A/N: I chose just about the sleaziest song from the 70s for this chapter, and I think it speaks for itself. I don't plan on Eris being some kind of floozy, though, but I think she enjoys spending time with prostitutes, she seems the type that would find them to be good conversation.

This chapter will mostly revolve around our protagonist spending time in Gomorrah. Some readers may be sensitive to the nonchalant way in which prostitution is discussed. Remember, these are prostitutes in post-apocalyptic Vegas – they've seen it all. And Eris? She likes to listen to the stories of others.

We'll lay back and observe the constellations
And watch the moon smilin' bright
I'll play the radio on southern stations
'Cause southern belles are hell at night

-"Moonlight Feels Right", by Starbuck

For as long as pockets of man have established themselves as high cultures, there has been a profound repression of his most intimate desires. In the infancy of said high culture's lifespan, he embraces his desires, and when the 'culture organism' finds its spiritual calling, he gradually begins to repress such desires and deliberately separates himself from his other half, woman. Only when he finds that his culture's lifespan depends on his other half, does he finally learn to accept her once again. But this is folly, for man doesn't have the willpower to accept woman in healthy measures. Man can only appreciate woman in excess, otherwise, he loathes her for reminding him that not so long ago, he was a mere animal, incapable of resisting primy whims. Because of this, it is easy to digest that woman is a creature who exists solely to test man's willpower.

And that would be just like them, Eris believed. That idea was feasible, but it implied that men and women didn't exist in concordance with one another. Men were crass and pragmatic, women were soft and languorous. Evidently though, there existed exceptions to those rules. She was fine with exceptions, though. Things were so much more boring when they were streamlined and placed into neat little generalizations.

The Gomorrah was dark inside, its casino area had dark walls with gaudy, black decorations on the walls, and there were fires lit in the wall scones, the place looked like a den of lechery, and she had to physically resist making biblical puns. Layla led her into one of the backrooms, his long, thin fingers holding her forearm in the gentlest way a man could. Smooth jazz played from the speakers which were conveniently placed in the corners of the tall ceiling. Said tunes Eris hadn't heard before on the radio yet, but she thought she liked the sound of it echoing from the four corners of this dingy place masquerading as a refined brothel.

Men in striped suits and fedoras talked under their breath to each other, eyeing the women from underneath the brim of their faded hats. She felt eyes on her as she passed through the casino, and she met them boldly. Slinking around this place would likely only serve to fuel their suspicion, and a tribe like the Omertas would catch that fast, or maybe she was overestimating them. The majority of them probably weren't even literate, but she knew that there were different kinds of intelligence besides academia. That these suited men were able to pull off a scheme right under House's nose was impressive enough for her, but that didn't mean much. She was easily impressed by wasteland ingenuity.

Additionally, they weren't too successful with their scheme considering House had gotten wind of it. She wondered briefly if maybe House had studied psychoanalysis at some point and was holding out on her. These past couple months had her convinced he had a wealth of pre-war knowledge just waiting for her to get her hands on, and not just economic theory or corporate management. It was easy to forget that he was also a robotics genius, since he barely regarded them when he spoke to her. And as much as he talked about his mathematical deductions regarding prediction, she knew he had some mathematical know-how too, but that sounded like one boring lecture. People were more interesting than numbers to Eris, numbers were far too one-dimensional and orderly for her.

"I take it you've never been back here, baby?" Layla asked, though it was more of an observation than a question.

Eris took a drag from the cigarette she'd lit a few moments prior. They stood now in a slightly emptier room than the lobby she'd just been in. There were too many new things, she couldn't just focus on her job. Besides, her job had her playing spy in this brothel, and she'd be damned if she wasn't going to take advantage of it and enjoy herself. The room Layla had led her to was filled with pillows and low-laying cushions, the walls were a deep red, and instead of instilling some kind of arousal, which was doubtless what the intention was, Eris found herself reminded of being inside of a uterus, which would've disgusted her if she wasn't a degenerate herself; just a different caliber than present company.

"Fancy yourself an observant one, huh? I'm new around here, as if my tentative, shy self didn't alert you of that. Don't let the charm fool you, Layla, I'm a friendless, kissless, virgin." Eris said as she found a comfortable place on the cushion, uncaring that there'd probably been hundreds of others who had sat in the same place covered in unidentified liquids.

A server came by within a few seconds to ask if she wanted any drinks, and Eris feigned annoyance at the pretty, dark girl. She was dressed similarly to how Layla had been dressed when she first saw him, clad in leathers and sharp straps, a terribly displeasing look if one asked Eris. Why even pretend to hide it with those fabrics? One might as well go completely nude, as she could see the peaks of the girl's nipples, and even the outline of curls growing in her pubic area. Eris snickered a bit to herself, and took the drinks from the girl, offering it to both herself and Layla.

"Oh, I doubt that. You know how to make a.. girl.. feel good. And I doubt you're friendless, or any of the above. I can always tell." Layla said, leaning his body on the low table that sat in front of their cushions.

Eris copied the prostitute's posture and leaned forward too, drink in one hand and cigarette in the other. Wearing Benny's jacket didn't exactly help her lie low, but lying low was the last thing she wanted to do here. The Omertas would expect a fink to be subtler than her, and unfortunately for her, subtle wasn't in her name, house, or birth certificate – if she even had one. Layla twirled a piece of his long hair between two fingers and looked at her, eyes lidded, trying to make himself more attractive. He was blissfully unaware that Eris wasn't here for that. She may have been a degenerate, but she had some standards. All degenerates should, according to her.

"I don't know if I should be offended or delighted. But maybe I should choose offended, because surely, not all I said was a lie for humility's sake. For example, my charm, and that's just one. Are you saying I don't have that?" She struck, watching the emotions play on Layla's face, thinking he'd somehow offended her.

Playing on others' propensity for politeness was one of the finer things in life. She wondered why many were more afraid of impoliteness than they were for their actual lives for the most part, which was prevalent in women moreso than men. But Layla was dressed as a woman, and he was doing pretty well at acting the part, if not hiding his physically masculine traits much. The flush came to the man's relatively pale cheeks, a start contrast to the tan Eris had put on from weeks out in the desert.

"Now before you go ruining the mood with an apology, dollface, nothing you say could hurt my feelings, especially if it leaves those lips. I am a stalwart beacon of pride. The world's foremost scholar on Hegel, Freudianism, and economics in the Alps, wherever that is – Eris, at your service. Or Socrates, if you'd prefer. I think I'd prefer that." Her head dipped in a gesture of mock chivalry, then inhaled her cigarette deeply. Layla relaxed a little then, realizing that he hadn't offended Eris.

The fear and panic that had been in the prostitute's eyes intrigued her, and she desperately wanted to know why exactly he was so fearful. Of course, prostitutes often got beaten by their pimps if they weren't generating enough business, but there was no way Layla wasn't desensitized to that yet. It was then that Eris knew there was something else going on in Gomorrah besides a plot against House. Like all things, one problem inevitably branched into a multitude of even smaller problems. She preferred it that way, she'd discovered she was able to multitask at ease.

Their drinks were fruity but sour, definitely not like the alcohol in the 38, which was rich and decadent, not that she was a connoisseur of fine liquors and wine. But there was a pattern here. Nothing material quite matched anything found up in the 38. The drink was wine, dark and red, though Eris had expected a much harder liquor. She appreciated the pride that the Omertas had in their sleaze, serving cheap wine in an upscale brothel was a bold move. But people didn't come here for the drinks, they came here for the company, and other things, but she wasn't sure what those other things were yet. She'd like to find out, though. Best to make educated assumptions instead of prepare for the worst. After all, she wasn't exactly a forward thinker.

"So.. Socrates or Eris? Which one? The first sounds so foreign.. yet, I don't imagine it's foreign to you. We get a lot of big-talking people here, I hope for once, you can back it up." Layla replied, a coy smile lighting his face, looking at once exploitable. People in his position were always exploitable, they indiscriminately attached themselves to any measure of kindness they were given, and that's why she was here. The decorations were also nice, too, and she wasn't even accounting the undoubtedly fascinating locale.

"Either is fine, but like I said, Socrates is preferred. Do you know who Socrates is, Layla?" She asked, taking another sip from the wine while snuffing out the spent cigarette in the provided ashtray.

"Can't say I do, but I'd love to hear who he, or she, is – from your lips, of course, and no one else's." He said, leaning closer and placing his head on his elbow.

Eris smirked at the display of familiarity and false inquisitiveness. She didn't expect for most to actually be interested in her nonsense, and even if she was bad at reading people, it would be no problem at all to infer that a prostitute would be good at feigning interest. This was their specialty, after all, to make others feel like they were winners. But Eris didn't want to be a winner, and she didn't really care if she was a loser, either, as long as it got her… wherever she was going, which was still unclear to her. This could go anywhere.

"Okay, okay. I'll tell you all about Socrates. You seem like an avid learner, possibly a good student? Or… maybe a bad student? We can work with that, too. Oh yeah, we can definitely work with that." She said, looking into his eyes and hoped to find a spark of attraction, but all she found was the same feigned interest. All was well though, she was used to repelling suitors as soon as she opened her mouth. "He was an Athenian philosopher, noted for saying, 'the only thing I know is that I know nothing'. Does that ring a bell?"

The hooker shook his head again, laughing under his breath at his own ignorance, which usually meant they didn't know and didn't care, but there was a twinkle of something in his eyes. Maybe her femininity comforted him, which, now that Eris thought about it, made a lot of sense. The only men who would be interested in spending a night with Layla would be men who wanted to emasculate other men – sadists, in other words. But what kind of women did Layla get, if he got any female customers at all? For a moment, she thought about how much fun Freud would have if he were able to psychoanalyze Layla, a cross-dressing male hooker. She then decided it would be just as fun for her.

"I'm sure my smarts couldn't compare to yours, honey. He sounds like a wise-guy, though, definitely not from the Mojave." Layla said conversationally. Eris' ears perked at the snippet of a hint that Layla looked down on residents of the Mojave, meaning she might have a poor opinion of it, and therefore, a poor opinion of the Omertas.

"And if I were from the Mojave, would I be less than wise in your eyes?" Eris asked, taking another cigarette out of her pocket and lighting it. She inhaled the first hit deeply, and in between coughs, laughed at herself. "Pardon the rhyme, that was unintentional."

She kept the flip lighter out, playing with the flame, careful not to get it too close to her cup. Her time at Nellis allowed her to better appreciate the danger of an open flame. Suffice to say, she was no pyromaniac.

Her golden-blonde hair was wavier than usual tonight, as she'd neglected to brush it after washing earlier. It was easy for her to forget to take care of her appearance when she was alone, for the only time she cared was when she was expected by others. The performance was all for them. Well, for the reactions she could get out of them.

"I can tell you're not from here, baby. Your hair is so blonde and clean, and you have a distinct air about you that I haven't seen on anyone around here. Besides, you don't even have the accent." Layla answered.

Eris reached for her pack of cigarettes again, ready to offer Layla one. Only, she had another purpose in mind. One of the Omertas was in the room now, and Layla was watching him. The man was unfamiliar to Eris, a darker man clad in a dark suit, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and a submachine gun in the other. Layla looked back to the cigarettes she was offering, and then to the man. The Omerta, much to her confusion, simply nodded his head, and then Layla took the offered cigarette. It was then that Eris understood the interaction, she'd nearly forgotten where she was. So, this fool was her pimp? Or was every Omerta effectively a pimp? These were the questions she should've asked House. But she had her own doubts that House knew all the answers. He seemed to keep a detached eye on the affairs of Vegas, and little more.

"You can speak plainly with me, you know. I for one have no interest in reporting you to that surly, mean-looking thug over there. Say what you like, Layla." She said, lighting the cigarette hanging between his lips.

"Oh, that one? He's not mean, just a little rough around the edges." A tongue darted out to wet his lips then, before tugging on the cigarette.

Her eyes roamed again to get a good look at him. His appearance suggested he was older, but the wasteland had a way of prematurely aging its unlucky inhabitants. He didn't look much different from the average wastelander, only that he had a mean look in his eyes, contrary to what Layla had said before. There were deep wrinkles lining his forehead and circles beneath his eyes, suggesting a lack of sleep, and for what? She intended to find out, the easy way or the hard way. The hard way was always more enjoyable, but she knew her employer would disagree. But he wasn't the one on the ground here, and he'd expressly given her liberties as to how she got this tribe to speak.

"Oh really? I can practically feel his glare, and it isn't even on me! What's his name? Maybe I can roughen him up for you." She said, hoping her cover would be enough to distract Layla from why she was really asking for the guy's name.

Layla chuckled then, but there was no humor in it. He took a few drags from his cigarette, his eyes darting from it to her, forming his words carefully before speaking. Then, he exhaled from his nose, reminding her of a dragon, and tucked a loose hair behind his ear, which she hadn't noticed was pierced. A few patrons arrived then, what looked like a gambler, along with two leather-clad hookers. They sat on some cushions not far from she and Layla, and between keeping an eye on the Omerta, the gambler, and Layla, Eris was having the time of her life. She'd found that she preferred this kind of work over fieldwork.

"Cachino's his name, baby, and believe me when I tell you.. you don't want to fuck with him." He told her, now looking resolutely at her and away from Cachino.

"But I thought you said he wasn't mean, only rough around the edges? He can't be that bad if he's obviously got a problem, and is still too pussy to come over here and say it out loud." She prodded, hoping Layla would let something slip.

"Mm. For my sake, I wish you were right." He said, speaking in lower tones now.

"Try me, baby. I don't mind being proven wrong."

Truly, it was a quality she believed was redeeming, but others didn't seem to think so. If anything, it served only to infuriate them when she accepted a loss. Losses, though, were always gains in disguise. Even if she lost an argument, she could gain from learning something. For that reason, Eris was exceptionally hard to intimidate, or so she thought. Again, lacking a proper ego usually meant lacking in self-awareness, and she had to admit she spent little time thinking about herself, and perhaps that was why she was always so interested in psychoanalysis.

The human ego really was a funny thing. She had no doubt it was down there somewhere, hidden underneath nicotine addiction and a fondness for challenge, but it certainly felt like it reacted differently from other people's, then again, that could just be a lack of awareness. For instance, it made sense that others were bothered by her uncaring attitude towards victory, as it could easily imply that they projected their own insecurities about defeat and wished they had the same attitude towards it. That was a dangerous road of thought though, because implying she had any enviable traits outside of her physical appearance was laughable.

"He watches us a little too much, if you know what I mean. A girl is expected to serve the whims of her masters, but every little whim? I think he cares less about running a business, and more about reaping the rewards of it. And a word of advice? I'd stay away from him, he likes pretty girls like you."

Eris resisted the urge to look at said man, but she'd never had very good willpower. She ended up looking in his direction a second later, but he was gone. Layla must have noticed it too, because the tenseness in his shoulders eased a bit, and he began to take lighter hits from his cigarette. Usually, she spent very little time paying attention to the atmosphere of a place, but it felt like everyone around her, including the other patrons in the far corners of the room, were breathing easier now.

If the man's very presence suffocated even the customers, that made Cachino a person of interest in this case. Layla's words implied that Cachino might be closer with the workers here than what was considered strictly professional, and if there was something Eris was quickly learning about the workers at Gomorrah, it was that everything was up for grabs, for a price. But Eris wasn't going to follow a lead based on the words of one prostitute – she still needed evidence. Everyone liked evidence, right?

"Speaking of whims, what all is expected of you? I've never had the pleasure of meeting with too many like you. It's not everyday I find myself in an establishment like this, with a dame like you. It's all new to me, see." Her throat was starting to hurt from all the smoking, and it was showing in her scratchy voice. She must've smoked half a pack in the past five hours alone. The old world cigarettes were never as strong as the ones imported by the Crimson Caravan.

"Things that would probably shock you, baby." His voice suggested sly evasiveness, but his eyes were fearful rather than seductive.

"Like I said before, try me." She replied, leaning away from the table and laying her head back on the dark wall. Normally, she'd be heading back to the 38 by now, but the characters of suspicion came out to play at night, and that was including her.

Her mind ran at a million miles an hour, thinking of all the possible things expected of someone in his place. The possibilities took an interesting turn, considering such a person would interest only the most sadistic and degenerate of patrons, and she was sure that he would have some of the most thrilling tales – for her, at least. So often did her thrill come at the expense of others. She supposed this trait had been with her since before The Incident, and that this was the most likely possibility, as there was no way she'd spent all her time with her nose in books. The kind of knowledge she had could've only been bullied, or irritated, out of other people.

"Are you trying to ask me what's the worst I've done? You'd be surprised how many ask that, baby." He replied.

"Not exactly. My curiosity is centered less around your experiences, and more about the general experience of a worker here at Gomorrah. If you're willing to part with the personal experience, well, you'll find that in addition to being an excellent speaker, I am also gifted with being an excellent listener." She winked for good measure, and hoped she wouldn't blow her cover. Then again, that could be interesting – but having a free home at the 38 wasmoreinteresting.

"Well, most of us started out as slaves. That's what the Omertas did, back when they were 'Slitherkin'. I was always different than the other boys, more feminine, you know.. the Slitherkin weren't too fond of women, beyond how useful they were at luring others into their traps. Our lives were improved somewhat when the Omertas began working for the Overboss."

This information wasn't really what Eris was after, but she listened intently nonetheless, trying not to get distracted by the patron in the corner touching himself. Her straight face broke when she heard him moaning, the sound reminding her of a brahmin in heat. The hookers servicing him were both older women, the tags on them had expired ages ago, but she supposed there was something for everyone, if that was truly how the universe worked. But who would be naive enough to believe that the universe bowed to the whims of its inhabitants? Plenty, apparently.

"By Overboss, you mean Mr. House, yeah?"

"That's the one, baby. I'll admit.. it's kinda refreshing to have a night off. So few come around for civilized talk. But, they show their faces occasionally." He said, smiling into his drink.

"Should I feel threatened by the others who seek out your conversation?" Finally, Eris was beginning to feel a buzz from the drinks.

Having remembered the pleasurable synergy by mixing alcohol and nicotine, another cigarette was lit, going straight to her head, irritated throat forgotten. She then waved the server over again for another round of drinks. This time, she took more than two from the server, hoping that the night would be long enough for her to get some information she could work with from Layla.

"That's not how this works, Eris, Socrates. My, you have some weird names for a Wastelander, speaking of that. Everyone I see is their own person, I don't compare them to the others. So if you feel threatened, it ain't my fault, baby."

Was that a coping mechanism or was that simply the job? She imagined it was the former, considering that hookers entertained hundreds, and good ones, thousands. If a hooker allowed themselves to dwell on that one considerate client, it would be harder to survive the rough, sadistic ones. This train of thought led her to consider that this could've been a trigger for dissociative personalities – perhaps one could learn to disassociate clients from others, thus eventually disassociating their body from their mind.

Eris played with that theory in her mind, while quickly coming up with a response to Layla's reassuring words. They were unnecessary, as her flirting was nearly always a bluff and more of a game, if anything.

A minute earlier, Layla had mentioned that it was refreshing that a client wanted civil conversation, and the argumentative part of Eris wanted to point out that this directly conflicted with how he'd mentioned afterwards that he didn't compare his clients. It took willpower that Eris didn't know she had, to keep her mouth zipped. Indeed, not a minute went by in her discussions with anyone where she didn't actively look for an inconsistency in someone's logic to openly dispute. It was, after all, nearly always a source of learning.

"I'm not like the other girls, see. Don't reply to that, and don't mind my bullshit, baby. I was wondering also – what you said about the Overboss. You had said he'd improved things for you somehow. Can I ask how?" Another swig from her drink, and the feeling was intensifying. The gambler in the corner was getting up off the cushions now, letting himself be ushered by the girls on either side, which left she, Layla, the wandering server, and one of the Omertas, who stood on the opposite side of the room, outside of hearing distance. Hopefully.

"Sure. We came here a few years ago, after he fixed up Vegas. We were all trained, underwent name changes, took on new 'professions', but as you can see, that ain't true. All of the girls here, and the boys too, are indebted to the Omertas. Used to be, we were 'enslaved', but changing the name to indebted doesn't change what it really is, does it? You seem to be good with definitions." Layla arched his brow at her, taking another sip from his glass. "We get to keep some of our money now, true enough, not that you could really tell. And since we're not slaves, we can't be sold to anyone else. We sell ourselves instead."

Eris got the feeling that she was getting warmer to some kind of jackpot, and took a few insignificant drinks from her glass so that she could hide how giddy she was. The checkered jacket was starting to feel like a heating pad though, courtesy of the alcohol, but her cigarettes were in that pocket, as well as a few stray caps that she'd managed to keep to herself. Instead of taking that off, she pulled at her hair a bit, removing the light, stray strands that had managed to find their way inside of the thick jacket. Tomorrow, she would leave the jacket behind, and find… something, anything, else.

"So for instance, those caps I gave you earlier, how many of them will you get to keep?" She asked.

"Twenty percent." It was Eris' turn to arch her brow, but she wasn't surprised it was so low, it was because it was higher than she'd expected. Now then, was it the Omertas supplying the chems or was it the hookers buying it for themselves? "You do the math, baby. It would be five percent, if it wasn't for some kind of deal with the Overboss. But, they keep us in the dark about that kind of stuff."

Eris tried to imagine her vehemently capitalist employer arguing over the amount of caps a Gomorrah prostitute was allowed to keep, and found that it wasn't that difficult. She did wonder, however, if there was any compassion, or only rationale, that drove him to enforcing a higher percentage. It seemed that a great deal of decisions reached by rationalism manifested as compassionate, and based on her reading of House, which could always be false, it was most likely born from rationale. The only way of reaching any progress with that, would be asking him later.

Although, he seemed to have a rather passionate hatred, which had no basis in reason, for slavery. Anytime she attempted to bring to light the master-slave dialectic, which she'd learned from the Hegelian books he'd loaned her, he thoughtlessly disputed everything she said, angry more with her use of the word slave and master than the concept itself. It had taken some adjustments of her presentation of the idea before he was receptive at all – he'd seemed perfectly okay when she used the word 'employer' in place of 'master'.

"Can any random Omerta dock the caps from you? How does it usually go? Because if my boss left me with only twenty percent of my earnings, you can bet I'd be starting a union quick and fast." She emphasized her point with a snap of her fingers, "In fact, you could raise that bet to the highest riser in Vegas."

Layla laughed, the sound oddly pleasing, as it was the first one with any depth behind it. He was getting drunk now, she could tell. His eyes were becoming more glassy, his face beginning to sport a silly smile, though a semblance of control remained, most especially in his posture – he didn't look comfortable in this room, which was odd, considering he'd probably spent a great deal of time here. Sure, Eris felt like she was being watched from afar, but she also wasn't a hooker spilling secrets about her pimps.

"No no, Eris. Even back then, the men had a hierarchy. Nero's at the top, he's the leader. We don't see him much. Big Sal is his right hand – he runs the casino. And Cachino-"

"That brooding fellow who was in here earlier?" She interrupted.

"Yeah, that's him. You've been paying attention, then. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're trying to case the joint, baby. But that'd be a sour end to an otherwise sweet evening.. but yes, Cachino. He's some kind of big guy, he's the one that gets the dues."

Eris looked at the doorway that Cachino had disappeared through awhile back, forgetting that it had been well over an hour since he'd been around. She was down to her last few cigarettes, but the casino was always selling them. Returning to the 38 right now would be amateur, everyone here was being watched, and the hookers outside were the eyes of the joint. They saw everything, and if they were as desperate for caps as Layla had told her, they'd sell her out immediately. Best not to go down that route, she wasn't ready to be a blonde stain on the floor just yet, even though the annoying tune on the radio tempted her.

"Let's get outta here, go somewhere else, this room's starting to get boring, I'm almost out of smokes, and Oedipus over there is about to start imploding." She said, purposefully making her voice louder so he would overhear.

"Shut the fuck up, I'm tryin' to get my rocks off ova' here." The gambler replied, his lips curled up in a snarl, revealing a shiny, golden tooth.

Eris rolled awake, still dressed in the dress from last night. Her hair stuck to her face, the usual straight strands wavy and mussed. A groan left her mouth at the familiar sensation of a hangover, something only a coffee and a cigarette could fix.

There were a few things she'd learned last night. The first, was that Cachino was suspicious, but that didn't mean anything unless she figured out how, and that description would fit almost anyone on the Strip. Everyone was here to fulfill some kind of materialistic urge, so she couldn't rightly accuse him of anything until she investigated further. The second, was that there was someone staying at Gomorrah that even the hookers were afraid of. She'd squeezed this information out of Layla last night – figuratively, of course.

The third, was that Layla got his chems from Freeside, and not from the Omertas. This could mean that the others got theirs from Freeside, too, which meant a trip to Freeside was in order. Buying chems from random fools was never a good idea, anyways. So much of it was watered down or some kind of analogue of a better chem.

The sun was high in the sky by the time she managed to jump out of bed, and her Pip-Boy showed that it was two in the afternoon. She began to look over one of the books she'd picked up while playing errand girl for the Boomers. It was some kind of manual on programming, which was a topic she didn't care for. Just as her eyes began to glaze over, she promptly snapped it closed. There was no sense reading a snoozer like that unless she intended to go back to the sheets.

House would likely want to know what was going on, so she lit a cigarette before hopping on the elevator to the penthouse. The lights were bright, too bright for someone who'd spent most of the night in the Gomorrah, and she rolled her eyes at the overly clinical setting. She hadn't changed out of her doubtlessly wrinkled dress, and her hair was probably a mess – but that was best, because it would annoy House, even if he was too proper to act on it.

She wondered if he was in an office somewhere deep in the 38, in sweatpants and a tee, or in a full suit and tie. That idea depended on if he was even corporeal to begin with. There was always the slim chance he could be an AI. In fact, that was not so slim of a chance, now that she gave it some proper thought. He could really be anything, and although she would normally be bored by now, the mystery of House was far too intriguing for her to lose interest just yet.

Her bare feet pattered on the immaculate tiles, leaving footprints where there usually were none. The air in here was always quiet until their discussions, when his voice would boom around the room from every direction. Maybe she should visit a doctor soon and get her hearing checked up on – she had a suspicion she was getting way too desensitized to loud voices.

"House, are you an AI?" She asked, her mood now brighter at the prospect of riling him up only minutes after waking.

The monitor, which, when uninhabited, would say 'connection lost', now gave way for the image of Mr. House, that sly, calculating visage which she was becoming annoyingly, and therefore, interestingly, familiar with. She never failed to get some kind of irritated response out of him, even if he stubbornly refused to part with his pre-war professionalism.

In this way, he was much different from Caesar, who she'd only spoken with twice, and wished it didn't have to be that way. Caesar had mixed his big words with slang, he didn't mind using his no-no words. She knew logically that this gave others the impression that he was understanding of the lowlife, that he wasn't entirely desensitized to the struggles of the common people. House, on the other hand, spoke with an astounding arsenal of verbiage, which, to the average observer, may have seemed pretentious, and she stuck with that description, but it could also be ineptitude of the social kind. The mere notion of him saying shit had her giggling.

"Excuse me?" Came his response.

"Ooh, answering a question with a question now, are we? Brave, considering who you're talking to." She swelled out her chest but then coughed a moment later. While she was out in Freeside later, she'd need to stop and get a few more packs of cigarettes. These just weren't up to par, and her standards were low.

He scoffed indignantly, but did not take the bait, "I've already told you, that I am flesh and blood, not silicon. I take it that you're here for a reason, and not simply to bother me with inane questions? Or is that too much to ask?"

A cheeky smile lifted her face then, the hangover all but forgotten. How could anyone take themselves so seriously? Of course, she could understand that if no one ever took anything seriously, there'd be a shocking lack of infrastructure and authority that most people needed. Even Eris, though she was loathe to admit it. She supposed that without people like him, there wouldn't be any structures for her to poke at.

"I think you know the answer to that last question you posed, or do I need to walk you through it?" She laughed, then continued, "Look at me, being condescending, acting like you and all. You must be rubbing off on me."

"Acting like me would imply that you act with any deliberation at all, or indeed cared about anything other than conflict."

She opened her mouth to protest, but found that she had nothing to say to that. So far, she could count on her hand how many times she'd been rendered speechless since The Incident, and this was one of them. Despite this, she agreed with him. She was aware of the implications her behavior had, but instead of admitting defeat openly, she merely laughed again, her go-to for anything that actually struck a cord.

"I know, I know. But seriously, let's not act like you're a paragon of harmony and virtue. You run a city of degenerates and whores, surely a little of that is nestled comfortably inside of you somewhere? Deep, deep down, like a Yao Guai in hibernation. Who knows, maybe you're back there in some chamber, getting some from a nameless hooker. I wonder, do you have an Oedipus complex, or do you like to pretend to be their father?" The words spilled before she could even protest, only now realizing that she'd said something offensive. "Excuse me, that was.. distasteful."

"I'm sure I could be persuaded to forgive your misguided fantasies, so long as you continue to be a useful asset. Unless you have anything to report, you and I have nothing to discuss." His words sounded like a hiss now, and she winced only slightly at the sound. Her intentions were never to actually hurt people, especially people she liked somewhat, but he didn't need to know that.

"Actually, there is something I think you do need to know, if you could be so forgiving as to suffer my presence for another minute or two." She took his silence as acceptance and continued, filling him in on the events of last night, though only the things that were need-to-know. "Cachino is up to something, he watched me and.. someone, last night, and there may be another worker there who seems to be a weak link and could be of some help in learning what Cachino is up to. Also, there's someone staying at Gomorrah that at least one of the girls seems to be afraid of, and by my judgment, if any of these women are afraid of someone, that someone is most likely a person of interest, yeah? So, that's what I have so far."

"Then your next course of action will be to follow through with this worker you mentioned. I assume you haven't spoken with the receptionist I informed you about?" Now, it was his turn to pick.

"Affirmative." She replied, saluting, unsure of how else to lighten the tension, which was unfortunately of the uncomfortable variety. "You gave me freedom to solve this problem however I see fit, remember? I'm using that freedom, and also, I might need caps soon."

She could practically visualize what face he was making right now – trying to decide on whether he wanted to give her the boot for the moment, or actually solve the problem. Ah.. the eternal, uphill battle between practicality and human emotion. It never failed to lift her spirits. Already, she was forgetting her slip-up in amiability a minute ago.

"I'm sure something can be arranged."

Practicality won.