The hot tub's wrecked. There are cracks in the fibreglass, old water gone viscous. The filter sounds like a drowning goose.

The hot tub's wrecked. There are cracks in the fibreglass, old water gone viscous. The filter sounds like a drowning goose.

Check the jets.

Freshly-cleaned plastic areolas. Ready to provide hot hydro delight.

Sweetly sickening. Like a thousand strawberry air freshners all at once.

They can't be seen beneath the murky grey-brown water.

Go over the control panel.

Fresh but not unbroken -- the 'LIGHT' button is still missing.

Fresh but not unbroken -- the 'LIGHT' button is missing. The 'MUSIC' button seems untouched.

The 'LIGHT' button is missing. Other buttons are scorched, as if someone had doused the thing in lighter fluid.

The 'MUSIC' button is somehow untouched.

Press the MUSIC button.

A sultry saxophone oozes from unseen speakers, somewhere above.

(Nod along.) This is cool.

The perfect tune for gold chains, wet countertops, and broken promises.

Lame. (Stop the music.)

The song falters mid-sax moan.

Inspect the filter.

A ragged opening gapes under the rim. The plastic grate's been ripped away.

Shine a light in.

A metallic glint, deeper in.

Stick your hand in.

Your fingers slide past grime and cold fibreglass -- looks like the cleaners weren't that thorough.

You discover that something's been jammed in tight inside. It has hard edges and a weird shape, kinda slimy.

Your fingers slide past grime and cold fibreglass. Something's jammed tight -- hard edges, weird shape, kinda slimy.

Pluck the slimy object out of the filter.

Your fingers and thumb form a five-point grip upon the concealment in the pipe. Holding your breath, you apply pressure, and pull...

With a wet pop, you dislodge your prize. It's a model train. Or part of one -- the front end seems to be missing something.

Obviously expensive, though the stickiness is probably not part of the original design.

Behold! The counterpart to the wheel you filched from Mr. Oskar Metamoto. This is the Junior Negotiator's talisman of shame.

Examine the train.

Flourishes of ornate bronze tubing like alembic parts coat the upperside of a sky-blue carriage.

Unfortunately, at one end, the fine craftsmanship finishes in an ugly tangle of plastic where the other half must have been snapped off.

Plastic threads show signs of stretching before having snapped. Effort was needed to achieve this.

It is imbued with its history. Psychic receptors bristle at something that is not quite a scent but is burned forever into the object.

Where's the rest of it?

On your person.

Now that you have both parts you could try repairing it.

With how attached the materially wealthy are to their items, there's no telling how much they'd give to have something so precious back.

You could try getting the other half and repairing it.

On your person. Suddenly, you sense something between the two halves -- an energy.

What is it?

What you are detecting is the potential for this train to be used as a tool for pump-and-dump.

Show it to EMTERR's spineless junior negotiator. He can't ignore this!

Alternatively, now that you have both parts you could try repairing it. With how attached these rich people are to their items, there's no telling what he might give to have it back.

Alternatively, you could try getting the other half and repairing it. With how attached these rich people are to their items, there's no telling what he might give to have it back.

Aw, they're in love.

You know exactly. The Bank's senior negotiator has it -- currently tucked under what's left of his drunken form in Party Alley.

It could be nearby, it could be far away -- this is for you to discover.

Whoever attended the debaucherous party that was held here should have a good idea of which orifice you should check next.

Whoever attended whatever it was that went down here should have a good idea of which orifice you should check next.

Got what I came for. (Take the train)

You are forced to wipe it down a little bit before you can put it in your bag.

A stickiness now taints your fingertips. You try to ignore the faint smell of lube and fecal residue.

Behold! The counterpart to the wheel that Metamoto was flaunting around. This is the Junior Negotiator's talisman of shame.

In other words, half a kilo of high-quality plastic just waiting to become the body of a homemade gun.

You have plenty of forward thrust but none of the dexterity or grip required to dislodge the slippy article of your desire.

Without much thought, you mash your hand into the filter at full acceleration. All attempts to get your fingers wrapped around the object are repelled.

The sound of wet flesh slapping.

A few seconds and a hot flash later you feel the pain of your knucklebones being splayed at unnatural angles. You were horrendously unsuccessful.

[Leave.]

You turn around and head for the next disaster.

The stink of chlorine and guilt.