With awkward reverence, you approach the shrine again.

With awkward reverence, you approach the shrine again.

Take the exit papers.

You slide the prisoner's exit papers out of the cigarette carton and slip them inside your pocket.

Alternative wording

You slide Dante's exit papers out of the cigarette carton and slip them inside your pocket.

You slide the exit papers out of the cigarette carton and slip them inside your pocket.

Actually, I'll have those stray smokes after all. (Take the cigarettes.)

Ouroboros Black, an imported Luzian brand.

As soon as you pick it up, you feel that whatever's inside is not cigarettes.

Hints of Tempo everywhere...

The Bazaar is or was his domain. It's shaped like him.

It was you who taught him the cigarette trick in the first place. The Opera speaks to itself.

Open the pack.

Out slide a few stapled pages folded neatly into a little cuboid, almost exactly the dimensions of the package.

Paper ages quickly exposed to the greasy, moist air around the docks. This hasn't been out here for more than a week.

'RITE OF PASSAGE' -- it's an exit visa. Permission to travel freely out of Portofiro.

Dante's ticket out. He will need this.

Whether you choose to stamp his ticket or not is another matter.

Look at the papers.

Dante stares up at you from a black and white printed photograph at the document's header, long black and grey hair swept back in a wave.

Brow slightly ruffled, not entirely sure where to look. He's not used to having his picture taken.

Just in case... (Take the exit papers.)

You re-fold the pages along their elaborate creases and slip them inside your pocket.

I'll leave them here for now. (Don't take them.)

You re-fold the pages along their elaborate creases and return them to the pack.

An old man stares up at you from a black and white printed photograph at the document's header, long black and grey hair swept back in a wave.

Just the papers, no note. A sense of strange finality settles into you; he's gone.

This is a drop of some kind.

A hush falls over the shrine. A wisp of smoke tendrils into the air.

More smokes, more secrets. Nearly everyone in-theatre learns this trick eventually.

Examine the papers.

An elderly man stares back at you from a printed headshot at the document's apex -- long black and grey hair swept back in a wave.

Brow slightly ruffled, not entirely sure where to look. He's not used to having his picture taken.

AUGUSTINO, DANTE, according to the name on the pages. Born in the year 27, in La Luz.

Are these legit?

The name, who knows. The document -- yes. City-issued, holographic stamp and all.

Just in case... (Take the exit papers.)

You re-fold the pages along their elaborate creases and slip them in your pocket.

I'll leave them here for now. (Don't take them.)

You re-fold the pages along their elaborate creases and return them to the package.

Nearly everyone in-theatre learns the cigarette trick eventually. You've taught it to half a dozen assets yourself.

Look at the elegies.

Ink stains and knife scratches adorn the shrine -- jagged words cast toward the flickering skies.

'In your guiding, we learn' 'Do you envy our brief, searing lives?' 'Marco loves puss-puss.' 'As you fade, we follow'

Examine the offerings.

A collection of cheap plastic photo frames, haphazardly arranged on a red tablecloth.

An improvised welcoming party, here to greet the distinguished visitor from the People's Republics.

Between them lie offerings and totems -- costume jewelry, some out of circulation coins, an old packet of smokes.

Look for the photograph of Malen's father among the offerings.

There's no sign of the missing vendor.

Someone just left these here? (Examine the cigarettes.)

Leave them. (Back.)

The whispered echoes of prayers flit amongst the offerings, answered or ignored, who knows.

Each heavy with significance, all of it lost on you.

"Polaris, accept this offering..." (Place Marco's tooth on the ground.)

With a little click, the tooth drops onto the shrine and settles beside a pile of old coins.

The sound reminds you of a die.

Yes, correct.

"Forgive me for what I've done, and what I'm going to do."

A warmth settles around your shoulders.

"Protect me from schemes and snares of all kinds."

A sensation of lightness rises from your feet.

"Let me be faster than my enemies."

Your hands feel heavier, but they don't weigh you down.

"Allow me to see things for what they truly are."

The world sparkles, momentarily, a glimpse of extra focus.

"Actually, Polaris, I need that tooth back." (Take Marco's tooth.)

You pop the little object back into your pocket.

A little voice somewhere intones: 'No take-backs'.

Say a prayer to Polaris.

You adjust your position and gather the appropriate reverence. The audience of framed strangers watches you in silence.

Pray for yourself.

A prayer of interference.

For the gambler palming a final chip; for the veteran lacing up boots cracked at the heels; for the fool stepping into the current and demanding the river change course.

"I came back, Polaris."

Your words hang in the air, brittle as glass.

"Give me strength, focus, energy, and..."

A crack of moonlight cuts across the shrine, the shadows bending unnaturally.

"Preserve others from me."

Your words are gone as they are uttered, couriered upwards on the air's invisible wires.

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.

"Shield me from extra-sensory interference."

"Help me fuck up these fascist pricks."

"Protect me from myself."

The noise of the world beyond the alley dims. Sunlight flickers, casting jagged shadows across the photographs.

"Preserve me from exhaustion, fear, distraction, and..."

Never mind, this feels weird. (Back.)

The shrine, with all its faces, watches in silence.

You have no use for stars.

"Are you there? Do you hear me?"

Pray for your old crew.

A prayer of companionship.

"Wherever they are, steer them across dark expanses..."

Your words hang in the air, brittle as glass.

"And let them know I'm sorry."

The stars remain silent, but there's a shift around you -- an imperceptible warmth in the stillness.

A coastal wind slips through a ground-floor window and brushes a man's thinning hair. His eyes open, awash with impossible colours swirling like oil in water -- before closing again.

Your words travel on invisible wires of the air.

"Where they should remain hidden from our enemies."

"And prepare them for war."

"And guide them back to where they belong."

Never mind, this feels weird.

You pinch your eyes tight, but no words come. And why would they?

Astrology's all made up anyway.

Remnants of a more primitive phase of consciousness. Nothing you should concern yourself with.

A pit of hopelessness opens in your stomach as you skim the rows of faces.

"How about this?" (Knock over one of the photo frames.)

You flatten a monochrome image of a smiling old man holding a child on his knee.

You've just desecrated a shrine -- for nothing. Polaris isn't listening. The stars won't ever listen.

Forget it, there's no point.

You have no words for this place, and it has none for you.

"Fuck off, Polaris."

Your words echo through the alley. There is no reply.

I'm done here. [Leave.]

Alternative wording

Whatever, time to go. [Leave.]

As you leave, you feel the sensation of being watched.

Alternative wording

You turn away from Polaris' sanctuary.

In the darkness, you feel the presence of all the strangers' offerings more powerfully behind you.

Alternative wording

You turn away from Polaris, into dawn's fragile light.

Alternative wording

Dockworkers' voices carry to you on the breeze, breaking the shrine's strange peace.

Alternative wording

The light around you is dimming. Behind the surrounding rooftops, dusk bleeds upwards.

An altar to Polaris, the Bazaar's unofficial patron star. It is cluttered and precarious with offerings.

The shrine lacks the sacred air of Mircean churches you knew as a child -- it is an organic thing, maintained by locals of their own volition.

BEHOLD HOW THE MASSES ARE CHOKED BY INSIDIOUS ABSTRACTIONS.

Wait, why insidious?

COSMIC ESSENTIALISM DISTRACTS THE PEOPLE FROM TRUE MATERIAL QUALITIES -- REVOLUTIONARY ACTION AND FACTORY OUTPUT.

People want to believe their sins are forgiven, is that so bad?

BELIEF IS DELUSION, STARS ARE FLAMES. ONLY THE PEOPLE HAVE THE POWER TO FORGIVE.

Flowers sway in the breeze, rain needles the metal slats above. Polaris' shelter protects them from the worst of the weather.

Flowers sway in the breeze, a wind chime tinkles gently. Polaris' shelter protects them from the worst of the weather.

Angels pull our strings from space, we must study them.

FATE IS THE FALSE PROMISE OF A FAILING COLLECTIVE -- A UNITED PEOPLE'S STRINGS ARE THEIR OWN.

I control my own revolutionary actions -- with my fists.

PRECISELY -- REJECT THE ANGELS' FALSE GUIDANCE. NOTHING CAN BE OBEYED WHICH CANNOT BE PUNCHED.

The shrine is a celebration of shared identity.

A NOBLE SENTIMENT FALSELEY DIRECTED. THE PEOPLE SHOULD BE MAKING THEIR OFFERINGS TO ONE ANOTHER.

Like a collective artwork.

A spectacle of Portofiran humanity -- the steps worn with years of its visitors' hope and grief.

Whatever their meaning, they were enough to summon you here, now, to this shrine rammed into the side of the city.

A mess, just a mound of unwanted rubbish.

Elegies and tributes, photographs and flowers. Perhaps unwanted, perhaps elevated.