Once the address had been given and confirmed (twice, for Tykiri's comfort; but perhaps also to ensure such a simple man was capable of following even simpler instructions,) he had turned to Delaney and asked if they could return to the Estate. The familiarity of this place-- the sounds, the smells, and even his own involvement in it just now, clung to him like a second skin that he could not wait to tear away. Disappointed, but understanding as he always was, Delaney agreed and they left immediately.<br/><br/>Tykiri did not want to stand among the rest of the Masters, staring at the bodies for sale. He was no predator. He was not like them.<br/><br/>But the walk back to the home was weighted with a guilt that knotted his stomach until he was sick on the side of the road. He refused Delaney's concerned hands and asked politely, but pointedly to be left alone. And when he was, he wept.<br/><br/>How many years had it been since he was granted his own freedom? Was that how long it took to become like the rest of them? Did money truly have such power that it could change who he had been and make him like those he openly despised? He was a slaver, no better than the ones who had taken him time and time again. He did not know what had possessed him to act as he had, other than he knew that he could. The impulse had been a selfish one.<br/><br/>But it was Karim. He would have given anything--<i>everything</i>to have his dearest friend at his side again. And yet, all he had needed to offer was silver. But why did it sound so wrong? The conflict haunted his steps the rest of the way home. He locked himself in his private quarters, stripped everything he wore and threw it away. He bathed and scrubbed until his skin was raw. He ran the water hotter than he could stand, and even still he remained until the heat sank into his bones and made him numb. Still, he cried.<br/><br/>Time passed. He laid in his bed, eyes closed, and listened for their arrival. He fought with himself to the point of exhaustion, but at last he had found his resolve.<i>This is different. I am different. He is different. This. Is. Different.</i><br/><br/>And at last, he could hear the gates open and he was out of bed and down the stairs so quickly that no one could have even thought about answering the door. He was dressed more plainly; in a loose white shirt and simple black pants, with his still damp hair curling towards the middle of his back and in front of his eyes. He stood rigidly as the procurer prattled on about the terms of the agreement, but his attention was just past him. He was focused entirely on Karim.<br/><br/>"...Tykiri?" A voice behind him spoke up, so suddenly that it startled him and he bristled, looking back. Delaney had come to join him, as he often did. "Do you need help?"<br/><br/>"No." Tykiri turned back to the slaver and reached for the papers. He squinted, focusing now on where exactly the watercolor shapes actually were in front of him and managed to take them and the pen. There was a dark blur, thicker than the rest towards the bottom, and his signature was messily scrawled, just below the line. He flipped the page and attempted again; this time it landed somewhere off to the left where it was required, but still, the arrangements were set. He shoved the bill back against the chest of the man, whom he hope he would never cross paths with again, and stood aside.<br/><br/>"That will be all, sir." But his curt tone soften as he looked past him again, to Karim. "Please... come in. This is your home now."