There's a woman at the counter, stringy looking, looking as much a part of this dank little motel as the putrid green paint chipping off the walls. He can't quite fight back a laugh at how fucking clichéd this is, especially as she leers at Shilo, the mole on her chin wobbling like a sentient being. Finally, annoyed with the delay, he arches an eyebrow and clears his throat pointedly, inclining his head in a mocking, courtly gesture as she slaps the room key into his calloused palm. He pushes a few credits across the cracked vinyl of the desk, and she gives him a knowing wink.

He just smirks in reply, seeing no reason to confirm or deny her assumption when he hasn't got a clue what's going to happen himself.

He resolves to check the room for cameras anyway.

Turning on his heel, he looks at Shilo, who's chewing her lip, looking like she's seriously rethinking her decision to come with him. He should probably reassure her, but he doubts that anything she's afraid of is precisely untrue, so he just gives her a little half-smile and leads her toward the stairs.

When he feels a little cold hand lacing fingers through his, he damn near misses a step.

Her eyes are aimed straight ahead, and he stares at her for a good ten seconds before shaking his head and continuing up toward the room. Her hand is tiny in his, and her wrist is so small that it feels like he could snap it with a twitch of his fingers.

She lets go of his hand when they stop in front of the door, still determinately not looking at him as he unlocks it and steps in. The thought of sheets and an actual bed are enough to make him grin, and he steps aside, motioning her in. She sits on the very edge of the bed, looking ready to bolt, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. Her hands twist themselves together, and she doesn't know what to do with herself.

"So… what do we do now?" she asks in a halting voice, clearly making an effort to be brazen, but it doesn't work, especially now that they're alone, away from the dark obfuscation of the alley. She picks at the bedspread distractedly, garish pink roses beneath her fingertips. "Do I still pay first?" she mutters, not looking at him.

"Now? Now… I'm gonna make use of the hot water." He says, intentionally misinterpreting the question as he peels off his boots and pads toward the bathroom. "We'll talk payment when I'm done."

With that, he turns, leaving her alone on the bed, her eyes burning into his back all the way.

He stays in the shower until the water runs clear; the brown and red and gray, rusty colored blood and indefinable grime swirling down the drain like an isolated hurricane.

The dirt never quite seems to come out from under his fingernails.

When he finally turns off the water, his fingers have gone all wrinkled and his skin is bright pink; raw and clean. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he wrings out his dreads and glances in the mirror. A perpetual smudge of eyeliner remains, but other than that, he looks more or less normal; albeit with multicolored hair. It's a strange thing to see, normality.

He steps out the door, grabbing his clothes on the way out and throwing them absently on a chair. Her eyes snap up to his, but they don't stay there for long- they drift down, and she's frozen on the bed, gaze fixed with something like fear on the towel around his waist. "So I guess I pay now." she whispers roughly, looking terrified and resigned, and maybe just a little bit excited, because now she'll get her hit, at least. He shakes his head minutely

"Grab a shower, kid. Bet it's been a while since you had hot water, too."

For the first time tonight, a hint of irritation crosses her face. He wonders if it's because he's not hooking her up, or because he's not doing what she expects. Finally she nods and stands, lingering for a second as though she might say something, before disappearing into the bathroom. The door shuts behind her with a quiet click, and he's left with a silent, empty room.

He fiddles absently with a vial of Zydrate, rolling it back and forth in his palm, twiddling it through his fingers as if he's performing a magic trick. Slight of hand. Now you see it, now you don't.

She'll come out of the bathroom soon. Part of him almost hopes she'll remember her dad's words. "Go and change the world for me…"
(And it's sort of sickening that the whole planet was privy to that. It makes the whole thing a cheap, garish imitation.)

Part of him almost hopes that she'll come out of the bathroom, full of little-girl earnestness, and tell him that she has to get home.

Something in the back of his mind shouts at him to leave right now.

He doesn't.

He just closes his eyes and waits.