Changeling Pt. 1 - Teil 8

The suite was sited right next to the big, luscious Central Park, a vast space of precisely cut grass and trees that stretched around the Main Plaza like a crescent. The view was great at daytime, but at night it was spectacular - at least for those people who liked their surroundings dark and luminous. The lights of the street lamps looked like little fallen stars, huddling around the parkborders as if ready to attack the natural darkness within it.
Two of the four surrounding walls inside the suite were made of polished glass, dampening the sunlight at days and protecting the privacy of it's inhabitant at night. The entrance lead directly into a vast living room, walls covered in shiny white and black wood casing. Two pitch black leathercouches huddled around a chrome and glass coffee table, decorated with petite white cushions. The whole room was illuminated by numerous halogen spot lights, setting highlights and darkened places like someone had calculated how they had to fall to look right.
A pedestral right behind the couches contained the kitchen, complete with a counter to sit at and drink flanked the livingroom like landscape, chrome kitchen utilities gleaming in the harsh halogen light.
A hallway surrounded by milk glass led away from the living room, leading to an equally vast bedroom with a four post cast iron bed, bloodred bedding covering black satin sheets. The other side of the hallway led into a chrome and white bathroom, big enough to contain another person's whole flat.
It looked expensive, perfect, and very artificial.

Kelaste moved into the suite without looking around, the surroundings all to familiar to spare a glance. Mohawk instead gawked around with a slightly alienated expression, and walked into the center of the livingroom to take a good look around.
"Damn it, scrap... who paid for all this shit?" he laughed, then just dropped onto one of the couches and swang his boots onto it.
Kelaste took off his jacket and pushed his hand against one of the wall covers. It sprang open with a hissing sound, revealing the wardrobe behind the white lacquered wood. He put the jacket inside, kicked off the boots, and closed it. He turned around and stepped closer, carefully keeping his suddenly darkened mood out of his face. How he hated talking about his family, or his life.
"My father paid for it." he murmured, hoping no further questions would be asked.
"So, your father's a rich bitch?" Mohawk went on, simply ignoring the implication in Kelaste's voice, while he started picking his nails with the switchblade. He didn't even look up.
"My father is head of Flatlands INC." Kelaste answered again, hands balled into fists, awaiting the reaction that was inevitable.
Mohawk stood up like a puppet pulled up with strings. One second he lay there leisurely, the next second he walked to Kelaste, switchblade in hand. His face was astounded, dark, harsh, the piercing gaze of his steelblue eyes made Kelaste shiver in fearful anticipation.
"You are DeLargo's brat? THE DeLargo's offspring?" he hissed, and grabbed Kelaste's Hair with his free hand to pull his head back, and press the blade against his throat. All the humor was gone from his face, replaced by something very dark and dangerous, cautioning Kelaste to be very careful about what he was going to say next.
"I'm his neglected bastard son." Kelaste whispered, as he started to shiver under the press of the deadly weapon against his throat. He tried very hard not to move at all, not daring to provoke his captor, but at the same time he had to fight against the urge to delve into memories that concerned his father. Memories of pain, of captivity, glimpses of dark cellars, chains and his father's ever present deep and angry voice.
He heard Mohawk growl wordlessly, then he was pulled and pushed to the leather couches, and wrestled down onto his knees, while Mohawk sat down, knife still pressed against his throat. The leather groaned softly under the weight of his angry, tense body.
"You listen now, scap. Your da' did a shitload of things I'd really love to kill him for. But right now I just got you, so it will be your bloody responsibility now to show me, that you're not deserving to be killed instead of him." His grip tightened in Kelaste's hair, then he moved the weapon away, and pressed the tip against his temple.
"You are going to suck me off like you never sucked dick before. Or you die."