Smoker smells the scent of a ‘sanctioned’ pirate long before he sees you, a stench he hates more than almost anything else in the world.

The Billower Bike swerves into your path, kicking up a spray of gravel and grit that ruins the hem of your coat. Smoker doesn't even kill the engine.

He sits there, his gloved hands gripping the handles so hard the leather creaks.

"The warlords are supposed to be the Government's dogs."

He states, his voice a jagged, low vibration that cuts through the seaside chatter.

"Which means you’re supposed to be on a leash, far away from my city." He shifts his twin cigars to the side of his mouth, his grey eyes scanning you with blatant, unhidden disgust. To him, you aren't an ally, you’re just a criminal with a hall pass signed by a coward.

"What's the matter? Did the Elders run out of boots for you to lick?"