Freneza Turisto! Viewpoint: Trent Seattle -- Pioneer Square This section of Seattle is known more for its "nightlife". Sometimes it appears as if almost every concievable square inch of space has been converted into a music club of sorts. When MTV first started broadcasting live from these taverns within the 1990s Seattle seemed to hit the headlines with the arrival of "grunge" bands. This area is also known for it's full array of jazz and blue clubs. Also, more celtic bars exist here than one might expect. Even if you were not into the modern rock scene it may be amusing to spend a few hours at one of the clubs, checking out the youthful fashions and attitude. Contents: Candice [Human] [H] The Kingdome Obvious exits: East leads to Seattle -- The Business District. North leads to Seattle -- Pike Place Market. Candice Known to the world at large as "Shara Thomas", the young woman before you is within her early twenties. She is just about at five feet tall. Her auburn hair is fashioned in a conservative cut, framing her delicate features. Her eyes, her "windows to the soul", are of the deepest blue. Her clothing consists of casual wear that is worn for normal, everyday activities. She wears a jacket bearing the shade of emerald green. Around her neck she wears an antique necklace with a golden trimmed heart shaped pendant bearing a cross, butterfly, and a rose within its center. The girl looks around her in curiosity, absorbing more than what one may realize. *Please note her appearance has been slightly altered since her return to Earth to help conceal her identity from the public. Trent You see nothing special. At least, that's what you might think upon first seeing Trent. A young man, perhaps in his early to mid twenties, standing just under six feet in height and of average build. Sandy, greyish-brown hair tops a face with a surprising amount of humor and life in it, the hair curling down over his ears and tucked into a slightly uneven ponytail. A few strands of hair, dyed a rich crimson, drift down over his eyes now and again--bottomless eyes of deep brown, the color of freshly turned earth. These eyes regard everyone who passes with piercing scrutiny, little escaping his notice--as if his very life depended on it. His skin, lightly tanned and indicating a genetic predisposition to swarthiness, is mostly covered by his clothing, which is even more unremarkable. A black t-shirt which appears to have been washed one too many times--the band name and logo long since flaked away--tucked into a pair of faded denim blue jeans with more than one ragged tear and a slightly lighter hue around the knees, indicating an imminent need for replacement. He wears a very broken-in black leather jacket, with no particular markings of its own, and he returns your glance with a firm gaze and a slight smile--the kind which hints at a secret joke only he knows. Candice steps into a section of Seattle she hardly ever visited until she had first began attending the state university several years previous. Now, she simply stares at the street and it's massive crowds before her as she gets out of her car, shoudlering a medium sized shoudler-bag as she does. Trent is leaning against the outside wall of a fashionable Vietnamese dance club, the loud music and blaring lights pounding out a staccato rhythm. With his distantly Asian features, he blends in well with the crowd of teenagers and ne'er-do-wells, hands thrust into the pockets of his leather jacket, the sunglasses utterly unnecessary in the overcast drizzle of Seattle. Candice notes, even then she didn't visit this area to often -- it not exactly meeting with her personal tastes. But she's curious. Even if they wouldn't recognize her now it would be nice to see whether or not any of them still 'hang around'. She begins walking, occassionally looking absently into the fronts of the various buildings, her mind preoccupied. Something of which, by now, she should know better to avoid. She clings to her shouderbag tightly and continues on her walk, smiling slightly to herself. Candice passes the front of an Asian dance club of some sort. She doesn't recognize it and believes it to be a new addition since the time Seattle had been rebuilt alomst two years ago. She gets jostled by a group of 14-17 year olds unexpectedly. She frowns inwardly. She notices a young man looking at her. She bites her lower lip and contunes on after looking away, feeling slightly uncomfortable. Trent's keen eyes pick out the woman in the distance, noting her conservative, mainstream clothing and eyeing the bag at her side. _Tourist_, his mind immediately categorizes with a hint of condescension. That, or someone who has no clue where she is or where she's going. Letting his eyes travel over her frame for a moment, he turns and nudges a slightly taller Hispanic boy beside him, uttering a few terse words in something that sounds like Spanish, but isn't. Nodding, the Hispanic vanishes into the crowd, and Trent huddles his shoulders, tucking his hands back into his pockets and dipping his chin as if seeking solace from the rain... and walks along the sidewalk, not quite following Candice directly. Candice briefly glances up as the drops of rain become more prominent. With a small sigh she digs into her bag and produces a small umbrella. With a press of a button the umbrella opens quite nicely. She adjusts it in order to shield herself from the rain. Coming to a corner she stops and waits, as the forest-green light quickly changes from amber to red. Trent picks up his pace a little as the light changes, listening to the sounds of motor vehicles and panning his gaze across the crowd, keeping an eye out for police or other obstacles. Few police, however, venture this far into the Central District often, and he mentally makes his decision then. Slipping his emblade out of his jacket pocket, he turns it on, feeling rather than hearing the vibration as the blade quivers. Putting on a sudden burst of speed, he snatches at Candice's shoulder bag, slipping the emblade across the shoulder strap. Candice has just began walking as the light to changed back to green when she hears a shearing rip and the sudden lightening of the load of her shoulder. She stops, abit confused for a brief second, and then turns around to face whoever was behind her, eyes wide. Trent gives Candice a good solid shove away as he gets a grip on the unexpectedly heavy bag, and breaks into a dead run, moving with unreal speed down the sidewalk. "The Space Needle's the other way, lady!" he shouts over his shoulder. "Have a nice vacation!" Candice's eyes grow even wider as she tears off into a run, tossing aside her umbrella into the street where it is picked up and readily taken by an eldery man in need of protection from the rain. "Hey, bring that back!" Her pace quickens. Some of the pedestrians hurriedly step out of her way yelling, "Hey, watch it!" or something a bit more profane. Others stubbornly refuse to give up their spot. In the latter case, she brushes past them. Lucky for her she has a small frame and the ability to move more easily in masses... One of the onlookers who had seen the incident shouts above the traffic, "Hey, that punk just stole some chick's purse!!" Trent, on the other hand, is somewhat encumbered by a heavy bag that he can't simply sling over his shoulder. He sprints down the street, darting in between passers-by, most of whom don't seem to care one way or another. Running straight through a red light, he jumps just in time and rolls over the hood of a car that nearly strikes him head on, eliciting colorful chastisement from the driver. Trent shouts crossly, at nobody in particular, "Jimmy! I could use that bike right about now, man!" Candice seethes under her breath, "What an idiot!" as she takes advantage of the young man's slight delay. She goes out into the street and stops just in time before being run down herself. She dismisses the colorful metaphors of the driver as he passes. Fortunately, the light near the end of the block once more changes to its red and the traffic halts enough for her to continue the chase... without being run over. "Someone stop him!" she shouts, not really expecting anyone to help. Such are the present times. Trent curses, looking back and seeing the woman gaining on him. If the situation weren't so dire, he might almost be amused. "Freneza turisto!" he shouts. Distracted, he nearly runs into a telephone pole, plastered with layers of advertisements for bands that haven't played for more than six months. Sidestepping, he searches for another out, jigging to the side suddenly and bolting down an alleyway. One of the few police within the immediate area hears the sudden screeching of wheels from seperate veichles. He doesn't see any form of accident from where he stands and so he continues his duties. However, he overhears some other commotion and picks up his gaze. "What the heck..." Candice swings herself around the corner as soon as she reaches the outer "door" of the alley, very nearly slipping on the wet pavement. Without even really thinking of what she's actually doing she immediately follows after -- while curious onlookers become board and go about their business. The officer shakes his head, not really seeing anything amiss. His partner is seated in the squad car not too far away. He throws down the paper in minor agitation as his radio comes to life. After the conversation is finished he waves for his partner to return to the car. Trent is already halfway down the alley, skidding a little from the rain-slicked asphalt. On the far end of the alley, a jet black motorcycle with a familiar Hispanic face idles. Jimmy Ramirez shouts, "Eku, mano! I'm startin' to get shit on the scanner!" Candice mumbles something incoherant as she enters further and further into the alley, away from the safty of the crowds. Something hard and cold presses against her chest, something she has *never* felt comfortable with. She idly wonders if she should threaten this fella with her gun should she catch up with him. She doesn't like the idea but she may have to. Her thoughts are immediately distracted a few long moments later as police sirens pierce the air. Candice looks behind her, her face draining and going pale. One split second is all it takes. She trips on a broken and twisted piece of a metal fence and loses her footing. Her head smacks against the wall and she falls unconscious. Candice lays there in an undignified heap where she fell. Trent reaches the motorcycle, shoving Candice's bag into the saddlebag. A thick, wet sound behind him catches his attention, and he turns just in time to see Candice's head meet the wall, hard. "Oh, crap, of all the... keep it on idle, Jimmy my man, I'll be right back!" Ramirez gives Trent an exasperated look. "What you talkin bout, mano? Don you hear the sirens? Get your ass on the fraggin bike!" The sirens appear to be drawing closer. Soon they are joined by one or two others... but it's unclear whether or not the police would even think of entering the alley or even if it's this situation they are concerned with at all. For all anyone knows, there may be a problem at one of the local clubs that needs to be dealt with. Trent shouts, "I said keep it on idle, Jimmy!" as he reaches Candice's prone form. Pressing two fingers inexpertly against her neck, he finds a thready but present pulse. Touching the side of her head, Trent grimaces as his fingers come back warmly wet, and not just from the rain. "Damne!" he utters under his breath, wiping his hands against his jeans. "Get off the bike, Jimmy. You can walk from this one, I can't." Jimmy Ramirez's dark features shade further. "What the hell do you think you're doin, mano? Leave her, let's go! The cops'll find her here, or she'll wake up in an hour with a headache pli grande! Either way, our asses are outta here!" Candice's slightly flinches and utters a soft moan. She then falls silent once more, unaware of anything that's transpiring around her. Trent says evenly, his tone dark, "Jimmy... get off the bike NOW." Ramirez looks at Trent as if his friend had been smoking something rosy, hesitating for a moment longer, and then climbs off the bike. "Whatever you gonna do, mano, make it fast. I'm history." And then he is, a ghost in the rain-drenched crowds. Nearby, a small rat darts out from underneath an overfilled garbage bin and into hole within the wall of the back of a cafe. Trent doesn't wait for the reply. He's already struggling to get his elbows under Candice's arms, lacing his hands around her midsection and wincing with the exertion of lifting an unconscious human being. "Unh," he mutters, dragging her as carefully as possible towards the Kawasaki, "I don't suppose now..." Trent lifts Candice up onto the bike, seating himself awkwardly behind her and gunning the engine. "...would be a good time to tell you to lose some weight." The sirens stop their wails. And, somewhere close by, there can be heard the slamming of car doors. Candice, of course, can't respond. And if she did, he would more than likely be the proud owner of a punch in the stomach. Trent revs the engine of the Kawasaki, slipping Jimmy's helment over Candice's head. Watching cautiously for oncoming traffic, he tears a line of vulcanized rubber out into the right hand lane, and moves down the street at just under the speed limit, appearing for all the world like a normal couple on a motorcycle. Candice leans back against the 'hoodlum', her body limp. But, even now, there seems to be a slight edge of tension within it. Trent, meanwhile, entertains himself by filling his helment with various and colorful expressions, casting aspersion on the ancestries of police and clumsy tourists alike. Behind them, a man dressed sharply within a dark suit emerges from outside the alley, looking up at the noise emitted from the cycle and the two seated on it. He gives the couple and odd look as they leave and rejoins his parnter, who stands with the newly arrived officers. Trent guides the motorcycle in a rather professional evasion course, changing lanes at odd times and making turns that take them nowhere near his destination. Finally, he runs a yellow light and turns onto 14th Ave, eventually pulling up to the small public housing facility where he holds a flat. Leaving the Kawasaki where it stands, he hoists Candice's body into a fireman's carry, moving slowly up one of many stairwells. As he passes a startled couple in the hall, he grins sheepishly. "I told her I'd never let her get this drunk again," he explains as he sidesteps, "but she just doesn't listen." Candice's body once more seems to stiffen. Her facial features briefly tense. But it's only for a brief moment. However, by appearances, it shouldn't be too long before she regains consciousness. One of the tenants looks out his door as Trent passes. "Hey, bagged one, eh?" The tenant snickers to himelf as he wipes a wet, ketchup stained hand across the front of his shirt. He snickers a bit before going back into his apartment and slamming his door. Trent shakes his head, laughing. "My date last night. Got toasted and mouthed off to someone, who took a beer bottle to her..." Tossing out lies and alibis, he gets to his apartment, fumbling with his keys and grumping about it. Kicking the door shut behind him, he eases Candice down on the futon mattress, lacking a proper bed or couch of any kind. This done, he stops finally to breathe. Trent summarizes the whole mess succintly. "Shit. Well, first thing," he muses to himself, "is to stop the bleedin. She took a pretty sharp crack to the head." Trent pulls down a home medical kit from the wall, the kind you buy at a drug store for thirty dollars. Rummaging in it, he finds some cotton swabs and antiseptic, and crouches down beside Candice, fingers reaching out to genty probe at her head, looking for the wound. Candice softly winces as the moments pass, her head turns to the side as if in a delayed reaction to the noise of the door slamming. Her reddish locks fall with the movement to reveal the point of impact -- a place near her left temple. Trent dabs some hydrogen peroxide on the cotton ball, and swabs delicately at the gash. Like most head wounds, it's not nearly as bad as it looks--it just bleeds a lot. Candice's whole frame becomes taut as the medicine attempts to clean the wound of any bacteria or dirt. She presses her eyes shut rather tightly and chokes back a stiffled sob, obviously fighting against the pain. Trent lays his other hand on Candice's forehead, making a shushing sound. "Keep still. This'll take me a moment." His eyes, evaluating her for any other injury, suddenly spot an unnatural-looking lump against her chest... and his gaze narrows. Candice uneasily nods and does as told, unable to actually do any more than that. It's quite possible she has a minor concussion. Trent slips a deft hand underneath Candice's jacket, and pulls the wicked-looking gun from its resting place, standing up. "Well, well, well," he comments quietly, looking the weapon over. "What have we here?" Throwing back the slide, he ejects the magazine into the palm of his hand. Thumbing the bullets out of the magazine one by one, he pockets the ammunition, and replaces the now-empty magazine, nocking the slide once more. Setting the weapon on the table beside the futon, he returns to his task, dabbing at Candice's head wound a little more. Trent says quietly, "Well, sister," as he cleans around the edges of the wound, "you've got yourself a nice gash here, but you should be okay. And the sooner I get you outta here, the better." Candice winces once more and turns her head within the dierection of the male voice. "Spi---?" she murmurs, surpise evident within her tone. Her eyes flutter open, curiosity as well as some other differing emotions alighting her features. Her sight clears within a few moments as she gazes at the thief/benefactor. "You're not," she pauses and then continues weakly, "who are you?" Trent unwraps a bandage from the medkit, looking at it as if trying to figure out how the heck you're supposed to secure the thing. "The Easter Bunny," he replies deadpan, smirking behind depthless brown eyes. "With big floppy clown shoes. Now would you like me to finish with this," he says, holding up the bandage, "or would you like to bleed a little longer?" Candice blinks tiredly and offers a small snort in response. "I think I already made my quota," she retorts softly. No mention is made of the theft as of yet. It could be evidence that she's not able to think too clearly at present. Trent takes this as a good sign, and reaches towards Candice's head. Smoothing a little of her hair away from the wound, he places the bandage squarely over it, and holds it there while he pries a few tabs of medical tape away from the roll. "You're lucky," he comments, "A little harder and you'd have more than a whack on your kapo, ne?" Candice stares at the young man, baffled. "Kapo?" Trent stops for a moment, surveying his work with satisfaction, rubbing at the stubble on his chin. "Your head, sinjorino. Your pretty head that you just about cracked open." He offers a wry smile that might mean anything, but which seems somewhat reserved... and a little concerned. His locked gaze, looking directly into her eyes as he ensures her pupils are dilated properly, might be taken for polite attention. Candice reaches a hand shakily to her head, wincing a little at the dull throbbing. She withdraws it and flops her arm on her abdomen. The gaze is locked for a small amount of time until she looks away, her eyes of clear blue focusing on the adjoing wall. "But why would my head---?" Something comes to her and she looks back at the young man. It almost appears as if she's examining him. "You, took my bag," she states. It doesn't come out in the form of an accusation. At least, not yet. For now she simply seems to be piecing recent events together. Trent darts his eyes towards the pistol on the table beside them, and turns back to Candice. He holds her gaze for a few moments longer, not answering and not really needing to. "What I want to know," he says evenly, "is why a young lady like you, dressed as you are, is walking around my neighborhood, carrying a bookbag with a computer..." He glances at the pistol with a distasteful look once more, and bites off, "...and carrying a Government-issue Glock." He holds his gaze firmly on Candice, eyes burning penetratively. "And no ID." Candice narrows her eyes, feeling some defenses rising. "Why would you be interested in knowing?" Trent says evenly, his tone calm but firm, "Don't fuck with me, lady. I'm asking the questions here. Play games with me, and I'll serve you to the Dragons for breakfast. Now. Who. Sent. You?" Candice pushes herself up into a sitting position. She opens her mouth to respond but is cut off by an abrupt onset of dizziness. She waits for it to pass before answering. "I have no idea what you're talking about," she counters. "I have no idea who you are or what you're talking about. All I know is you attempted to steal my belongings and took me in when you could have just left me in the street." She pauses for a breath. "Why?" Trent narrows his eyes, brows furrowing. Smirking wryly, he answers in a flippant tone. "Because I can't resist women who fall head over heels for me." He makes a throat-clearing sound, and adds, "though they usually don't crack their kapo in the process. Now lie back down," he says firmly. "If you don't take it easy, you'll wind up with a concussion." Candice grunbts softly in frustration, not exactly in a position to argue the point. "You certainly do have interesting pick-up lines." She lays herself back back, understanding in some small way if the young man wanted to take advantage of her he would have done so already. "If you *must* know my name's Shara. A first name wouldn't hurt unless we're satisfied with 'Hey you'." Trent permits a terse smile, sitting back as if unconsciously keeping distance from the gun. "John," he replies simply. "And you still haven't answered my question. This," he says, gesturing to the pistol on the table beside the futon, "is issued by the US Government. The civilian model has a restraining pin on the slide. You didn't pick this up," he says crossly, "at a fragging yard sale." Trent refrains from mentioning the bullets in his pocket, perhaps not seeing the need. Candice presses her lips together. Her hands unconsciously grip the edges of her 'bed'. "And just how would you know of that?" suspcion rising within her voice. "It's for protection. That's all you need to know." Trent snaps out, "If you don't know guns on the street, you die, sinjorino. I don't have to like them, and I don't, but I know more than I ever wanted to about them. That piece may be for your protection, but knowing where the hell you got it is for mine! If I don't start getting answers I like really soon, I start making phonecalls to the Dragons." Candice pushes herself up again, not taking well to threats. She sets her jaw, glancing around the room for some sort of -- something -- to be of any help. She doesn't see anything. She doesn't want to lie. But she dare not tell him the truth. "Go ahead," she dares. "I'm not really any worse off." Candice trails John's gaze to her gun, uncertain of whether or not she would be able to reach it before being able to use it. There's also the issue if she would be able to force herself to use it if she actually had to. She's never really fired on a live target. And the thought still frightens her. Trent utters something inaudible but probably unpleasant, and jumps to his feet, pacing around the room. "Of all the... fragging stultega, obstina, bedauriga sinjorino!" Candice quickly, but shakily, moves herself over to the table, grasping for the discarded gun. remaining on the floor, being able to remain more stable there, the aims the barrel at the young man. Peering closely one can see her hand trembling. Unfortunately for her, she doesn't realize it's not loaded. "Now what is it you want with me?" Trent cuts off in the middle of his tirade, and turns to look at Candice. As soon as he sees the gun in her shaky hands, he raises his arms slowly, rolling his eyes. "Oh, placi. Give me a break, sinjorino. What're you gonna do, walk outta this tenament, gun in hand, and stagger your way to the nearest hospital?" Trent walks, slowly and cautiously, in the direction of the door, hands still raised. He casually leans back against it, watching Candice. John's words cut into Candice, but she struggles not to let it show. She doesn't bother telling him that she *can't* go to the hospital for various reasons. "Please, just tell me. You wouldn't go to all the trouble bringing me here if you didn't care whether I was alive or dead." Trent's stare burns as he takes a step towards Candice, arms coming down slowly. "Give me the fragging gun, Shara. You're not gonna pull that trigger." Candice trembles. She wouldn't mind being out of this situation altogether. Nonetheless, she doesn't lower the gun, But neither does she open fire. "Tell me what it is you want *first*." Trent says sharply, "Erara. I don't answer questions when someone's pointing a gun at my face. Now stop making an ass of yourself and put the fraggin gun *down*." Trent takes another step forward, one hand held out. Candice's facial features falter. She takes a deep breath and tosses the gun to the side. It slides against the floor and knocks against one of the walls harmlessly while she simply sits there staring at the ground. Trent slips a hand into the pocket of his jeans, holding up a slender, deadly nugget of steel. "There were nine of these," he says. "You won't find any of them in the magazine anyway." He chucks the bullet out of a nearby window, listening to it fall eleven stories to the ground. "I hate guns," he explains crossly. "But I hate people who use them a lot more. Now do us both a favor and lie back down." Candice eyes close after staring at the floorboards for a rather lengthy amount of time. "At least," she stops and goes on quieetly, "at least tell me what it is you want with me." Candice adds, "I'll lay down after that. I promise." Trent pitches the bullets, one by one, out of the window and into the alley, listening to them plink and clang their way down the fire escape. "I have no idea," he says in total honestly. "You're a problem I don't know how to solve yet. You're no tourist," he says with certainty, "and you're too incompetent with guns to be a cop." He turns and looks at Candice, really *looks* at her for the first time. It's a look of appraisal that runs the length of her body--not ogling at all, more like someone sizing up their opponent, or studying something curious. "And until I figure it out, you may as well rest. I'll get you something for your head." After hearing the answer Candice pushes herself back onto the bedding and takes to laying down just as she said. She eyes 'John' rather warily as if not knowing what to think or make of him. "Why is it so improtant for you to know?" she asks, tiredness evident within her voice. Trent retrieves a few tiny white pills from a bottle on the kitchen counter of the flat, and brings them to Candice with a glass of water. "Medicino," he says. In answer to her question, he simply shrugs. "Because I don't like mysteries, sinjorino. They have a way of killing you." Candice hesitates at first and then takes the small pills, suprisingly not asking any questions about what they are. She gulps them down with the proffered water and gives the glass back to John. She looks away again, this time to look at the window. "Thanks," she murmurs, deep in thought -- recalling someone else having told her that sometime ago. Her eyelids get heavier than she can manage as the memory lingers. In moments, Canice is in a deep sleep. From the looks of her it's something she has long needed for a few weeks now. Trent watches Candice's breathing slow and deepen, as restful sleep overtakes her. A thousand trains of thought flit through his head as he tries to puzzle out what he should do, not liking this new mystery. Reaching out and laying the back of his hand against Candice's cheek for a moment, he rises to his feet and walks towards the front door, grabbing his keys... as he remembers Candice's shoulder bag locked in the motorcycle's saddlebag. To be continued...