[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/WIA4zqR.gif[/img][/center]
[center][img]https://d30y9cdsu7xlg0.cloudfront.net/png/49993-200.png
[/img][/center]
[center][h2]New York, Bounty's Rest[/h2][/center]
[center][h3]Seven PM[/h3][/center]

Placing an ornate ring on the counter of Bounty's Rest, the gaze which met Milo did so with a sense of awe. His bloodied and tattered clothes spoke of a vicious battle, and word was already spreading of 'some kid' putting Loco to the sword. It would however appear that Milo's precious weapon was gone, a casualty of war, as it were. Broken in the fight, Loco had shattered the blade but not before his heart was punctured by its eager thirst. "Damn, nigga." Doc spoke up, rubbing the beard protruding from his chin. "You scary as shit, you know that?" He chuckled, placing his thumb and index finger on the ring's shape, picking it up for a better view. "With the mess ya’ left behind, you hardly needed proof of the guy's death." Placing the ring in a safe below the counter, Doc produced a small metal case of currency, handing the fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of money to Milo. Someone high up on the food chain wanted Loco dead, badly. It wasn't hard to see how this was a power struggle. Loco was in someone's way, and they wanted him gone. This wasn't an assignment paid for by a grief struck widow, or someone who had been wronged by the man. Someone wanted him out of the equation and they paid accordingly. The riskier the job, the higher the pay. "For a nigga who doesn't need to eat or drink, those fifteen grand will last ya' a while. By the way, where you're sword at?" 

[color=ec008c]"Gone."[/color] Milo returned quietly, as indifferent as ever while accepting the bounty of his task. 

"And you look like shit." Doc added, a grin crossing his lips, the man's dark eyes trailing over the boy. "Most of that blood ain't yours, is it?" He was aware of Milo's supernatural healing factor, but the boy could bleed all the same.

[color=ec008c]"No."[/color] The answer rang out, a clear contrast to the personality Milo had displayed for the gangster he used to get to Loco. Without another word, the boy started up the stairs towards his room, peeling off the torn and bloodied clothes on a straight path to the bathroom. Without a care in the world, Milo released his grip around the fabric and let the clothes now painted red fall to the carpet, his shoes soon joining their side as naked feet brought him below a warm, comfortable stream of water. 

Leaning against the wall, Milo released a soft yawn, the large amount of regeneration required against the beast of a man he had fought catching up with him. The boy felt fatigued, and understandably so. Though the loss of his sword was a critical error, he would be able to buy a new one with the money he had been given, however for the moment, fifteen thousand dollars would last him a while. Like Doc had stated, for someone who doesn't need to eat or drink, money tended to remain. In truth, this meant that Milo could relax for a while, maybe take a prolonged break where he could focus on blowing off some steam. Placing a foot outside the shower, Milo wrapped his fingers around a towel and dried his frame. There hadn't been much blood on his skin, but rather it was caught up by his clothes now ruined for future use. Stepping into the bedroom, Milo opened a closet and viewed the meagre selection of clothes contained within. 

Slipping into a new pair of boxers, Milo slid into a set of black cargo pants and a slightly oversized black hoodie. Let it never be said that that the boy was colorful in clothes nor personality. Doc had stated that if he couldn't get rid of the fringe, at least he could dress differently. According to the motel owner, Milo didn't even attempt to discourage the emo vibe he gave off. Perhaps the man knew what he was talking about, given how Milo couldn't care less. Covering his feet in a pair of comfortable socks, Milo grabbed hold of a new set of shoes he had recently bought for just the occasion. One would however comment on the fact that they appeared to look the same as his old pair. 

As was a reasonable course of action, Milo disposed of this old clothes, setting them alight in the bathroom before washing away the charred remains accordingly. He wasn’t about to put more work than necessary on Doc’s shoulders.

Placing his hands in his sweater's pockets, Milo skipped down the stairs with rapid grace and offered Doc a wave on his way to the door. "Leavin', kid?" 

[color=ec008c]"Yeah."[/color] Milo replied, covering his ears with the brightly pink headphones he had used before and adjusted the cloth shoulder bag with its strap crossing his chest, slipping the money into its contents.

"Try not to get killed, eh?" The old man offered his farewells in a way he was well known for, winking teasingly at Milo who managed a soft smile for the first time in months. Needless to say, it caught the man off guard, though the boy was out the door before Doc could bring the shock into words. Rather, all he could do was chuckle softly once Milo's shape had vanished beyond the entrance. 

Losing his sword, earning quite a lot of money and having nowhere in particular to be, Milo's schedule was free and fluid. There was no telling where he'd head from here, what his destination was. In truth, he had no clue himself. Perhaps simply walking and seeing where he'd ultimately end up was the only plan currently on his mind. Perhaps so, but it was a reasonable course of action. One thing was certain, however. Milo would make his way out of the villainous part of the city and perhaps find himself a pleasant spot to catch his breath. That was a good place to start.