're going to have to live.

Light up in the rain.

The match flares and you inhale the heavy tar Tempo loved so much. It sears the inside of your throat.

You had this image in your head: standing in the downpour, sharing one last breath with your friend, drowning in ash and acid rain. It was supposed to be romantic... exit music for a spy...

But no. Your friend is dead, and you're standing here like a pillock, burning your lungs on a soggy cigarette.

Tempo's favourite brand. The only person to actually enjoy their heavy flavour.

Black cigarettes. Strong visual.

Yes, he liked that aspect too.

Are you here, brother?

Here, and everywhere. You can feel his presence -- in the stalls, in the docks, in the charged air itself.

He paid the cost to be the boss.

An unlimited supply of your preferred ill-gotten goods in exchange for a hundred people counting on you and a massive target on your back.

Bad trade.

You've seen these before. Smoked them before. This was Tempo's brand.

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

Tempo? Brother, are you here?

No answer. The bazaar murmurs around you, as it didn't even hear your question.

The smell of Luzian tobacco wafts up your nose.

No answer from the night. The bazaar is muted around you, the stalls abandoned.

Always had an Ouroboros Black hanging from his lip...

He was generous with them too. Used to motion you outside with his boyish grin, two black sticks clutched in his fist.

The moments where you knew each other best.

You look around to check if anybody's watching and stick your hand in there. It feels forbidden.

Your fingers tremble with excitement, but you're unable to grab hold of the desirables... unable to have your way with them. There is no climax. Only fumbling.

You are not a party entitled to a percentage of this profit. The shrink-wrap rejects you, and your fingers fumble away.

As your fingers touch the carton's edge, you feel a pair of eyes on your back -- and stop.

You try again to slyly slip your hand in the crate, just as a dockworker calls to his colleague behind you. Wait.

It didn't happen before and it won't happen now.

I'm done here. [Leave.]

You step away from the marked crates.