"How much?"

Asa's voice cut through the air, and the dull thumps and muffled cries stopped.

An angry glare prompted him to speak again, "How much for... four hours?"

Brief negotiation ensued. As familiar as he was with the goings-on at The Asylum, he knew that street walkers were half the $200 per hour asked. They settled on $125, and he counted out five bills.

He didn't need, nor particularly want the girl. Most of the time, streetwalkers were either on a high, or in the dregs of withdrawal; neither was a particularly pleasant thing to suddenly infuse oneself with. And honestly? They usually weren't terribly clean or attractive -- the better looking ones got off the streets.

Still, if Ishani had been the one to see the girl getting beaten, there was a even odds chance they'd be wondering what to do with the pimp's body right now.

Burning wasn't nearly as efficient with Kine corpses.

Asa pointed to his car as they neared, and Nika opened the rear door.

"How old are you?" he asked, curious. She barely reached his elbow. He was tall, and was wearing dress shoes with a heel, but still...

She turned to answer as she ducked into the car. Pale tracks of light skin showed through the dirt and mascara, highways of innocence cleared by tears. Asa didn't hear. The golden curls, framing eyes of different shades: one hazel, one blue, froze him as if he'd been staked. A sharp intake of breath.

For an eternity of a few seconds, he almost flinched and winced as memories came. Golden, bright sun on hair the color of wheat. Laughter. Snippets. Saying Grace at sup. Rubbing down a newborn foal. Others, but she was his favorite.

A sister.

What's your name?

The memories blew away like fog on water as they turned dark, darkness that matched the night that replaced his day. It had been decades since those memories had surfaced.

What's your name?

"Just... drive..." Asa murmured to Nika before he got into the car as well. They rode in silence, and when he finally gave up on his own memories, he turned his attention to hers. Fresh, vibrant things, unlike the tatters of his own; like the warm, pulsing Blood in contrast to his still, murky Vitae.

A plane ticket, and a sizable amount in folded bills accompanied softly spoken instructions as oranges, pinks, and vermillions began to limn the horizon.

It wasn't enough to buy back the name.

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