PELOTA

"Yeah? Girls always like the pelota players with the broken noses and stuff..."

"Bad energy is the Quisach mainline after a pelota final." She snorts. "I think it's just the whole imposing shrine thing."

Somewhere within the warren-like streets of Lower Viudas, an old man pulls a pelota cap over his face and ducks into a neon-lit bookmakers.

There's a leaf stuck to the sleeve of his pelota sweater.

Tiny figures jog across the screen, lobbing the hard pelota ball back and forth.

Watch some pelota.

Indeed, each of the pelota players display taut hamstrings, chiselled gastrocnemius and soleus, and perfectly rounded glutes that bounce appealingly under the shorts' tight, synthetic material...

That's enough pelota for now. [Leave.]

The TV is working normally again. On the screen, two pelota teams are caught in sweaty rivalry. A mascot in an elaborate moth costume dances on the sidelines while being pelted with trash.

Arguing with his captor about a non-existent pelota game he's going to be late for, committed hilt-deep to his cover.

It's a pelota ball, the local variation of handball.

The pelota ball is unable to outwardly express itself, but it appreciates the recognition of its efforts on the inside.

The fire door stands between you and the roof. Unfortunately, someone removed the pelota ball that was wedging it open.

A fire door stands between you and the artery on the roof. Luckily, it has been wedged open with a pelota ball.

It also appreciates the support from a fellow pelota player in full uniform.

The fire door stands between you and the roof. Luckily, it's still wedged open with the pelota ball.

Pelota balls are not designed for use as door-stops. Someone has elevated this ball to contraption status.

It also appreciates the support from a fellow pelota player in some of the uniform.

"If you insist." He offers a wry smile. "But I am here for work. Ugly pelota game last night. Couple stabbings."

"Been at it since yesterday." He offers a wry smile. "Tying off one last thing. Ugly pelota game last night. Couple stabbings."

From a nearby window, you hear the roar of the announcer as a goal is scored in a televised pelota match. Someone has cranked the volume as high as it will go.

"Ah, !Viva Quisach! Pelota is Portofiro, through and through. Nice to see, but not exactly fashion." He winks.

"Foreign woman, Mircean accent. Dressed like a local pelota fanatic. Sound familiar?"

At this hour, the bar is the closest it gets to 'busy'. A half dozen customers or so chatter or idly watch a pelota match. The two of you attract no particular attention.

"Officially, I'm no one -- a null entity. A sad old man in an ugly shirt, killing time at a gaudy pelota bar."

"The tragic fate of a null entity, damned in memory, even by your old friends and comrades. Now I'm just a sad old man in an ugly shirt, killing time at a gaudy pelota bar."

"Sure, sure, I was a sock importer once or twice myself. Of course that was before I became a null entity. These days I'm just sad old man in an ugly shirt, killing time at a gaudy pelota bar."

Favourite den of Quisach's local pelota squad and their partisans, as well as a certain disgraced spy of the Operant Bureau.