"Yyyes?" Again the heavy, authoritative Azzurri voice comes through.

"Yyyes?" Again the heavy, authoritative Azzurri voice comes through.

"Derrotado, pero inclaudicable."

"Ah... Very well." A heavy breath precedes and follows his words.

He really doesn't want to be doing business with Gonza, or you, for that matter.

"I will send out driver. Thirty minutes. Got it? Three-O." The line goes dead before you can respond with a single word.

The streets exhale around you. The shouts of partygoers slacken, and music thins to echoes. Beyond Party Alley, your asset awaits your signal.

Farther south, past the fraying edges of Party Alley, a man in a crisp tracksuit climbs into a heavily-loaded tuk-tuk. He adjusts the rearview mirror and checks himself. Verdict: 'dope'.

Time to bring in Ramses. (Call him.)

The interval before Ramses picks up is not even a full ring.

The cramped houseboat crossed in a single anxious stride.

"We good?"

Despite the quick answer, his voice sounds as though he's just emerged from sleep.

"It's time."

"Got it." He hangs up.

Behind you, you hear the faint scrape of boots on old bricks.

"You know, I wasn't sure you were going to call."

His gait is off. He had another seizure since you left.

"I wasn't sure you were going to answer."

"If you'd called a little earlier you might have gotten full on seizure prophecies over the phone, but I still would have answered."

"How much time we got?"

"Fifteen minutes, give or take."

"Perfect." He holds out two joints -- one for him, one for you. "Like old times?"

The reigniting of a custom you'd feared lost forever.

Engaging would only compromise your social and ballistics skills for no tangible benefit.

A hit to steady the fibres can't hurt. Just a small one.

"You realise we're about to rob someone, right?"

"Oh yeah. That's why I put tobacco in there too." He indicates the joint meant for you.

"I'll go easy." (Take the joint.)

"No judgment here. Just happy to partake."

Ramses' lighter flicks. As he inhales, red veins glow along the joint's spine.

Light up and take a reasonable pull.

You take in smoke like a measured breath, just enough to douse your lungs.

The crepitating telephoto lens of your mind widens as your circuitry slackens.

"Anyway -- The Hershel. The fuckin' Hershel." He takes a lengthy drag, nodding at the bruised night sky above.

Further down Party Alley, basslines thump and laughter echoes. But here, a silence settles.

The world shrinks to the here and now.

This moment, it's important to him. A re-kindling, maybe -- finding warmth among ashes grown cold.

"It's your turn, I think."

"To do what?"

"You know, the aftermath of the shitshow?" A flick of his wrist, indicating himself. "You got a whiff of what it's been like for me."

"What happened to you, Hersh?" He offers a meek smile.

Don't tell him. There's a reason we keep it inside, where it doesn't hurt too much.

"What's there to say?"

"Everything? Anything? Hersh, I don't know a goddamn..." He shakes his head, as if looking for words.

"I thought you were dead. You realise that, right?"

"I didn't. I'm sorry."

"It's fine."

"I just... Maybe it was easier to believe. The other alternatives were worse."

'Did she just abandon us?'

'Did she sell us out?'

'Did it mean nothing?'

"Disinformation orchestrated by one of many secret cabals. Sorry you had to hear it."

"I didn't hear anything, Hersh. That's the point."

"Operants like me don't die. They go on."

"Until they don't."

Get a little bit higher. (Take a drag.)

Warmth streams into your chest, carrying with it weight and the faint promise of reprieve.

The air gets heavier, as if you were being annexed by gravity.

A few thoughts scatter, like loose paper on an empty train platform.

Operant. You're compromising performance. Explain why.

I owe him this, at least.

Assets are tools. They are owed nothing.

Remember: emotions exact a price.

Someone put locks on my emotions, I think. I need to know what it's about.

Those locks are highly beneficial. Undoing them comes at a cost.

I'm building trust with an asset. It's a tactical trade-off.

Tread with care, then. Every inhale dulls the sharpness you'll soon need.

Here's your explanation. (Take a monstrous hit.)

Petulant and unprofessional.

It's getting harder to tell where you end and where the streets begin.

Keep smoking.

Time dilates in the inhale. When you let go, you're not where you started.

Open up to Ramses.

Floodgates open, one by one. Great walls of water come crashing down.

"I ever tell you about a place called 'the Freezer'?"

"Uh-uh. What, like, cryo-sleep?"

Satellite Facility B -- a suburb-sized arrangement of honeycomb structures.

You remember the steps leading up to Portofiro's central station awash in blurring fractals. Your legs weren't yours; they just moved.

"It's where they put washed-up assets."

"Mm... I always figured they just, you know, took you out back..." He makes a little clicking sound and pulls an imaginary trigger.

"For how long?"

Day 523, row unknown: sighting of a senior operant dusting the spines of cloth-bound logbooks. Hands: trembling, liver-spotted. You kept moving.

"There was no end date, Rams."

Ramses exhales and looks up at the sky, taking it all in.

Above, a bottomless well, depths aglow with pale fires reaching out.

"You set anything on fire on your way out?"

"I know what I signed up for."

"Hard to imagine you manning a fucking desk. Back when I knew you, you could hardly sit still for a wiretap." A crooked smile crosses his face.

"It never got easier. I was pent up like a demon in a bottle."

"Fucking... it's been bad times for everyone, H, sounds like. You think something to do with the stars?" He smirks.

An evil alignment of celestial bodies, the spearhead of that dread constellation hanging directly over the heads of you and your old comrades.

"Glad you're all thawed out, H."

"Cheers. Hand me that J."

Time dilates as you both stand there, blowing clouds. You almost forget that you were waiting.

Eventually, from down the street, the faint rumblings of a tuk-tuk grow louder. Headlights appear.

"Well, shit. Guessing that's our man." He takes one last pull on the joint and tosses it. "Go-time?"

"Go-time." (Take a final drag.)

The ember glows, a tiny sun between your nails. The smoke tastes of ash and something sweeter. And then, it's gone.

The tuk-tuk slows to a near-stop.

Scan the tuk-tuk's interior.

The driver: heavyset, or wearing thick clothing. The passenger seat is empty. It's about all you can see.

A slight wobble in the back -- stacked pallets.

Someone could be hiding in the backseat.

Study your surroundings.

No flickering lights from nearby windows. No other tuk-tuk lingering by. Low chances of passersby intruding at this hour.

Near ideal conditions for an ambush.

Step forward. (Proceed.)

A cloud of exhaust hangs in the still air before dissipating. The vehicle sits motionless.

"Wallah, what is this?" He stares at your covered face, and your garments.

He has no idea who you are. No need to say a word -- just do it.

Pull your gun on him.

Your gun meets no friction -- the cleanest of draws. By the time your target's mind catches up, you've already painted a line from barrel to forehead.

Motion for him to step away from the tuk-tuk.

"Shit. Alright, alright -- I get it."

Against the wall, Ramses remains very, very still.

Exploiting a blindspot. He knows what he's doing.

Motion for him to leave.

"You know whose tuk-tuk you're robbing, right?"

He's desperate. Do not engage.

Nod.

"And you're still going through with it? You got balls, man."

Motion for him to leave.

"Peace."

Soon, there's only you and Ramses left. You climb into the tuk-tuk, and leave the scene.

Shrug harder.

"I respect that. Signing up for that kind of torture." He begins to back away, slowly.

Shrug.

"The Azzurris. You sure you wanna piss them off?"

Motion for him to leave.

"Yeah, yeah. Message received. Fuck me."

A blink, and his gun's aimed at your chest. He grins, nodding at the added flare: wrist tilted off-axis, thumb raised.

"All my grandmother's grandchildren learned to shoot before we learned to write. 'Have many descendants, and many guns', she used to say. The way of our people."

"Now take that shit off." He motions at your covered head. "Let me see your face before I commit a great sin."

Take off the head cover.

"Baby girl? The fuck?"

"Let's calm down. Will you give me a chance to explain?"

"Explain what? That you're shit robbers?"

"Shit, man..." His eyes flare as his breath catches.

"The fuck's wrong with you?" He frowns, squinting at Ramses.

"The meds in the back. They're for me."

"What's the sickness?"

"Epilepsy. The seizures are pretty bad."

Tell him it's true. Make him understand.

Was this what you had in mind, operant? You, at gun point, and your asset disclosing personal matters?

"He is sick. Just look at him."

"I'm sorry, cuteness, but you lost talking privilege. On account of you being too slow." He indicates the gun.

"Yo, how many pills a day, bro?"

"Four?"

"Four." He nods. "Alright. You get one crate."

"That's not enough."

"Tell her she doesn't want to negotiate right now. Tell her I'm mad at her, and maybe we solve it in therapy."

"You heard the man. And one crate's fine by me, given circumstances."

"Alright, then. I'm sorry about your circumstances, akh."

"We're done here. Now unload the gear and walk."

You do as suggested. Soon, the crate rests by your feet, and Goat Eyes drives away. You and Ramses walk back to his houseboat in silence.

"Wow, really?"

"Tell her quiet is better right now. Tell her I'm mad at her, and maybe we solve it in therapy down the road."

Stay quiet.

"Tell her being quiet is good. Tell her I'm mad at her, and maybe we solve it in couple's therapy eventually."

(To Ramses.) "Don't."

"Alright, you're gorgeous. Model type and all." He licks his lips.

"Don't worry, I got manners. My name's Goat Eyes -- ask about me." He wiggles the gun. "Now, who the fuck are you?"

"Goat Eyes, it's me."

"Who?"

Ramses may be high, but this guy is somewhere in low-orbit.

"Did I come to the wrong place? Is this where the aliens come to meet?"

"Never mind that. We need what's in the back."

With a spaced look, he glances over at the figure off the side, then shakes his head.

"Ya zalame." He nods at Ramses. "What's going on?"

"It's going." Your partner raises his chin in a subtle salute.

"I would expect at least one of you to have a briefcase for me."

Don't let this get ugly. Not after what he told you about Vespar.

Scan the scene.

You map the angles from gutters to rooftop, scanning for lurking silhouettes and blind spots.

He's alone, and not expecting any backup.

If he has backup, they're well-hidden.

"Look, we didn't bring any money." (Talk it out.)

"I noticed. No bag, no nothing." He wipes his nose with the back of his hand. "That is problematic, business-wise."

"You carrying?" Like flicking a switch, something changes in his eyes.

Your advantage is slipping. Draw already.

There's no point in lying at this stage.

"Doesn't matter. We can find another way."

"Talking." Glassy eyes flick back and forth between you and Ramses. "I'm guessing that wasn't the plan."

"You were Vespar's boy. That changes things."

"Wait, wait. That's Vespar's guy? The one you told me about?"

"You knew him too, big man?" He rubs his eye. "Wait, she talked about me?"

"I knew him. You came up."

"You two are familiar, then." He scans the scene, a flicker of amusement on his face.

"I'd say we're on okay terms."

"Big man. She always this cold?"

"She tends to be." A subtle nod, and Ramses detaches himself from the wall.

"Alright, alright. Everybody shut the fuck up for a second. I'm thinking." He holds up a finger.

Somewhere behind his bloodshot eyes, a slow, yet impeccable calculation emerges.

"You sick, big man?"

"Epilepsy. Bad seizures."

The words pass through Goat Eyes' lie detector.

"I'm sorry. My little cousin's got the epilepsy too. Wallah, it's rough." He turns his attention back to you. "So this isn't business, is it?"

"I just want to help my friend."

"Fuck, well, why didn't you start with that?" He shakes his head, then looks toward the cargo.

"How many pills a day, big man?"

"Four?"

"Alright. Let's say three crates will do. Thousand blister packs in each. That's like... a solid amount."

Years worth of medication. With proper storage, the expiration dates shouldn't be an issue.

"Yeah, sounds good."

"Wait until you hear the best part."

"A candlelit dinner. You, me. Lamb so tender you gotta eat it with a spoon. And that's the low point of the night."

Look at Ramses.

"I could do lamb."

"You weren't invited, big man."

Quickly, you and Goat Eyes split the crates on the back of the tuk-tuk.

As you drive away, you look at the passenger seat, where Ramses looks tired but content. He's already helped himself to the meds.

"That's fair."

"Fair's got nothing to do with it. It's star-crossed lovers fate shit! Guns, stolen meds. That's romance."

"Absolutely not."

"Baby, baby..." He clutches at the imaginary wound in his side. "Should've shot me. It would hurt less."

"What's the catch?"

"You offend me with this unfound suspicion. No catch -- just celebration."

"Well, why didn't you start with that?" He lowers his gun, then looks toward the tuktuk.

"Fuck." He shakes his head, then looks toward the tuktuk.

"Could be business. How many meds in there?"

"Four crates, about a thousand blister packs each. I usually skim two percent off the top." He shrugs.

Assuming four pills per day, and ten pills per blister pack. One pack lasts two and a half days. One crate would cover Ramses for six years and change.

"A couple crates each sounds better, doesn't it?"

"I like the math. The Azzurris won't. But..."

He could sell it to them as a win.

"We robbed you. You handled it. Two crates damaged, you salvaged the other two."

"You got a devious mind. I like it. That cool with you, big man?"

"Real jagged."

"Could kick in some dents, damage the crates a bit. Dirty up the tracksuit. Yeah, alright." He tosses you the keys.

"You seem pretty relaxed about it."

"I've jumped people for worse reasons."

"And if anything, I owe you." He smiles. "A candlelit dinner. Braised lamb. Roast marrow and olive oil. A seaside view. After this, how can you say no?"

Not a safety net in sight. You have to at least respect the boldness.

"I'll give it to you. You're persistent."

"I'm not. I just know when to listen to my heart. You should try it."

He soldiers on, undeterred.

"You're not my type, Goat Eyes."

"I'll consider it. That's the best you'll get for now."

"You won't regret this. Lamb so tender you gotta eat it with a spoon. And that's the low point of the night." He claps his hands and blows a kiss at the sky.

A little thank you and shoutout to his higher power.

"Guess I owe you one, Goat Eyes."

"You got it all wrong. I owe you."

"A candlelit dinner. Braised lamb. Roast marrow and olive oil. A seaside view. After this, how can you say no?"

Let him finish.

"Maybe you robbed me. Took the ride and a couple crates, a thousand blister packs in each. The rest, I saved -- like a hero. I don't get in trouble with the Azzurris." He shrugs.

"We're not. It's all business."

"Big man. You see how she treats me?"

"It's not you. She struggles with people." A subtle nod, and Ramses detaches himself from the wall.

"Goat Eyes is solid."

"Yeah, you love me."

"That's huge, coming from her." A subtle nod, and Ramses detaches himself from the wall.

"Wait, wait. You found Vespar?"

"Nah, bro, he died years ago. You didn't even know him." He rubs his eyes. "Shit. Did you know him?"

"Vespar's dead?"

"Yeah, man. Keep up."

"You're not making it easy." With a sigh, Ramses detaches himself from the wall.

"I'm sorry. Didn't have the chance to tell you."

"Fuck. Alright..." With a sigh, Ramses detaches himself from the wall.

"In my defence, I only found out recently. I'm still in shock myself."