Chap 7

Riki had no idea where he was.

Except that he was in a windowless room, surrounded by four ivory walls. A simple bed. A chair and table. Nothing else. The one door, the only way out, was locked from the outside.

He knocked on the door. He even kicked it. It didn't move.

The room was a neat and tidy jail cell. Apparently, he'd been dragged here from that place that reminded him of the deep, blue ocean. The last thing he remembered was throwing a punch at Iason. He'd known it was a dumb move.

Iason gave him a hard blow to the gut in return, and it was lights out.

When he came to, he was lying on the aforementioned bed, thoroughly beat. His pockets had been emptied, including cash, the ID card Katze had given him, and the coin attached to its key chain. Even the butterfly knife he kept tucked in his boots in case of emergency was gone. Everything.

Having been stripped of all his possessions and tossed in this cell, Riki was in no mood to settle down. Far from it. His mind was spinning: What the fuck was that asshole thinking? What exactly was he planning on doing, locking him up in here without a word?

Riki knew he should be thinking about other things, but to start with, he didn't have a clue what the other things on that list should be.

Shit!

Grinding his back teeth together Riki slammed his foot against the chair with all his might and sent it flying.

Sasan (Area 8). The Number Three tower dome. The secret auction had ended without any problems and in a style befitting a king. Iason Mink was not basking in the afterglow, but as always he was relaxing with his usual grace and authority in his penthouse office.

He leaned back, all but engulfed by the sofa, crossed his long legs, and looked at the panel display on the wall. On the display was a video feed of Riki, twisting his lips in obvious irritation. Iason adjusted a control on the remote and in a flash the screen was filled with a close-up of Riki's face.

Despite its unkempt, disheveled appearance, his black hair glistened softly. His bangs couldn't hide the peevishness in his obsidian eyes. His ill humor tightly pinched the corners of his eyes, replete with his rough and vulgar emotions.

Iason almost imagined he could hear the sound of the teeth grinding in vexation escaping the thin, grim line of his lips. There before him was a filthy alley cat. No manners, no class, and not an ounce of discipline and control. Regardless, the life of this untainted, uncivilized "noble savage" shone with a remarkable brightness.

When they had met beneath the garish neon glow of the double rings of Midas, he'd been no more than a proud, ignorant, shit-faced little kid with no outlet for his unconstrained emotions. He hadn't a clue how to ingratiate himself with others. No social skill beyond baring his teeth and growling like a dog.

A slum mongrel.

His decision at the time to turn a blind eye and not turn him over to the police came down to pure whimsy. But accompanying him to a place that's purpose was obvious at a glance, and then acting on the desire to knock this kid down a bit—after bringing him to a degree of arousal he'd never seen before, of course—was nothing more than following the whim and letting nature take its course.

The kid had been contrary for the sheer sake of contrariness, yet with no strategy or forethought in mind, and with so much pride on display, he could not permit himself to avert his gaze from a man he must have known was a Blondy.

So Iason had used him up and thrown him away. Tossing him the Aurora Coin on the way out was nothing more than a spur-of-the-moment thing. As entertaining diversions went, this one had more meat on the bones than most, but in the end he was still a diversion. As "change" for the hush money forced upon him, the pet currency struck him as appropriate.

Pet currency consisted of metal tokens that were worthless in the retail markets, but an Aurora Coin had far more value than that of mere money. Just one Aurora Coin could be converted for more cash than all the kid's small time stolen cash cards.

Iason remained a tad curious whether a slum mongrel would appreciate real value when it fell into his hands. So he told Katze to keep his eyes open and let him know as soon as that coin emerged from the slums.

He was sure it'd be a matter of days. But the time stretched on and on. Iason was disappointed, and all the more intrigued as to why this unknown slum mongrel had not cashed in his prize.

At the same time, what had become of this punk after Iason ground his pride into the mud?

In regards to the coin, Katze followed his instructions without a word of objection. At the same time, he signaled his disapproval with Iason having at his disposal a fellow brother from the slums, and one still green behind the ears at that.

Naturally, whatever arguments Katze had, Iason wasn't inclined in the least to back down. Whether the kid would prove useful to him or not wasn't up for debate as far as Iason was concerned. He was the product of simple curiosity.

"Riki the Black," eh? If fed properly perhaps this mangy alley cat could become a tiger.

Over these past few months, he'd undergone quite the transformation. Those changes were not simply on the surface, but undoubtedly a reflection of the balance between good and bad aspects of his personal character.

But it was still not enough. The satisfaction of his curiosity may well have prompted such thoughts.

He switched the remote again. Just as he would have predicted, Riki was kicking the hell out of the chair. Iason smiled despite himself. That's a mongrel badly in need of some training.

"Iason—" Behind him another voice suddenly broke into his thoughts. "Are you serious about this?" There stood Raoul Hamm, his handsome, untamed countenance showing an unusually somber cast for a Tanagura elite. "You didn't really lay hands on that piece of gutter trash, did you? Bringing a male that hasn't even been housebroken to Eos is simply asking for trouble."

"True, but that boundless pride is such an improvement over those brainless sex dolls. What do you make of that sullen angst? He's so vulgar and coarse. You don't think he would be worth training? It'd be fun to raise a different sort of pet for a change."

"What manner of things you choose to raise is your own business, but making such a creature into a pet is not going to reflect well on the name of Iason Mink."

"I wonder. I have to believe that with the proper training he could turn into a most interesting pet, though—"

"How much self-confidence you may have is beside the point. What if he can't be housebroken?"

"If and when that time comes, we can always muddle with his brain, turn him into a sex doll, and dispose of him in the black market. Let it be known that this pet was once the property of Iason Mink and that by itself would up the price significantly. Or perhaps we can keep him around for use of the guests, penned up until he expires of his own accord? There must be dozens of other uses we could think of."

With that blithe pronouncement Iason turned his attention back to the screen.

Make a slum mongrel into a pet.

It never once occurred to him that this plan, hardly more than a sheer act of whimsy, would shake his pride as a Blondy to the core.