"Unveiling The Innocent"

.1. shIne

I awaken slowly, my head pounding, mouth fuzzy. How much did I drink last night? Must have been a helluva trip, because my body is sore, too, and I can't find the energy to get out of bed.

Hold on - this isn't my bed. For one thing, it's wider than it should be, and the sheets smell like fabric softener, as opposed to the scentless and somewhat dingy bedclothes in my apartment.

"Good morning, Shine. Or, should I say, good afternoon. There's a glass of water just to your right, on that table there."

The voice comes from my left, actually, a silky smooth tone that immediately soothes my alarm. Which, in and of itself, scares me even more. If that's isn't too much of a contradiction.

I find the energy to sit up, my body screaming it's protests, and greedily swallow down half the glass of clear fluid before realizing, belatedly (of course) that I don't know this man and he could very well be drugging me. A careful glance down at the liquid and I sniff carefully, but there is no odor. Clear, too, for city water.

This is wrong. The bed is too plush, the water too clean, the air sweetly scented with patchouli - my father wore it when I was just a child, and the government wasn't regulating such frivolities. This is not standard Esthesian housing, this is something far above standard.

The man, too, he is out of place in my sensibility. Lanky, stretched out in that chair of his, with his black hair falling loose around his face, shaggily cut. His eyes are crimson, a hue not often seen, and usually only with the GAS3.

But he couldn't be a GAS, any of the seven series. All of the free ones were euthanized back in the 60's, and the rest are slaves now. So he's probably got contacts in. Which is almost stranger than the idea of him being a GAS, because contacts were banned three years ago, along with land lines and hats.

I clear my throat after staring at him for a rather indecent amount of time, carefully settling the glass back on the bedside table that I took it from.

"Where… am I? And… who are… you?"

It's hard to speak. Taking into account my already inept social skills, I've got a hell of a headache and numerous other aches and pains, and the shock of being in an entirely new place to deal with… I think I'm doing a damn good job keeping a level head.

I also note, with almost deliberate care, that my pants and shirt are still on, but my boots and socks have been removed and placed neatly by the door. Glitter is smudged on both me and the bed, and my shirt is pretty much ruined. Wasn't made for sleeping on - and it kind of pisses me off, because I had to make this. Clothing is regulated, too - not uniform, but there's only one 'brand' of clothing, and no specific style. They discourage us from altering the clothing, but I had to do something to stand out. I was there to be chosen, really, and looking like everyone else wasn't an option.

"My name is Rikkan. You're in the upper level of my club. The Underground." He keeps that slow, perfect tone, his legs crossed at the ankles. He's… really… gorgeous.

"Why… am I here?"

I hesitate on the words, unwilling to look like the foolish child that I have always been. I honestly… can't remember where I am, why I was at the club, how I got so damn sore. I know that I had rent due, and I was willing to … do some very stupid, very desperate things to keep my house, but beyond that… I can't recall how I got here or the exactly location.

"I'm pretty sure that you were slipped some kind of sedative by a guy downstairs last night." He speaks as if I were slow, which actually, I am. Headache and all. "If I hadn't stopped him, he probably would have raped you."

Oh. I get it. I owe this man my life, I think, and he's likely telling the truth. I'll readily admit to not being the brightest crayon in the box. Naïve, I guess, is the term for it. I've tried, honestly, to shape up. Thought I was doing a pretty good job of it, too, until just about… now. Heh.

But his gaze is level on me, unreadable, and I can't help but wonder… I do owe him my life.

And hell, this is what I came here to do anyway. Never know, maybe he'll toss in a few dollars.

.2. riKKan

Shine, the kid, he's talking to himself. Not out loud, but I can tell that there's an inner monologue there.

I'm just waiting for him to realize that I know his name. He hasn't really reacted, yet, but I think he'll work it out. Unless he really is stupid.

Hell, the way he acted when he awoke, drinking that water without a second thought, he might be. I get all kinds in here, and stupidity's not in short supply in this city. Neither is a pretty face, which he's got. Jade eyes that shine with a naivete that is rare here, long ashy hair that's falling in silky trails out of his ponytail. Lovely, if a bit young. His holoID identified him as Shine Yukai, nineteen years old, parents deceased. He's got a sheltered sort of look to him, though, and I would place him as a techie from uptown.

Which does nothing to explain why he was in my bar.

Of course, he's standing up, lips parted faintly, as if he's about to speak.

Instead of words, though, he begins unzipping the leather trousers that I so kindly left on last night.

"What the fuck? Put your goddamn pants back on, boy."

I stand and turn away, feeling the scowl twitch at the corners of my mouth. Honest to god, that was unexpected.

"But you… I owe you…" He's hesitant, something like fear flickering in those cat-green orbs - an emotion that I catch for only the barest second as I pivot to face him. It's replaced by a wariness that I don't find offensive, or even surprising.

"You don't owe me shit." I almost growl, shaking out my hair.

"How do you know my name?" This time his voice is half-curious, expression wide, like a doe in headlights.

Not that there are any deer left.

"Your ID." I toss the thing onto the bed and stare at him. My gaze is unnerving, as so many have informed me, and I use it to the fullest extent. "Why were you in my bar last night?"

He blinks, thinking hard, and looks up at me with an almost belligerent expression.

"My rent was due. I needed money."

I still, and simply stare at him. He was … he was trying to whore himself.

Naïve gaze, indeed.