"Back again, are we?"

"Back again, are we?"

Look inside the shop.

Inside, a small cathedral of pristine jackets, dresses, and suits, impeccably arranged.

Your vision darkens at its periphery.

A PORNO-GRAPHIC SIGHT FOR THE LOCAL PORNO-BOURGEOIS.

Look at the suits.

Unpadded jackets with their sleeves rolled up, just a bit. These are high-end power suits, for business or formal soirées, thinner than what you'd find in Novessa.

Linen in soft cream, dusty ochres and pale sand.

The cuts and drapes speak of sun-baked streets, old plazas, and afternoons that meander towards the horizon.

Anything Luzian in there?

None.

It's as if the space was arranged to reject sharp cuts and high-contrast neon.

How expensive is this stuff?

There are no price tags.

That's the polite way of saying 'astronomically'.

It's all posh people shite. Stylish, though.

"Alright." (Go back.)

He offers a brief smile.

"What kind of clothes do you sell?"

"I don't sell clothes. I sell transformations..." He pauses. "Transformations which generate epochs that capture the delicate moment between the before and the after."

Borderline insane.... but on the right side of aesthetics.

"Do they truly generate epochs?"

"Yes. And in addition, they are of high quality, very respectable and... delicate."

"Delicate sounds very me."

"Then you've found yourself in the right place."

"I do feel respectable."

"That's your delusion talking. A proper suit would rid you of that terrible impulse."

"I'm just looking for a suit."

"You're in the right place."

"Cool."

The tailor nods.

"That's perfect. I'm trying to be someone else."

"You've fallen prey to dissociation. What you need is to reunify your inner and outer self. This is a common mistake, and must be rectified before any proper tailoring can begin."

"Dissociation is my coping mechanism, actually."

"That's insecurity talking. A proper suit would rid you of that impulse."

"Can you fix me?"

"Maybe."

"That was a joke. I really am just looking for a suit."

"This is not a joke to me. I need to have the utmost trust in my clients, and vice versa. And even then, sometimes, I can't guarantee success..."

"Sure looked like clothes to me."

"You're being ignorant, on purpose, it seems. If you're not serious, hurry on -- my customers await."

"What's with the attitude?"

"You're a potential potential customer. And only because of your figure." He looks away. "Calves aside."

"What's wrong with my calves?"

"It's the first thing I noticed about you -- one of them is slightly larger than the other, leading to a gross imbalance..."

This man is full of excrement -- our calves are the right size!

"Being so picky can't be good for your business." (Proceed.)

"I can see that you don't know much about the world of high-value."

"If you move in certain circles, you may have heard a certain type of man say such things as, 'I have a guy in Portofiro, but you wouldn't have heard of him.'"

"And?"

"I'm the him you haven't heard of."

AND WHY IS THAT? HE IS NO HERO OF THE PEOPLE, THAT'S WHY.

"You're no hero of the people."

"Of course not. I am a hero of the avant-garde."

"When I say your selection would be an insult, it's your taste I'm criticizing. Allow yourself to ask for help: 'Bruce, dress me, please!'"

"Bruce, dress me. Please?"

"Perhaps once more, with feeling!" He gestures with his hand toward the sky.

"Dress me, Bruce!"

The tailor swishes his hand through shoulder-length hair that hasn't been there for a long, long time.

Don't say it.

"You think your clothes are too good for me?"

"Is this supposed to impress me?"

"Wow... an actual celebrity."

"Please... there's no time for courtesy."

(Whisper.) "Are you a fellow devotee of the Umbral Host, Womb of Unending Night?"

"I can be, provided they want the finest tailoring in all of Portofiro."

"So?"

"So, pretty good overall."

"I'm just observing features that, under the right circumstances, could permit you to become a customer."

"Where can I see one of your transformations?"

"Normally I would point you towards one of my regular clients, who happens to be in town -- a monsieur Frederik, of l'Empire sans Territoire."

"Unfortunately he seems determined to debase both himself and my fine work by standing absolutely still, moreover, at a phone box devoid of joy!"

"Ah, yeah, we've met. Found him just down by the backway, on the phone."

"You can imagine how deeply upsetting this situation is."

"What's he doing there?"

"Apparently anything but displaying the full range of motion my elegant work provides. Wearing it for days on end! A disgrace."

"I hear he spends his time threaded to an intimacy line... why wear the suit, when the receiver can't even see him? Dreadful!"

The Miracle Line.

The Miracle Line.

"Where is this phone box?"

"Down by the backways, west of the Bazaar."

"Are there any other examples of your transformations?"

"A good number of my clients don't live in Portofiro. Some pass through for work. Others make an appointment with me the sole reason for their visit." He smiles proudly.

The flash of a gold tooth near the back of his mouth.

"There's also a monsieur Oskar of l'Empire sans Territoire... but he has managed to violate my work to an even higher degree than Frederik." He frowns.

"Let us not irritate me any further."

"I've seen him. He looks pretty rough."

"Say no more -- his epoch is sadly one of mourning and of low self-esteem, he wears my work, innocent and pure... in the gutter." He closes his eyes as if to grieve.

"He seems like a fun-loving guy."

"Fun? Mere frivolity! What he's done to my work is disgusting!"

Say nothing.

A few birds fly overhead.

"Could you describe Frederik for me?"

"Well-bred, good hairline. Wearing hand-stitched Portofiran silk trousers and a jacket of the same make, twirling a phone cord around his sleeves, ruining them in the process, probably."

"Thanks." (Go back.)

The tailor nods.

EMTERR -- the Bank. This mention of the Operant Bureau's ancient enemy makes you bristle.

"What makes this stuff high-end?"

"I'm creating Portofiran fashion in the old way, but brought into the modern age: hand stitching, salvaged local silks, skirts for men. Tradition, with a twist."

"What's special about hand stitching?"

"Any flaw a man creates in the pursuit of his craft becomes a part of the craft. A mistake made by a machine is just a mistake."

Machines don't make mistakes, mister.

"See, look at this." He points toward a black jacket. A silver chain connects matching epaulets, draped across one shoulder.

A single missed thread in the neat chain at the hem.

"You mean that one missed thread?"

"Good eyes -- yes. The stitch gives clear evidence of its human origins."

"I have a matching skirt for it. I dropped two stitches on that one."

"You're artificially inflating the price of your labour. Weak."

He stares at you, momentarily speechless.

"You're artificially inflating the price of your labour. Awesome."

"It's okay, I'm sure someone will still buy it."

"Not only will they buy it -- I can charge more for it. The human touch is worth its own premium."

You're going to have to take his word for it.

"You use salvaged silk?"

"Essilk torched their last sweatshop for the insurance. Most silk you find now is repurposed from old garments."

Some weeks ago, sweat gathered on his bald head under the strap of a forehead lantern. Broad hands delicately protected by latex gloves, he rummages through the back rooms of the abandoned Essilk No. 3, hoping for a bolt of stained fabric.

"Can't you buy silk made in other countries?"

"The commercial silk farms in PR Berreto produce cheap garbage. They starve the worms as much as the workers." He shakes his head. "It can't compare to the remnants of the Portofiran method."

Underground caverns filled floor-to-ceiling with cultivation beds, fat larvae munching on mulberry leaves.

Beautiful young women with eyes weakened by candlelight tend to each short-lived grub as if it were a princeling.

"That sounds like it would make it expensive."

"It's priceless."

Melita won't like seeing that on your expense report.

"Skirts for men?"

"Nestorismo brought pants, and with them, the mediocritisation of men's fashion. The skirt is the perfect utility garment, and my inspiration for this evocation of Portofiro's past -- an ensemble for a star-worshipping priest."

A star-worshipping priest? Might this help you pass off as the Liquidity Mage Kurt is looking for?

He gestures to a loose kimono in swirls of green and cream, and a boxy skirt made from the same material.

"One of my more daring recent efforts, not entirely successful. In light of my failures -- 15% off."

"The secret sauce to your craft is... nationalism?"

"No. Nestor was a nationalist. I just cater to people who are tired of a world that insists on shoving garbage down their gullets."

"The main source of the garbage just happens to be invading Portofiro from beyond its borders."

"You mean it's coming from La Luz."

"Set foot in the Bazaar and you'll see what I mean. Everything you buy there is designed to disintegrate within a couple of years, at most."

"I'm sure Portofirans make some of their own garbage."

"With what industry? There's only a few of us left here who make things by themselves." He scoffs.

"Noted." (Go back.)

The tailor nods.

"Okay, I think I understand." (Go back.)

"You have some semblance of an introduction to understanding." He straightens the clothes on the rack.

"Let's discuss what makes these clothes high-end again."

"Of course."

"I'm here on behalf of Kurt."

"Ah -- my young friend of the avant-garde, the savant of the scene. Has he sent you for another high-end piece of mine?"

There seems to be no creditor in this man.

THIS SOCIOPATHIC DEBT COLLECTOR HAS BEEN CAST FROM THE SAME MOULD OF DISHONESTY AS ALL OTHER SUCH PARASITES.

"First of all, I am much cooler than either of you."

"Okay..." His eyebrow rises, and does not come down.

He does not see the it in you.

"I am here to end your predatory business practices."

The man looks at you both with arrogance and amusement.

"Predatory business practices?"

"Must feel great being the fashion money guy."

"What are you implying? I am an artist! People pay me for my art. Where is the predator?"

"If people demand style, I offer it to them at a fair price. A concept so basic it should passed along with mothers' milk!"

THE LAUGHABLE MYTH OF 'FAIR PRICE'. ISN'T THERE SOMEONE YOU FORGOT TO ASK? THE CENTRAL COMMITTEE, PERHAPS?

"Are you denying business relations with the aforementioned man?"

"I believe we've established our relations." He looks unamused.

"How much money does Kurt owe you?"

"Owe me?! The piece, the jacket -- it's already been paid for."

How weird, right?

"Let me clarify. The young man doesn't owe me any money. He owes the Bank money. He must be confused."

EMTERR deals in development loans, sovereign debts, exchange rates -- not individuals.

Why would a leviathan hunt down a single minnow?

"Isn't EMTERR a little big for consumer loans?"

Alternative wording

"EMTERR's a transnational development fund. Why would Kurt owe them anything?"

"One of their subsidiaries recently launched a new scheme called 'The Financial Citizen'. It allows people to buy things, art, and services here, in the now, but pay for them later."

TAXING THE FUTURE FOR TODAY -- THE WETTEST DREAM OF THE CAPITALIST.

"Why would anyone want that?"

"So they can get to where they need to be without the waiting times, obviously. Very important for the uneducated masses who are into fast-moving fashions. But not my Kurt. He is very educated."

"Their subsidiary is right here, in Portofiro. The customer signs an application, which I send to my creditors. I am paid shortly after. Life goes on -- we all smile."

Bankers. Big grins.

"In other words, you're not going after Kurt."

"Of course not. I bear my young friend no ill will."

"However, I am saddened to say that The Financial Citizen may feel differently."

You can bet that EMTERR developed a thought-free process for this.

"So he can return to the scene?"

"The scene, yes." A gentle smile. "That is where the savant belongs, after all."

"Letting workers finance their own oppression, in other words."

"We live in freedom!"

"A true evolution of the debt-dopamine highway. Beautiful."

"It's getting quite popular as of late. According to the brochure I received, it makes the economy faster. I say that you cannot rush talent... be the money as vast as it may."

"That's the kind of future-oriented mindset we need."

"Of course, the new! Everything is about the new these days..."

"What else do you know about the Financial Citizen?"

"Very little. I make use of their services, and that is where our dealings end."

"My EMTERR client, once off the phone line, could probably tell you more."

"I'm sure an EMTERR person could explain the workings of it better than I."

"How much does Kurt owe, then?" (Proceed.)

"The jacket itself was 500 sol -- underpriced, for a masterpiece. But there's accruing interest, service fees, and other economic fashions on the side of the Bank."

"I'm perplexed." He raises a single eyebrow. "Does the young savant not understand how he afforded the jacket?"

"Not even a little."

"How is that possible? Unless he does not know how money works either..." He looks to the distance.

Kurt gets it as much as a dog gets the weather. Sometimes it's wet. Or warm. Sometimes both. All very baffling.

"Please tell Kurt not to worry about me, as we are settled. But do remind him of his arrangement with the Bank." He nods. "I'd like to keep making pieces for him."

"He understands balling out. That's what matters."

"I'd usually agree, but that may prove troublesome here."

"Bruce, listen carefully: Kurt is dumb as all hell."

"We'll disagree, then." He purses his lips. "He is aesthetically astute. He gets style, and the finer points of my craft. A natural."

The Bank -- EMTERR. This mention of the Operant Bureau's ancient enemy makes you bristle.

He is genuinely surprised.

"Kurt is very upset."

"What's the matter? Have dark thoughts entered his mind -- has he taken a disliking to the jacket?"

"The jacket's fine."

"Only 'fine'? It's a piece for the ages." He raises an eyebrow.

"Something's wrong, isn't it?"

"He believes he owes you money. Is that correct?"

"There must be a misunderstanding." He shakes his head. "The jacket's paid for."

I'm in the market for a high value suit."

Alternative wording

"Bruce, I'm in the market for a high value suit."

"Is that really the criterion by which you want to dress? Its value?"

"Absolutely. The goal is to pass for a top-tier individual."

"That word, 'pass'. That's your problem."

"Most people who come to me, they say they want an expensive suit -- I tell them, the price of the suit doesn't matter, so long as the person wearing it is high-value. So..." He claps his hands together. "Why do you want the suit?"

"I'm on a quest for It."

"Very well."

He disappears into the depths of his shop. Upon return, in his arms, a bundle of fabrics. A pair of checkered shoes dangle from one finger.

"Alright, I've compiled some pieces that might give us a place to start."

Consider the pants.

The trousers are tailored in a loose-fit style.

The slick, soft black silk slips through your fingers.

Examine the jacket.

Blocks of earth-toned silk have been neatly and near-invisibly stitched together. It's subtle, but you can see the telltale bulge of shoulder pads.

SWEAT AND MUCH STRENGTH HIDE THEMSELVES HERE.

Study the shoes.

The shoes are the most striking element of the outfit -- a pop of eccentricity, diamond-shaped leather cutouts in black and white, with a subtly pointed toe.

They say, 'I'm corporate, but still hip.'

Them's cocaine binge shoes. The good cocaine.

Assess the whole look. (Proceed.)

There's no doubt about it. This is a power suit.

This might actually work on you, especially with bespoke tailoring.

You can't picture yourself wearing this. You're not even sure an imaginary woman could pull this look off.

That mousy woman at the Noscorrentes Review could work it, potentially. An improvement on the cardigan at least.

Alternative wording

The subeditor of the Noscorrentes Review could work it, potentially. An improvement on the cardigan at least.

Alternative wording

The EMTERR interrogator could work it, potentially. An improvement on the cardigan at least.

If this style is EMTERR, you'll just have to make the best of it.

"I need to crush a man with the full weight of my style."

"I can work with this."

"I need to cosy up to one of those high-value people."

"Ah, to ingratiate oneself with those who were born into such things. I understand."

"I intend to show a capitalist swine what class means."

"Hmmm." He studies you, intensely. Then, he nods.

"It's about time I got my shit together, to be honest."

"It's not too late. We can undo the damage."

"Look, I probably can't afford it yet."

"If that is something that concerns you, then you are in the wrong place and I can't help."

"This is something I need."

"Go on. Tell me why."

"Why's it any of your business -- sell me a suit!"

"No."

His convictions may as well be carved from granite.

"I'm guessing the Culture Blockade is good for your business."

"I see it as essential to safeguarding Portofiran culture -- nothing less." He gazes down Party Alley. "You've seen what it's like out there, I'm sure?"

"Doesn't feel like the Blockade is doing much."

"It's not perfect, but I'd say it's the only reason La Luz haven't drowned us in their detritus yet."

"These Luzian imports, they're not even culture. Culture has never been, and cannot be state-directed."

IT CAN, SO LONG AS THE STATE IS THE ARCHITECTURE OF THE COLLECTIVE WILL.

It has to come from inside. It's personal first.

"Culture has to come from people."

"Yes -- but not only."

"Culture -- authentic culture -- emerges from the friction between the artist's hand and their chosen medium."