Sekka jammed his hands in his pockets and leant back against the crumbling wall. The bricks were cold against his back, the chill seeping quickly through his thin, sleeveless shirt. But they liked to see his body, those who came to buy his time, and so he left his arms bare, and wore a too-small shirt to show off the definition of his chest.

The night was cool and clear. Sekka let his head fall back until it rested against the bricks, gazing up at the star-filled sky. His stomach felt tight, as though he had missed a few meals running, and he tried to think back to the last time he ate. Not that remembering would help, since he was broke again. He couldn't do anything about food until he'd made some money this evening.

Well, at least the view was free, he thought, as he peered up at the starscape, set against the black-velvet night. The cool night air caressed his bare arms and midriff as it whispered past. It was unusually quiet, he thought idly, no screeching arguments from the opposite corner, not even a stray mutt to set the rubbish tins clattering.

He let his head fall forwards again, scowling as a lock of jet hair obscured his view of the cracked pavement between his feet. He made a mental note to take a pair of scissors to it sometime in the near future. It was at that most annoying stage where it was long enough to hang over his eyes, but not to tie back. He tucked the offending lock behind his ear, willing it to stay put.

Shit, business was slow tonight. It looked like he might be going hungry for a little while longer. While a part of him cursed - the rent was ovverdue and the Landlord was still on his ass about being late with the last few payments - another part of him, a much smaller, more secretive part, was relieved.

After seven years, he ought to be inured to it, Sekka thought to himself with a touch of disgust. He'd already experienced everything that life on a street corner entailed. He'd been hired by both the rich and snobby, and the totally down-and-out, and had had just about every indignity he could think of inflicted upon him. And yet, even after selling himself night after night, he still couldn't vanquish the faint tendrils of fear that crept through him, every time a customer approached.

It was just another job - less arduous than stacking crates, less mind-numbing than crunching figures, and it paid better than either, he kept reminding himself. He was used to it, and he was good at it, and he didn't have to like it, as long as he did it and kept the money coming in. For a moment, he wondered what it might be like to be able to say 'no', to sleep with partners of his choosing. He'd been a whore for so long, he'd forgotten what it was like to have a choice.

Sekka scowled to himself. Stupidity, to let himself think about 'what-might-have-been's, they solved nothing and only put him in a foul mood. Less thinking, more action, that was what he needed. He paced up and down the length of the block restlessly, hands still jammed in his pockets. Finally, he returned to his initial position, settling himself back against the wall to wait.

The sound of a car approaching had him immediately on the alert. Possible customer, possible danger - cops were unlikely, but there was always the chance of some off-his-nut prick who thought it might be fun to pound on someone who was handily standing nearby. Not that getting beaten up was anything new to him, but if it was going to happen, he was bloody well going to make sure it was by someone who would pay him for the privilege.

It was a new car, black, sleek, shiny, and it drove past him without slowing. He muttered a few idle insults; that sort of machine certainly didn't belong to anyone around here. Probably some rich kid who'd borrowed Daddy's car, come to check out life on the other side of the tracks, he smirked to himself. The car turned the corner, and Sekka raised a finger to it in farewell.

Then he heard the sound of the engine being cut. For a brief moment, he wondered if his gesture had been seen, but he knew he hadn't moved until after the car had been out of sight. He was irreverent, but not stupid. He shrugged. Whatever. He'd been in plain view when they drove past, so they obviously weren't looking for someone with his talents. If they had no interest in him, he had no interest in them.

It wasn't more than five minutes later when another expensive-looking car drove past. Deep green this time, with dark, tinted windows. Sekka watched it turn the same corner that the last one had taken, and then again heard the sound of it coming to a stop.

Curiouser and curiouser, Sekka thought to himself. What was going on here? He looked up and down the street. No likely customers about, might as well take a bit of a look. He sauntered down the pavement, keeping his strides long and easy. He slowed when he reached the corner, leaning casually against the building as he glanced down the street with an air of indifference. The two cars were parked in a semi-underground carpark, a few sections down from where he was standing.

There was a short, fat man hovering in front of the black car, something about the size of a thick book clutched to his chest. He could hear another person getting out of the green car, but to Sekka's irritation, there was a large concrete pillar obscuring his view. Well, it was definitely suspicious, no matter who it was.

Sekka crept a little closer, until he was inside the lot, crouched behind a car. It crossed his mind that this was probably a bad idea. Looked like something big was going down, and he would probably have something rather nasty 'happen' to him if he was sprung. But he was bored, and it was always useful to know what was going on in his turf. Plus, danger added a little spice to his life.

He slunk to a closer pole. One of the fluorescent lights overhead was flickering, close to burning out, and the intermittent shadows it created gave him some kind of cover. He could hear the low murmur of conversation and focussed on making out the words

"I still don't understand why we had to meet _here_, of all places." One arrogant-sounding voice sniffed disdainfully. Peering quickly around the pole, Sekka allocated this voice to green-car man. He was tall and polished-looking, as though he'd just come from a boardroom meeting.

"Because this is the last place anyone would expect the exchange to take place." That was nervous-sounding man, the fat one that belonged to the black car and the square object. He had a whining, high-pitched voice that grated on Sekka's ears.

"Oh, you really are paranoid, Wilks."

"Do you realise how valuable this is?" Nervous-sounding Wilks hissed. "He's the best. He takes anything, anything you want to do to him, and he bounces back without a mark on him by the next night."

Sekka was confused. He thought this was going to be about drugs, or guns, but they sounded as if they were talking about something alive. A dog? A race horse? An exotic animal? It didn't seem to make much sense.

"Well, he'd better be everything you say, with the price I'm paying you for him."

"Oh, he's exquisite, I'm telling you. You'll never want to give him back. And don't you forget that it's only paid-up for the week, you understand? Now, on to the price."

The arrogant green-car man muttered something affirmative, and then named a figure that made Sekka blanch. That was more than he made in a year. Whiny Wilks squeaked excitedly in agreement. Some muted conversation that Sekka didn't quite catch followed, he guessed they were going through the terms of the deal. He snuck another quick look, green-car man was nodding as Wilks emphasised his point with an exaggerated wave of his hand.

Before Sekka had drawn back, however, something beyond the two men caught his eye - the slightest movement in the shadows. He wasn't the only one watching, he realised, as an icy shiver of true fear slid down his back. Quickly, he flattened himself against his pole. He knew that he was directly in the line from the dark shape to the two dealing men: anything that went past them, would come his way.

"Take good care of my lovely Key, won't you." Wilks seemed to think he had made a highly amusing joke, and chuckled wheezily to himself. A key, Sekka wondered, all this for a key? A key to _what_?

A second later, the sound of gunfire erupted.

Oh shit, oh shit. Not good, not good at all. If he moved, he'd make an obvious target. If he stayed, and they swept the area, he'd be a sitting duck. More gunfire, and a ragged scream. And then a clatter, as something landed on the ground just beside him.

Sekka crouched down, head at ankle-level, took a deep breath and peered around the pole. He could see a body sprawled on the ground, blood leaking in a dark pool from underneath the round belly. Wilks. Eyes open, staring at the roof. Fuck. This was serious. The possibility of becoming dead suddenly seemed a lot more real than it had a few minutes ago.

The set of feet he could see were moving quickly, and then they disappeared, followed by the slam of a car door, and the sound of an engine being hastily started. Sekka moved back behind the pole, heart thudding rapidly, but mind suddenly clear and focussed. Adrenalin was a wonderful thing.

Something dark caught his eye as he scanned the area warily. It was the object that had come flying towards him when Wilks had been shot, the one he'd been clutching as though it was his most treasured possession. Sekka could see now that it was a box of polished wood. He still had no idea what it contained, but whatever it was, it was worth a very large amount of money. Not pausing to consider the sense of what he was doing, he stretched out his hand and grabbed it. It was no heavier than a book, and he tucked it under one arm.

Right. So there was one dead body; at least one guy with a gun who listed 'cold-blooded murder' under hobbies; and the box that everyone wanted was wedged in his armpit, which made him target #1. Good going, Sekka, he thought to himself. What a stunning display of idiocy. He supposed that after living a combination of wits and luck all these years, he'd finally used up his quota of both.

The green car was suddenly thrown into gear, and screeched out of the parking lot. There was an angry shout, more shots, and the sound of two sets of running footsteps. Sekka closed his eyes and waited for them to find him. Well, he'd had 19 years, that was more than some people got. He wondered if it would hurt terribly much, being shot, or if he'd die quickly. He wondered how he'd look when they found his body, blood bubbling from his mouth, eyes wide and glassy.

So absorbed with his impending death, it took Sekka a few moments to realise that the footsteps had actually receded away from him. What? His eyes snapped open. The footsteps had disappeared altogether. He blinked in confusion. Why wasn't he dead? He was supposed to be dead. He kicked his brain back into gear, and re-thought things through.

Whiny Wilks was out of the picture, but they'd continued to shoot, so it wasn't just a simple hit. Then they'd gone chasing after the green car, which meant there had to be something in there that they wanted. The man? The money? But Sekka had been certain that they were after the box itself.

Suddenly the pieces clicked into place. They thought that the green-car man _had_ the box. That must be it. The shooters hadn't seen the box go flying. They hadn't found it on Wilks, or on the ground, and they'd assumed that the other guy had picked it up and done a runner with it.

Which meant that he was alone, if you didn't count the dead body, which Sekka didn't. Barely daring to breath, he stuck his head around the pole, but everything was still, silent. Carefully, he rose to his feet. Still nothing. Well, there was only one thing to do now, and that was get out of there, fast. He settled the box more securely under his arm, took a deep breath, and bolted out of the carpark as though the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels.

The Ice Angel Key sat on the balcony, peering out through the gilded bars of his cage. It was still early enough that he might be claimed tonight, since it had only been a few hours since the sun had disappeared below the horizon. He was clad in white silk, loose and comfortable, but pleasing enough to be worn when he was in use. The breeze slipped easily through the flimsy material to bite at his flesh with tiny chilled teeth, but what was cold, to him?

It had been a few weeks since he’d last had a Master to please. He winced in memory: that one had been very rough, one of the hardcore S&M crowd. Ice Angel had been hurt – badly – but then, that was what he was good for, after all. There was no bitterness in the thought, simply a disinterested acceptance of his fate. He rubbed at his arms absently, fingers smooth over ivory skin.

Ice Angel had had quite a few owners before Master Wilks, some worse than others. They all blurred together in his memory; a hazy mixture of humiliation and pain. And then, a year or two ago, Master Wilks had come into possession of his Key.

Master Wilks himself wasn’t very daring. A nervous little man with a big belly, Ice Angel didn’t mind him too much. The sex tended to be over quickly, and then his Master would sit for a while, perusing the newspaper, occasionally reading things out loud, explaining them to Ice Angel as though he were a child. Though Ice Angel wasn’t interested in current affairs and didn’t care for the condescending tone, he did love to be talked to, and any company was better than none.

But then his Master had hit upon the idea of lending him out to his ‘friends’, and things had become much worse. Generally, the deal was only for a handful of nights, which meant that they were determined to get their use out of him while they could. He was forced to heal, over and over again, leaving him drained and trembling, and completely at the mercy of his tormentors.

But time took the edge from remembered pain, and it had been a few weeks now. He wondered what the next one would be like - whether he would be cold and calculating, or hot-tempered and explosive.

Not that it mattered. It would simply be another trial to be endured, nothing more or less than he deserved. An interlude to the monotony which was his life.

Ice Angel pressed a palm to one of the bars. It was iron, painted with gold, cool under his slender fingers as they curled around it. He considered fetching a book to while away the time, but he wasn't quite ready to return to the oppressiveness of his rooms, lovely though they were. He tilted his head forwards, until his forehead rested against the cold metal. A number of long, thin, silvery braids slithered forwards off his shoulder, to dangle over the balustrade.

He stared out through the bars, like a delicate, ice-white bird whose wings had been clipped, defeat in his eyes.