The MYCG was one of the oldest luxury hotels in Orthank City. It was a little over two centuries old and retained a glamorous, chic appearance, never falling out of fashion, no matter the year or season.

Jet had visited it often enough to have become a familiar face. Not because he was a frequent guest there. Mr Lark’s “friends” often used the hotel for business, both respectable and disreputable, so when there was a mess to clean up or business to be done, Jet would be there as a detective or Mr Lark’s young protégé.

“Mr Alarie! Always a pleasure to see you,” the hotel manager, Tunstall, greeted.

“Surprising, considering I’m rarely here for pleasant reasons,” Jet politely answered, smiling apologetically.

“How can I help you today, sir?” Tunstall asked, ignoring Jet’s response.

“I’m here for a case. May I ask some questions pertaining to Mr Bishop?”

Tunstall’s smile cracked and he glanced nervously at the bellhops standing nearby. Jet deliberately chose not to look.

“Of course sir. We’re always happy to help,” Tunstall answered. “Why don’t you come to my office?”

Jet nodded and followed the manager to a room that was a little too comfortable to really pass for an office. It was almost a lounge.

He placed his briefcase-appearing vinyl player on the coffee table and sat down on the couch, sitting in a relaxed posture. He didn’t bother taking off his satchel, keeping it slung around his shoulders. He had no intention of staying too long.

Tunstall sat down in the armchair across from him and, despite trying to look unphased, he fidgeted nervously.

“Would you like a drink?” Tunstall asked.

“No thank you,” Jet answered. “I’d like to ask you about Mr Bishop?”

“Right, of course.” The manager helped himself to a stiff drink. “Mr Bishop is one of our respectable guests. An important one.” One that came often enough to practically live in the hotel.

“I see,” was all Jet said. “Pardon me if I sound ignorant, but doesn’t Mr Bishop live in Orthank City? What reason would he have to stay at hotel?”

“Oh, not at all, Mr Alarie. You are young after all,” Tunstall patronizingly reassured. “Well, you see, travelling through the city can be cumbersome. It can take well over an hour to get from A to B,” Tunstall explained.

“That is true enough,” Jet muttered. If he could afford it, he’d maintain several homes around Orthank City. Would make work in Soporifick a lot easier. “Unfortunately, Mr Tunstall, some nasty rumours about Mr Bishop have been circulating around lately. I’m here to investigate them. I don’t know exactly what the rumours entail, so it’s somewhat hard to track down their origins. Have you heard anything? I’d appreciate any information, no matter how banal.”

Tunstall poured himself another drink.

“The rumours,” Tunstall weakly repeated. “Of course, Mr Bishop is an honourable man. A charitable investor. He donates regularly to various charities and funds projects that benefit vulnerable groups. A very socialist kind of man, that Mr Bishop is.”

“Yes, quite. The rumours, Mr Tunstall,” Jet said persistently. Tunstall swallowed.

“Ah, I’m not sure I can repeat the, uh, rumours to a minor,” he tried to dodge. “They’re unsavoury and wholly untrue.”

“Sir, I work for the esteemed Mr Elender,” Jet said, trying to make sure he didn’t spit the words in disgust. “I can assure you, in spite of my age, there is very little in this world that would shock me.”

Tunstall clapped his hands together.

“Someone finds it strange that Mr Bishop should stay at the MYCG so often,” Tunstall softly spoke. “As you yourself questioned.”

“But as you said, travelling within the city can be tiring, and I’m sure Mr Bishop would not want to permanently live in Shippan, the commercial and financial district. It’s not exactly homely here. No, the suburbs of Gemimor are far better for that, aren’t they?”

“Yes. Yes, of course,” Tunstall quietly agreed. He sighed. “But it is rather public that he is currently unhappily married. Hence the rumours. They say he brings women here. But that in itself is not strange! A man should have a companion when going to important events.  But you see how the rumours could have started.”

“I do. What I don’t see is how any of this is unsavoury,” Jet argued.

Tunstall leaned back. He twiddled his thumbs, before reluctantly admitting, “Some of the women are your age or said to be younger, Mr Alarie.”

Even though this was what he’d predicted, Jet still tensed.

The consenting age in the city was sixteen. That didn’t change the fact that Bishop was easily at least twice times the age of any minor he took to his room.

How long had Bishop been doing this? Did he have other unsavoury behaviours? Could he be the reason Jet existed? Why his mother had to suffer the way she had?

“Indeed, distasteful rumours,” Jet heard himself speak, but it didn’t feel like his own voice. The room seemed distant. He blinked a few times, and the disorienting absence cleared.

“But they’re just rumours,” Tunstall insisted. “I’m sure if the, uh, gossiper silences, the rumours will dissipate.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s the case. And that’s why I’m here. To make sure the unwanted rumours quietly go away,” Jet replied. “Is there anyone among your staff that is perhaps not as discreet as others?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t think of anyone,” Tunstall blatantly lied. The bellhop must be very good at his job if Tunstall was protecting him. “Is that all, Mr Alarie?”

“Of course. If you don’t mind, I’ll let myself out, I’m sure you’re busy,” Jet answered, getting up off the couch and grabbing his briefcase. “I’m sure everything will be fine. After all, we don’t want important reputations tarnished, do we?”

Tunstall didn’t know how to answer.

— 📀 —

After his conversation with Tunstall, Jet went into Soporifick, using one of the MYCG’s many mirrors. Now that he had some key information, he could get the rest from confessional vinyls, rather than spending hours fishing for more.

With the gas mask firmly fixed to his face, he walked down to the reception and booted up the computer on the desk.

He didn’t need a password to login. Security did not exist in Soporifick. No locks, no codes, no passwords. It was something he’d always been thankful for. It made life a lot easier.

He browsed through the logs, until he found the room Bishop liked to frequent. Naturally, it was going to be room 1001. Which was, just. Great. Ten flights of stairs to walk straight up. Sure, Jet could take the lift, but that was just an invitation for an andaht to attack.

And sure, it had become extremely unlikely to come across andahts, what with Aubrie and Red Gent working together to put them out of commission for long periods of time and, of course, the gas mask that Ridgeway and Caufield had invented nullifying the chances of an encounter… But he wouldn’t ever rely on Mr Lark’s men, nor on Red Gent’s handiwork.

Jet walked up the stairs at a steady pace. Ten flights was not fun, but it wasn’t an issue for him, considering how much time he spent running around in Soporifick. Once he reached the top, he walked into Room 1001 and threw his jacket on the bed, rolling up his sleeves.

He placed his portable vinyl player on the chest of drawers, then began searching the room for red vinyls. He found them in the closet and began rifling through them. Of course, aside from Bishop, many people had been in 1001, so he had some filtering to do.

Jet fished out the red vinyls. Any about Bishop were dumped on the bed. And there were many. Made sense, since Bishop had been frequenting MYCG for years.

Once he finished fishing them out, Jet mentally prepared himself to listen to the vinyls. Confessional vinyls were strange. Some were unusable, songs that revealed the inner thoughts of the thinker. Some were exactly what they sounded like – confessions to misdemeanours. And some were recordings of the events, as if there really had been a microphone in that room.

It could be very mentally taxing to listen to the evils of other men.

It turned out, Mr Bishop had many victims.

Since the vinyls were rarely ever labelled with a date, it took a long time to find the correct vinyl, the one that recorded the most recent incident.

It was one labelled Sanctimonious Scoundrel. When Jet played it, the vinyl was a recording of the events that had occurred.

Bishop had drunk the night away after being stood up by his date the previous night. He was still drunk long after the sun had risen. A maid walked into Room 1001. A teenager from the countryside, a new hire. Sixteen. She’d come to clean and tidy, entering when she did not see a Do Not Disturb sign on the door, nor receive any response when she knocked.

She was surprised to find him there. He gave her permission to enter and she quietly got to work.

But then he took notice of her. Still stinging from the humiliation of being stood up, Bishop decided he wanted to prove to at least himself that he was still a man of power.

The maid, in her surprise to find a guest still in the room, had accidentally left the door a crack open. Her saving grace. A bellhop – the bellhop – happened to be walking down the hallway, taking luggage down to the reception for guests that were checking-out. As he past Room 1001, he heard commotion and investigated, knocking on the door and entering when he heard no answer.

“Hey. Hey, hey!” the bellhop cried with increasing urgency, dropping whatever he had been holding. Bishop and the maid didn’t hear him, but Jet could hear the bellhop’s very rapid steps growing louder as he ran further into the room.

“Get off her!” the bellhop roared and from the loud sounds that followed, Jet could almost see the bellhop throwing Bishop off the girl.

“Alvin!” the girl cried, sounding desperate. Alvin didn’t pause apparently, Jet could hear several footsteps running out of the room.

“Hey, get back here!” Bishop demanded, cursing the two of them, calling the poor girl all sorts of words and threatening Alvin with death. The bedroom door slammed shut and the vinyl ended.

If Jet wanted to hear the rest, he needed to find vinyls in the hallway… But he guessed he could jump to the end of the story. As Alvin and the maid were both staff members, Jet should be able to find their confessional vinyls in staff-only rooms.

He packed up Bishop’s confessional vinyls, since blackmail was always welcomed by Mr Lark, then headed down to the basement. It took some time until he found the male changing rooms, but when he did, the red vinyls were easy to find.

He started going through the lockers. As each locker was assigned a staff member, he just had to check the name on the vinyl. Alvin wasn’t a common name so…

His mind cut off, when he found Alvin the Bellhop’s confessional vinyls. The label read Open Eyes by Alvin Sanders.

He knew the bellhop. Or rather, he knew who the bellhop was.

Alvin “Al” Sanders.

Aubrie’s older brother who worked as a bellhop at some hotel. The one she had gushed to him about, the perfect older brother that had stepped up when the Sanders father had been injured at work, the one that had moved to Orthank in search of work six years ago. The one that Aubrie still looked up to and considered a hero.

That older brother.

He could see why she considered him a hero. According to his records… All his secrets demonstrated a decent man, rather than revealing ugly truths. The maid was not the first person he’d rescued at MYCG.

Because of course.

Of course, of all the bellhops in all of Orthank City, it was going to be Al Sanders, Aubrie’s precious older brother. It was always going to be Al Sanders. Life couldn’t let Jet have even one thing, one pleasant, wonderful thing, that was unaffected and untainted by his existence. Of course it would be Al Sanders, his one and only friend’s older brother. Of course Jet’s filth had to taint Aubrie’s life.

He sat down on the bench, bitter.

Yes, this was unfair. Cruel, even. But it changed nothing. Jet still had a job to do.

Allowing himself a brief pause to just be, he got up again and started flicking through the vinyls, willing to be unaffected by his discovery. He needed to make Alvin Sanders the bellhop look bad, and he didn’t care that Alvin Sanders was a good man or that he was family to Jet’s only friend.

Jet hadn’t gotten this far by being soft, so he wasn’t going to start now.

… So then why did this hurt?