More than happy to dissociate myself now and evermore from that uncouth cur Iron Gregarion, I’m all too glad when sweet Dejah tells me she has more work in store.
She asks me if, mayhap, I know of a journalist and influencer named Bea Sonada, affiliated with Kumo Media. I don’t, and answer thus. Dejah then explains to me this Bea—whose journalistic pretensions are more dreamed than established—has a loyal and dedicated following of idiots on MoonFall’s equivalent to the internet; and is, of late, fancying herself a real investigative reporter, of a dead and buried breed. Like a rat famished for scraps, she is scurying deep in the heaps of Stormbreakers’ trash—and those heaps reek like a midden.
Bea and her bodyguards went into hiding, her little rat nose having sniffed a fatefraught change in the air. She has an ex-lover in Cellerdown; a former co-worker in Gorfu; and some bigshot executive from Kumo Media lives in The Spire.
I hesitate between starting with the ex-lover, or the executive. I flip a coin. But my Athletics stat is shit and I can’t even catch the stupid coin; somehow, it lands on the edge. So I take the underrail back to Gorfu and, after a hot second of searching about the area, can’t help but notice a man with a big, fat, red, blue-backed exclamation point hovering over his head.
Thank be the coin, for I’ve hit the jackpot. It turns out the guy’s a scumbag who had, while still a co-worker to Bea, stolen sensitive data from her. Whether because she was forced to Weinstein-style, or because she wanted a promotion, or perhaps even because she’s a gerontophile who simply enjoys that, she spread it wide for a codger of the Kumo family; and that man likes to take pictures.
Now I’m a thousand credits lighter, but richer in paraphilia memorabilia, and I go to see the ex-boyfriend who I suspect might be interested to learn of what I now know. Evidently, hats are out but exclamation marks are this season’s fashion:
He hangs about the entrance to the Progressives’ brothel, but seems strangely reluctant to actually go in. I work my charm on him, and it does work like a charm. Feigning being impressed when learning he knew Bea—this extremely popular online personality—in the flesh, I ask a couple of benign questions about her.
Being of a generous nature I make a mental note to offer this guy a whetstone, seeing how he’s pretty dull. Mere paces away, indeed behind a bakery, I find an entrance leads me to a back alley. And there being only one door, I politely knock:
I explain to her I’d appreciate it, were she to stop her broadcasting career, and cede her place to someone more amenable to the Stormbreakers’ nerveful sensibilities.
– “And why the fuck would I do that?” she asks. “You think you’re the first person to threaten me, Facilitator? Yes, I know who you are. Wave to the camera. You’re the one in Saint Gorfu who’s been running around the city like a chicken with its head chopped off. You’re lucky I don’t do a ‘cast on you and the shitfuck the Guild is in right now. So I ask you again: why the fuck would I do that?”
I could blackmail her. But I bethink myself of what her ex-lover mentionned about her character: she doesn’t scare easily. Moreover, blackmail oft begets resentment; and resentment, in turn, its own ugly progeny. Thus I decide to try and convince her, as I think it would be better if she got to the right conclusion on her own.
And she cracks. But in classic fashion she thinks to warn me, as if I was that stupid.
True. But while some devils sport pitchforks, others sport long curly tongues. Dejah is of the latter kind, and hers are the supplices I would rather suffer.
Speaking of Dejah, I trek back to her office in the Commercial district.
Damn it. I hadn’t thought about that; I could have gone to The Spire and arranged something with the executive myself. Oh well.
Seeing how we’ve already accomplished more than enough for a day, the girls and I leave the Commercial district to get a lungful of fresh air.
Yes! I endeavored to dissociate myself from the Iron Cartel, and like my breasts when I pleasure myself on all fours, the plan is in full swing. With perfect timing I receive a call from Iron Gregarion, who expresses faint dismay at my getting cozened with the Stormbreakers, and counsels me to stop. He only succeeds in making me loathe him more.
Feeling good and oh-so womanly, the girls and I go sightseeing around MoonFall, flaunting our charms as we go in an attempt to drum up a little business. First to enter our collective sight is the Stormbreakers’ compound:
Then, the Civic district, wherein can be found the Homeguard Militia headquarters, and the Hall Of Archons:
The Industrial district, a dretful maze of factories and refineries:
Easternmost, at the very tip of a peninsula, we find the Iron Shore, an impressive prison complex operated by the Iron Cartel:
It reminds me a lot of the clean, oppressive nazi architecture in the later parts of Wolfenstein: The New Order.
Since I had forgotten to show the artwork for Dockside, here it is:
The building of the Constabulary:
And last but certainly not least, the supposedly Hidden Temple:
I love it when a place in full sight of absolutely everyone is called the Hidden Something. 
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