Before delving further into a meatier quest, I make a detour by the brothel, to re-invest my salary into some further upgrades for the Strip Joint and Privacy Booths; which, by the way, I am yet to visit.
What’s Thassa up to, at this hour of the day? I engage her in conversation, but can’t actually get a word in:
Uhm… well… uhm… you see, Thassa, I… I… not that I wouldn’t enjoy losing myself atween what looks would overflow from a generous E cup, but… uhm… I’m a bit public-shy, so no, thank you very much.
Now my thoughts, possessed it seems of a volition much their own, slither decidedly towards nearby Zafra, and coil themselves about her firmness. Where, I wonder, do I stand with her at the moment?
Trust level: 10. Thrust level: 0. But I’ll get her. And with the gloves on. I think about gifting her the token I earlier purchased from La Petite Amie, but force myself to keep said token for the time being, as I’m curious to see where the game will let me go, relationship-wise, without any undescribable bauble being involved.
Still, all that pink thinking has me in a mood. Since I’ve paid—with my own salary, mind you—for the construction of Privacy Booths, I decide to pay them a visit.
Fine with me; time to discharge some tension. I enter the first booth, serviced I’m told by a woman.
Wut?
That, is hands down the most lugubrious place I’ve seen in a while. The featureless puke-green walls; the lone, cold, cushionless, metallic-looking chair; the lighting or lack thereof. I feel like I’m about to get raped by a clown made of rust. There’s no way the brothel’s clients like this; as soon as I can I’m gonna have to spring for brighter lights of warmer hue, at least a few cushions, and a bit of velvet (though the drycleaner’s bill will surely rise).
But the trypophile part of my self impels me investigate that hole…
Oh hey! Of course I remember you, Cyla: the first time I saw you, thick strands of semen were dangling from your chin, cheeks, and nose; and you refused my offering of a handkerchief, prefering to lick yourself clean in cat-like fashion. You and an overly-glazed donut would have looked apiece.
But being a woman of some distinct modesty, to whom privacy is of the greatest import, I won’t describe in details what ensued. Suffice to say it involved a harness, and a part of my body being devoured as if the aldermost flavorful of fruits.
Thanks to Cyla, I came; and now, I go. To meet Iron Gregarion, whose familial problems still nibble annoyingly at his leather-booted heels.
Iron Gregarion explains to me the Progressives are holed in an unused underrail station called Cellerdown. Hey! I visited that place erewhile.
Indeed, as it turns out, this…
…is actually not closed at all. The rolling sheet door looks down and locked, but does not in fact prevent entry. Inside, I find Nael, and directly ask her where Tomassi might be. Discovering I somehow know of the boy’s secured presence amongst the Progressives, she’s briefly taken aback. I decide to keep my link to the Iron Cartel a secret.
True, I’m technically lying to a member of my own Guild; but I’ve no qualm doing so, as I don’t particularly like the Progressives. From what—admittedly little—I know, they seem noyous to the Guild, more keen on reform for the sake of reform rather than inclined towards actually needful change. Lest some coming momentous revelation changes my perception of things, if I absolutely have to make a choice I’ll most likely stand alongside the Guild’s Traditionalists, whose perceived immobilism seems to me supported by storied events during which the Guild suffered greatly from attempts to change its ways.
Now, does Nael buy that I wish to see Tomassi for reasons of my own, or does she suspect foul play?
Success! Curious to see if the ten minutes I’m allowed are counted, I glue my eyes to the clock. I enter the room at 10:18, and… when 10:29 comes, I’m not kicked out. Your words means nothing, Nael, nothing at all.
With Tomassi, I’m straightforward:
And I choose to ignore that Nael, whom I’ve deceived a moment ago about the real reason for my coming here, is standing a mere five feet away while I divulge the real reason for my coming here. 
Anon I leave the room. Tomassi will live, I decided. I received from him what encrypted information he had stolen off Iron Gregarion’s hands but not yet sold; I will be able to either sell said information, assuredly to great financial profit, or doubtlessly leverage it somehow with this or that influential MoonFall character. As pseudo proof of Tomassi’s demise, I took his ring. And the boy has promised to vanish like—as he said with the soul of a trouvère—”a fart in the wind.”
Back in front of Iron Gregarion, I lie, boldly:
“For now,” he says. I get the unmistakable impression Greg is the kind of ruthless, ever self-serving escroc who might want to tear me limbmeal, were I ever to cut his ambitions short, or cross him in any significantly detrimental way.
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