Brock exited the Miyazaki in another new district, following Mikael's lead yet again. Low-roofed storefronts hiding their sins behind cheery signs dominated the local environment, and the late afternoon sun was just kissing the horizon, accompanied by slowly igniting streetlamps filled with... glowing green wisps? Brock shook his head, trying to reconcile his expectations of what a streetlamp should look like with what was there, but already the feel of this unfamiliar destination was making itself obvious. Happily stumbling groups of people swarmed through the streets, their voices overly loud and their cheeks overly flushed. Red glows highlighted scantily-clad figures gyrating behind street-corner windows, interspersed with dens of gaily chaotic amusement, and the sizzle of street-vendor sweetmeats dominated the early evening air.

"Uhhhh-"

"Relax, kid," Mikael laughed. "Your virtue is safe with me. We're only here to speak with an extremely dangerous person."

Brock coughed nervously and adjusted his leather coat collar. Some of the silhouettes in those windows were not leaving much, if anything, to the imagination.

"Soooo, uhhh," he squeaked, prompting another peal of laughter from Mikael.

"Dayyyyum, you're not going to bust a blood vessel in your nose, are you? Because that would be embarassing for both of us."

"G-g-g-got to second base with Emilia Lopez my junior year," Brock managed, then wondered why he was bothering baring his soul to someone like Mikael.

The swordsman chortled once more.

"Okay, okay, you're a real cassanova, kid. Gotcha. Just," he snorted, hiding his face, "what's your definition of 'second base?'"

"None of your business," Brock spluttered, his face flushing.

"Fair enough, fair enough," Mikael snorted, dark skin reddening. "A gentleman never tells, right?"

"You're fucking right," Brock declared vehemently, while Mikael wiped a sleeve across his face. "It's, uhhh, between us."

"Right you are, right you are," Mikael managed, still swiping at his eyes. "'A gentleman never tells.' Holy shit is she going to eat you alive."

"-whut?"

"Last stop of the day, kid. Rin Softheart, self-proclaimed 'Voice of the Voiceless,' and proprietor of," he pointed to a subdued neon sign fronting a classic Victorian three-story mansion that still somehow managed to exude an aura of impropriety, "the Love Shack. Shall we?"

Brock didn't know what to say as Mikael led him up the winding gravel path to the building's front door. Tasteful shrubberies - actually, upon closer inspection, those shrubberies were most definitely lewd - flanked the neatly manicured path, and distant conversation and laughter could be heard drifting over a high wooden fence guarding the mansion's eastern edge. The noises cut off as they passed through the front door and entered a well-furnished vestibule covered in dark leather and velvet. A wooden greeter's desk guarded the only other exit from the small room, but Brock didn't see anyone behind it.

That changed when he followed Mikael across the room to the wooden stand and noticed a miniature version of the upright desk on top of it. A tiny green figure with blurring wings, no more then three inches tall, was lounging against it with a bored expression on their androgynous face. Brock did a double take as he noticed the sharply tailored black suit and miniscule sunglasses hooked behind pointed ears.

"You got an appointment?"

"Don't need one, pix," Mikael said smoothly, showing his magiphone. The small figure tsked.

"Guess you don't. Try not to break anything, Black Cat. We run a clean house, and Rin don't need your shit."

Mikael didn't bother responding, instead pushing through the door behind the podium. Brock fell in behind, trying not to stare at the tiny bouncer.

"What," he whispered to Mikael once the door had closed behind them, "was that?"

"Pixie," Mikael said nonchalantly, scanning the broad foyer stretching before them. Several couples were engrossed in each other on deeply cushioned sofas lining the walls, and two muted chandeliers glowed overhead, bathing the room in just enough light to hide unfortunate shadows. "Don't mess with them. They punch way above their weight class."

"I- that- what-"

Mikael ignored Brock's spluttering and strode confidently through the foyer, ignoring the amorous members engaged with each other on its periphery. Brock tried not to stare too openly as they passed. He felt like he had accidently wandered onto the set of an adult movie.

"Mikael," he hissed as they approached another set of grandiose double doors. "What is this place?"

"It's a sexhouse, kid," Mikael replied, pushing open the doors to reveal a massive backyard filled with people laughing at candle-lit tables, dancing to thumping music on a glowing square of floor, splashing around in a pool the size of a small lake, and otherwise seeming like they were having an excellent time in various states of dress and undress. He scanned the scene, then set off towards one of the tables. "Seemed pretty obvious. Thought you had those in your world."

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

"Uhhh, yeah, uhhh, I guess, but, uhhh, they're not quite, uhhh, this easy to walk into? I think? Pretty sure they're all in Amsterdam, because, uhhh, they're not legal where I'm from," he finished lamely.

Mikael rolled his eyes at him.

"Sexwork isn't a crime, kid. As long as you're not hurting someone else, there's nothing wrong with doing something that makes you feel good, especially if it also makes someone else feel good."

"I- you- that's- I mean-"

"Rin Softheart," Mikael said conversationally as he stopped in front of a table with only three people at it, overriding Brock's newest set of unintelligibility, as well as the low buzz of conversation between them. One of them Brock had never seen before, a high-cheekboned woman with pale hair in a midnight blue business suit so sharp it seemed to cut the air, but the other two triggered a sense of recognition - to the left, a woman with a chestnut-curled cherubic face and violet eyes in a not-quite-revealing-everything green dress, and to the right, a handsome dark-skinned man in a silver turtleneck with scattered light blue accents. "Wellness check."

The three exchanged glances, cutting short their discussion, then the woman with chestnut curls fixed her gaze on Mikael.

"Purely random, I presume?" she asked, unperturbed, in a voice of liquid honey. She leaned forward, her dress somehow managing to keep everything that needed containing under control, but Brock's attention was drawn to the glint of metal gracing her neck. A very familiar metal band, mirror to the one beneath his own high collar coat. "Or are you here for," she ran her tongue over her lips, "personal business?"

Brock felt himself getting hot around the collar at her sultry tone, and he tried to tug unobtrusively at his shirt. The woman, Rin, looked over at him.

"Your friend is welcome to join, of course. Assuming he can keep the nosebleeds under control."

I know her from somewhere. Who is she?

"Legit inspection," Mikael replied, unphased. "Though I am somewhat surprised to see Councilor Drast engaging in your company, along with..." he stroked his chin in thought, "the Capitalist Collective's lead litigator, Anlia Arrowsong."

The platinum-haired woman tossed her head, revealing a pair of pointed ears, but the nattily dressed man simply laughed, lounging back in his chair. He seemed to command attention in an easy way, as if any room he entered would rotate around him and he knew it.

"Operator Thorne, surely it's nothing out of the ordinary for two private citizens to enjoy an evening out at one of the finest companionship locales in the city? Without being assaulted by alliteration?"

"Surely not," Mikael agreed easily with a smile that never reached his eyes. "I apologize for the poor word choice."

"Not to worry, not to worry," the man chuckled, perfect white teeth flashing, "there's plenty of room at the table. Why don't you and your... friend join us? I'm sure Miss Softheart has nothing to hide from the doughty officers of our esteemed Cataclysm Squad Six. New and old alike."

"Surely she doesnt," the chestnut-curled woman remarked demurely, a coquettish fan appearing out of nowhere to buzz the lower half of her face, violet eyes harder than granite above it. "The Safe Sekkie-" her lips twisted minutely around the word in between butterfly-fan-flutters, "-Society is always more than happy to assist the law with their inquiries. No matter how ill-timed or impractical."

"Just what I wanted to hear," Mikael said jocularly in another false expression of cheer. "Come, Brock. We've been invited by our betters to join them, and it would be rude to refuse."

Mikael pulled out a chair with whiplash speed, settling into it like a king deigning to grace his subjects with a glimpse of his presence. Several magnitudes more awkwardly, Brock took a seat next to him.

"So, Councilor Softheart," Mikael said in a voice with all the warmth of an absolute-zero knife, "what were you and Councilor Drast chatting about?"

Wait... she's a Councilor, too? But she's wearing a Limiter. And that name... Was she the one in the cow costume? Is that where I know her from?

"Oh, come now, Operator Thorne," the handsomly attired man scoffed, "you of all people should know that Council communications are privileged."

"In Council chambers, yes," Mikael replied, not missing a beat, "but conversations between private citizens in a public setting are well within the remit of the Cataclysm Squads."

"And what," Councilor Drast declared victoriously, leaning forward and gesticulating at the carnal scenes surrounding them, "makes you think this is a public setting?"

Brock could hear Mikael's palm squeezing the life out of his katana hilt again, an eerie creaking of flesh and steel.

"This is a-"

"-completely private setting agreed to by all participants as indicated via their biothaumetic signature at the door," the delicate-featured woman with pointed ears shot back in a clipped tone. "As I'm sure you know."

"You-"

"-might want to back off if you don't have a legal reason to harass my clients." A sharktooth lawyer smile gleamed. "Unless you want to try explaining to the system why you're breaking the rules. Because I will be more than happy to bring that case forward."

Brock watched a vein pulse on Mikael's forehead. Slowly, oh so slowly, the swordsman placed both hands on the table.

"...perhaps I spoke in haste. Miss Arrowsong, Mister Drast, could I trouble you to let me borrow Miss Softheart for several moments to conduct a wellness check?"

"By all means," Councilor Drast beamed pleasantly, "I would never impede a member of the Cataclysm Squad in their legally assigned duties. Especially one with such firepower close at hand." He pushed his chair back. "Come, Anlia, we should retire elsewhere for the moment. Perhaps one of the sushi platters? The nigiri near the buttocks looks particularly appetizing."

"You and your raw fish obsession," the elf woman grumbled, stepping away from the table to join him. "Savage. You have my contact if he," she tossed her head to indicate Mikael, "harasses you, Councilor Softheart. We'll speak later."

When the pair were several steps away from the table, a familiar red-black haze rose up, cutting them off from the outside world.

"What-" Mikael began, but was immediately cut off by Rin's raised voice.

"What the fuck are you doing here, you shitstomping fascist?! 'Wellness check?' Give me a fucking break! You limp-dicked losers literally just ran me through debriefing!"

Brock's eyes widened. The earlier demureness had completely vanished, replaced by a fire-spitting dragon. Rin Softheart half-rose from her chair, chest heaving and cheeks flaming, and her finger speared out at Brock.

"And what in all the hells is he doing as an ennenn? You are out of your fucking minds!"

Mikael sighed.

"Always a pleasure to chat with you too, Aphrodite. Sit down. We need to talk."

Brock's jaw nearly hit the table as recognition finally blossomed.