House DeMuer's 'factory' is a bit of a misnomer - while it manufactures a great deal of products as far as Rhy?din City's industry is concerned, annually it produces perhaps half a million silver crowns' worth of material. It is where Zeppa lemon-lime soda is made, and where all the Silver Mark lager that ends up shipped off-world is produced (the locally distributed beer is brewed in the pub in Dragon's Gate). It is also home to several workers who, while moonlighting as merely security for the factory and spare hands to help with the loading and unloading of goods, are really House DeMuer lackeys.

It's not a real House if it doesn't have lackeys.

One such worker is a man with green skin, pointed ears, numerous piercings, artfully shredded clothing, and a very large, wicked-looking knife with which he is peeling an orange as he leans atop a crate by one of the doors in and out of the factory. He is an Aurkindar, often taken for an Orc, and while he does not like being taken for an Orc, it makes him an excellent deterrent to would-be thugs, thieves and spies. He doesn't seem to smell foul at all, but the green skin and tiny little tusks barely jutting over his lower lip make him easier to mistake for other, similar-looking beings.

The big, lumberjackesque man that could have easily been mistaken for a holiday favorite's nephew (or some such nonsense that would earn a sternly flat look) made his way around and through the streets stained with the scum of the Old Market. There was a long list of places he'd been today, and all looking for one man. He knew if anyone could help him with what he needed, and discreetly, it was Alain DeMuer.

Wyatt was adorned in a variation on his usual style, with a somewhat longer sleeve-torn vest. It was so covered in adjustable straps and open and closed and interchangeable pockets, it almost looked like the function of being a vest was a happy coincidence in its goal to be as large a gathering of holders as possible. Other than that, there was the shirt, a dark blue cotton-t, and the pants. They weren't pants per say, but they were longer than shorts. They happened to be made of exceptionally thick denim, and were held up by a belt that might've just been pulled from the vest. He was unarmed, but big enough to keep the scroungers away from him with nothing beyond a sour look on his face and a heavier thunk in his booted stride.

The expression dissolved into an impassive curiosity as he approached the factory building and the being that looked a little too intelligent to be an everyday Orc. Regardless, Wyatt addressed him as he would anyone. A hand rose as he came towards the man, and his pace slowed. "S'cuse me! I've some business propositions for Mister DeMuer. You happen to know where he is in this labyrinth?" His voice was deep, direct, and just friendly enough to come across as friendly.

The Aurkindar appears to be startled, mildly, that the young man is approaching him so politely and unassumingly. Slice! the peeled orange falls into two pieces in his hand, and the knife twirls twice before it disappears somewhere inside his long coat - God knows what else it conceals... "Sure thing there, fella'. Folla' me." And he jerks his head to indicate, follow, and passes through the door, holding it a moment for Wyatt.

Noise greets them, more humming than clanking, as much of the factory is mana-driven instead of purely mechanical. They step up onto a catwalk overlooking half a dozen large copper brew kettles, with a rough wooden table in the middle down below. Two workers, a man and a woman, are seated around it, chain-smoking and playing cards, and a careful eye might spot an old shotgun propped up against one of the table legs...

There is more to the factory, to be sure, but the Aurkindar leads Wyatt instead into an office just off the catwalk, where the door is partly open. There stands Alain, leaned over a desk with his hands on the rusted metal surface, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette and poring over several pieces of paper listing figures. He's gotta look into hiring management, and fast. His sleeves are rolled up, and a revolver rests in a holster under his left arm.

When Wyatt steps in, the Aurkindar looks at Alain until the latter gives him a subtle nod, then leaves them be. And Alain smiles at the young man, though he's not much older than him himself, if at all. "Wyatt - what a pleasant surprise. I'd invite you in for a seat, but..." He gestures with a helpless grin to the single rickety chair behind the desk, which does not look at all safe to sit upon. "...the furniture came with the place, we're still scrounging for better stuff. Anyway, pull up a bit of desk," patting the metal surface as he takes a seat on the edge of it, "what can I do for you?"

"Alright then." He paused for a moment of serious consideration, and a finger rose up. "Also, as a final piece, you wouldn't happen to have a few flash bangs gathering dust at the bottom of a box somewhere, would you?"

"I've got something better, more reliable," he replies with a slow smile. "I'll go ahead and throw in an energy weapon too, a decent blaster pistol. The Nexus can play hell on them, but it's a good idea to have an energy weapon in case whoever's heckling you can teleport. Few can teleport faster than the speed of light. As far as the money goes..." He itches the back of his neck for a moment. "...well, show me the cash you brought with you."

"Sounds good, then." He nodded, and dug into the endless corridors of pockets within his vest. Not one, two, or even three, but six medium-sized pouches find their ways to the tables, roughly three-fourths each full of coins ranging from the silver to the higher percentage of gold, all down to the eight or nine odd platinum scattered throughout. And then two smaller pouches, full of coppers both. "Been saving ninety percent of my pay every week since the incident. Been working more hours, too."

That, and he'd been working an extra job. He'd quit it recently enough, but it got him the few platinum he'd had in the smattering of bags. It was necessary.

"If you need more, I'll take what I can now and come back with the rest later. Or work it off." His tone was a genuine one. He didn't like debt.

Alain looks at the pile of coins, then at Wyatt - he takes away a single gold coin, and pushes the rest back.

"Mack's an old friend - you take care of her, okay?" His look is quite serious.

Wyatt looked rather blindsided by the gesture, completely unaccustomed to anything like this in Rhy'din outside of his own emigrated friends, but gathered up the coin anyways and returned them to the vests endless pockets before he could find his voice well enough to speak. His eyes were hard, but not nearly as hard as they'd been in the passing weeks. His head inclined, a nod. "Come what may." His voice was more serious than his look. It was hard to do that, to put it simply enough.

The detective is watching Wyatt for only a few moments longer. There are questions he knows he shouldn't, and won't, ask, but that doesn't mean he doesn't want the answers... As if to dismiss the temptation, he slips from the edge of the desk and turns back to what he'd been reviewing before - financial figures. Some new organization wants to cut his businesses a raw deal, and he wants to tell them all the reasons he's saying no. Gotta come across strong.

"You can pick up the goods at the Division headquarters tomorrow morning," he says with smoke leaving his lips.