He'd been taken in for questioning - involved in a case of murder. Why? Because the cameras had seen him go in the elevator to the late senator candidate John Starkings, and leave without him. That wouldn't really be a problem, except they'd gotten off on the roof, according to all of the evidence. And it was the truth - he'd left the elevator with the politician - but he was blocking the angle that showed that John had a gun.

The big issue, however, was that Keslan had gotten back on the elevator, and left, after John had landed face first on the concrete after falling from the roof of a very large, very high-class hotel.

That led to Keslan, sitting in a chair, with a pair of cuffs around his wrist and to the chair, so he couldn't leave. There were so many minds intruding on his, as well, that he couldn't form a coherent projection to send back at anyone to get them to just... let him go. He was letting out breath after laboured breath, trying to do something to alleviate the pressure on his mind.

Since he was still a minor, and he refused to be sent back to his no-good drug addict, pimp parents, he was sitting here, waiting to meet with a counselor. Social services. The big idea was - if he wasn't convicted of murder - he'd needed to be placed into the foster system.

He knew full and well he wouldn't be convicted of murder, if for no other reason than it was self defense. And, there was no murder weapon - nothing to indicate he'd done anything more than jumped. That was the bonus of reading minds - he could hear some of the important stuff, as well as the run-off that was plaguing him right now.

Closing his eyes, the boy slid down in the chair, messy looking shirt with a pair of dice emblazoned on the front riding up his torso a bit. He didn't care. Closing his eyes, he tried, unsuccessfully, to block out the white noise.

At least, at this point, he was a little more comfortable; even if he had been stuck in this police station for what felt like an eternity. Dirty jeans finished off his look. He looked like a street kid, and, without a doubt, that's exactly what he was. He'd been arrested once before on a count of juvenile prostitution - and he'd been let out early for 'good behavior'. One would think he was a celebrity - he'd been 'incarcerated' for all of forty five minutes.

Quietly, he opened his eyes, to stare up at the ceiling. "I have to get out of here..." He murmured, mostly to himself. After all - he couldn't handle all of the noise.

He hadn't noticed, just yet, but his nose had started trickling a little bit of blood, that was warmly running down the side of his lip. He was a little pale, at that - the more mental pressure on him, the more difficult things became for him.

He had to keep that steely gaze on her. After all, the second they left the place, he'd just tell her to let him go, and she would. His impressive detainment record indicated that. Still, he was a little startled when she said he was bleeding. After a moment of uncertainty, he accepted the tissue, and touched it to his face - pulling away the bright red that had ran from his nose. His brows furrowed, and he had to shake his head a little bit, trying, once again to push some of the pressure from his mind.

He brought the tissue to his nose, and held it there - luckily, the bleeding had always stopped... like a pressure valve meant to release some of the steam that he built up, listening to so many people at once. Still, his attention was on her. She was surprisingly difficult to read - but, just like every social worker, she was focused on him. Though, a slightly amusing thought - that she wasn't afraid of him, like the last social woman.

That was a bonus, at least. After a second, he balled up the tissue, since his face was cleaned as best it could be without water or something like that. Sitting up straight in the chair, he watched her, the hardened gaze of a boy who'd done his fair share of living - and then some.

"The dude had a gun. He told me he had something to show me." He said, simply, shrugging his shoulders with as little interest as he could portray. Still - what he'd seen was horrid. The fact that he was responsible was worse. But he'd practiced his story. "He was nuts... said he could fly, and that he had to show me. So we went to the roof. Crazy old guy walked to the edge... and he jumped." He said, shrugging a little.

Of course, he was leaving out the interim - the fact that before they'd gone to the roof, he'd made about two hundred dollars for a 'good time' with the old bastard. It'd be best if he left that particular train out anyways. No need to get picked up again for accidentally admitting to wrongdoing.

He rubbed his recently-released wrist nodding slightly. "Thanks for that. Last social chick left me locked up the whole time." He said, with another little shrug. Absently, a hand came to the side of his head, where he placed a little bit of pressure.

Something made him pause. His eyes narrowed, and his breath caught in his throat. "Get down." he said, his voice sharply. Of course, he said that - as he was leaping across the table. He didn't care if he scared her - bullets smashed through the door and the plaster of the flimsy interrogation wall, coming from the main lobby area. "Guy with a gun..." His voice trailed off - his head was literally pounding. He couldn't feel emotions, but panic sent the mind into overdrive - which in turn made things really hard for the resident psychic. "He's looking for... for someone. If we stay here..." But all of the thoughts were running together, and it was hard for him to focus on anything any more.

Strangely enough, he was unusually complacent with this whole situation. Truth be told, he was kind of surprised he saved her, too. He didn't really care. But that wasn't really his problem. If he could build up enough strength, he might be able to make whoever it was go away if they came to the room.

Trust was not something that an urchin did very well, or very quickly. But the sound of bullets were more than capable of convincing him. Not to mention the throbbing in his head was all but unbearable, now - he could no longer make out individual thoughts, they were just a mess of heightened panic and image and sound. It was something he'd never experienced before - such a massive onslaught of psychic imagery.

Her hand was a clear beacon, almost. She wasn't lying - her thoughts, though vague, told him enough to know she wanted to save him. He just wished he could see how. He wished he could better understand. Or silence the cacophonous, massive sound that rang through his brain, bypassing all of his physical senses.

Despite the table, and despite the sound of shattering glass, he looked at her, one hand pressed against the side of his head, trying as hard as he could to force the noise from his skull. It didn't help, however, as much as he wanted them to. His nose had once again begun trickling a virulent streak of red.

He couldn't keep his gaze on her or her hand, or her face. He was too distorted and disoriented, being bombarded on all sides of his mind with the 'screams' of people. There were several who were actually hurt, but he couldn't pick up the dead - after all, you didn't think, then. Not when you were down like that.

Keslan's throat felt raw, and he could feel warmth on the side of his head, as well - blood was trickling from his ears, now, too. He'd never been mentally overloaded before, and this was driving him to the very edge of his sanity - and probably everyone else's sanity, as well. He couldn't maintain this many minds, even when they were calm.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he took a proverbial leap.

His free hand came to hers, grabbing it despite the connotation it might hold. She could - and probably would - betray him. Something would go wrong, and it would be her fault. She was a social worker. They never really cared. They never really wanted to help. It always turned out that way.

Still. She truly believed she could help. And he was willing to trust her, just this once, if it meant that the pressure in his head would go away, even for a second. "He's coming here..." He murmured - those cold thoughts cutting right through the raucous mental noise, as it approached the door. He couldn't focus any more, he couldn't make him go away.

So. He trusted her.

It was a feeling like falling into a pool of crystal clear water, after being forced to walk in fire. Immediately, the mental voices were far away, out of his reach, and his mind was greeted instead by blissful silence. Only one thought process remained, though it was quiet and gentle, as if by intent, rather than concern. It was as if a massive weight had been lifted from his head and his chest, and he was once again able to breathe.

His breath came back, in slow, short gasps, not unlike hyperventilating, but even that was too rough. He was coming back to himself, and though he did fall to his knees, it was not out of pain, but rather, out of relief. Like playing tug-of-war as a child, and your opponent simply let go. All of the strain was released in a sort of backlash effect, and he was forced to the ground.

Except, this wasn't right. His mind, starting to once again register thoughts and feelings, realized that this shouldn't be. After all, just a moment ago, they'd been in a police building, and a madman had been raining bullets down upon the building in a haze of angry retribution, revenge cutting like a knife through the thoughts of many an innocent bystander.

Still, he couldn't deny the relief he felt. Once he was out of there, to wherever here was, it was... better. His mind felt like it was his again, and wasn't being pressed in on all sides. The bloodflow from his nose and ears had become a slight trickle, as if whatever force that had been extracting it was already losing its battle. The pressure was alleviated, and the need to 'vent', so to speak, was over.

Bringing a grimy hand up to his forhead, he wiped easily at the thick sheen of sweat, unwittingly leaving a slight off-color trail on his forhead. Keslan's eyes lifted back up to Paige - the social worker? Who had somehow managed to get him to... a roof. Roof? Something. They were up high. The question was, how had they gotten here? Keslan wasn't a tiny kid, and though he had passed out before, he didn't think he'd done so, now.

"Yeah... yeah. It's much quieter up here." He murmured, taking a few deep, needed breaths. Blue and white. He remembered that.

His brows knit together, looking at that concerned face. He could hear her thoughts now, as plain as day. She was genuinely concerned for him. But she was also trying to figure out how to cover up a secret. Her secret.

How she'd brought him here. He narrowed his gaze on her, and allowed himself to push a little deeper. Secrets weren't secrets around him. He had to be certain that she wasn't going to turn out to be a hit man, or a mafioso or something - even if that still didn't explain...

One word, caught his mental radar, and stuck. One word that rang truer than any other he'd heard before, either outwardly, or in his head. He'd heard similar things, emphasis before. But never like this.

"You're a... witch?" He stated, confused. Of course, stranger things could happen - after all, he'd just figured it out by plucking the answer from her brain, after all. The question of how that was possible was a stupid one, one that he had no reason to ask.

Still, this was decidedly a strange point. On a roof - or in the air - with... with a witch. Somehow, he was able to take it in stride, though that confused look didn't leave his face.

It took him a second - his orientation was still in the 'dis' category, and though he knew exactly what he heard, maybe it was out of sequence. Stranger things had happened. After all, it was like being extracted from the bottom of the ocean before one had a chance to get rid of the pressure. It was all rushing back in to him, leaving him less coordinated than usual.

Looking up at her, again, he tried to stand, wobbled, and found himself once again back on his ass. There was nothing to be done about that - the young psychic was not without his faults, and high-stress situations were certainly one of them. Then again, he could resolve this one pretty quickly if he had to, or if she decided that him knowing her secret was now a problem.

"You're a witch. A good witch. And a whitelighter... whatever that is." He murmured, his voice uneven, having lost a bit of the bite it had had back in the station. Life threatening experiences tended to do that to you, especially if the only other dangers were typically avoided with a few words. "I know, because I can hear your thoughts." He said.

That's what gave him 'that idea'. His certainty came from her certainty, no other source. Biting his lower lip, he closed his eyes, and leaned his head forward, almost to his knees. "I couldn't breathe in there. Everyone was panicking, and it was tearing up my brain..." His bloodstained features could attest to that - he was a mess, literally and figuratively. Blood was already drying from both nostrils and either of his ears, making him look like a face painting gone horribly wrong.

Looking to her uncertainly. Like he couldn't tell her that? Looking up made him dizzy, though, so his head resumed it's downturn, eyes-closed situation.

"Whenever there's a lot of people or a lot of stress, all the thoughts just crowd and crowd until there's no more room. I almost blacked out, I know it." He murmured, again, keeping his voice as level as he could. At least now he was starting to feel his stomach settle. "My question is... how... how did we get here? What's going on...?" His voice was starting to weaken, and he knew it.

He might still pass out, if he couldn't get his breathing and everything back under control - that was why he let his questions falter and trail off to silence, remaining in that prone position. He hoped Paige would be straight with him, at this point - he didn't want to dig around her brain, not in his current situation.

Another wave of nausea left him obeying her orders to put his head between his knees. There was a lot of problems that came along with his apparent gift, and it was not something he was particularly thrilled with. The lucky part was, though, that he could at least feel a little better, considering the absence of 'noise'. He sniffed, absently, getting that horrid 'taste' in his mouth, copper from the blood he'd recently shed. All in all, Keslan desperately wanted the weakness to fade.

"All... all right." A friend that he could trust? A line he'd heard far more than he cared to remember. All of his 'friends' that he could 'trust' usually needed something from him. Drugs, sex, money. Things he could get, things he could provide. Things he did provide, because... that was all he knew. Her voice didn't betray any false intention, but in his current state, he was having a difficult enough time trying to listen in to her thoughts.

He wasn't feeling better, aside from the lack of pressure, which was massively unusual, as far as he could remember. He usually felt better pretty quickly, but this time... not so much. His brows furrowed, and his eyes narrowed on her, as he tried to be somewhat defiant. Even if he said he could trust her, Keslan had never lived a life that was conducive to trust. It was unfortunate, but there was nothing to be done with it. He couldn't just give someone his trust. Not that easily.

Still, he let his head droop once more, a quiet acquiescence that he couldn't much help. Then... as his eyes closed... he began to feel warm. That warmth suffused him, wrapped him up in something that he couldn't even begin to comprehend. But his head almost immediately began to feel better. The nausea slipped away, and was replaced with something unusual.

Comfort.

He didn't know what that was like. This was... something new.

He let his eyes flutter open, seeing the last hints of a golden glow. The fact that he could lift his head without that quite painful pounding in his head was quite wonderful, actually. Still, he didn't know how she did it, or even why. "I should... I should get back. I've bothered you too much already - I was just going to go... home." He said, though he obviously hesitated when he said that. He was not the kind of person to really tell everything as it was - especially considering his current situation.

Regardless, she'd read his file - she knew exactly the kind of parents he had, and what he could expect at home. Extrapolation would point that he was lying - very well, actually. His face was a mask of sincerity. All in all, even after everything that had just happened, he still wasn't sure how to go about this. Trusting her was not out of the question... but... it wasn't easy.

After all, they were now standing - well, sitting - on top of the golden gate bridge. "... It's alright to leave, right...?" He asked, uncertainly, looking to her. He didn't know how much of the law she would be observing, considering the way things had rolled around at the station. It wasn't safe there, hell, he didn't even know what was going on there. He'd barely been conscious enough to determine that there was a problem.

Keslan tried to rise - wobbled, again, but this time, didn't fall particularly hard. He was able to keep himself standing a little more, before he crashed. So... moving was still out of the question, at least for now. "Whatever you did.... thank... thanks. I feel a little better." He murmured, softly.

His eyes narrowed on her, as she spoke to him. She knew his problems, she knew his file. She knew exactly how his life had turned for the worst. She now knew about his gift, as well, and apparently had hers, as well. But she said it once more. She was his social worker. They never made things right. Not yet... hell, not ever. They were afraid of him. He was a hateful, spiteful individual - or at least, that's how he portrayed himself as. He liked the fact that it kept people off his back... for the most part.

But it was lonely, and he wouldn't bother disputing that.

There was one difference, though, that he was able to see. She didn't want to force him to do anything. She wanted to help, not dictate. That in itself was a rather strange quality, that he had no real idea how to deal with. He leaned backwards, so that he could stare at her. Why was she so different? Because she was a witch? Because she was a whitelighter? He let his mind reach out to hers, trying to scan her for a reason.

She was saying exactly what she was thinking. It was almost impossible to do that - matching word for word, intent for intent. It caused him to almost wince. How could he not trust someone who couldn't even remotely hide their intentions from their mind? She wasn't trying to justify him, and didn't think she'd just get brownie points...

"People... don't... people don't help. All anyone does is use everyone. It's hard to hear that you want to just help me... you don't even know me. All you've got is a picture and a paper. You know what my life is like... but, it's still..." There was a bitterness in his voice. He wanted to trust her. She was the first person in a long time to have been nice to him, even a little. He wasn't used to it. "I see the world the way it really is. I see people every day, who lie, and cheat, and take, and I get to see their innermost thoughts. I know what people really want, deep down, below what they tell everyone else. The stuff they hide from their wives and boyfriends and children..."

He put his head back between his legs - he felt like he was going to be ill, again. He'd lived a lot of those deep down desires... for a reasonable price. They weren't his most powerful memories, but they were also not particularly fond memories, either. He didn't usually react this way... but then again, he didn't talk about this, either. He'd never opened up to a social worker. He couldn't - telling them he could see their deepest, darkest secrets was a one way ticket to a jail cell or a padded one.

"People use people. That's what they do. But if you mean it... and I mean mean it... I'll... I'll trust you. But... if you don't... if you have some motive I can't see... don't ask me to trust you. Please." He said. That please was quite possibly the first real hint of emotion other than sickness or pain he'd displayed for her. For him.

If for a second he doubted her sincerity... he'd end this conversation by force.

Again, her thoughts matched her words completely. They rang with sincerity and truth and it almost made his head hurt, focusing on her. He could dig as deeply as he wanted, but it didn't matter - people couldn't fake their thoughts. Or at least, he'd never met someone that could. Biting his lower lip, he closed his eyes again. If he did this - if he jumped, he'd be leaving himself vulnerable to all of that hateful, evil stuff that he lived in his everyday life anyways.

But if she was telling the truth - if everything she said was exactly the way she said it... then perhaps he'd be leaving himself open to something a bit more positive. It was that same question, however, that rang in the back of his mind, as it typically did. The why. Why would anyone go out of their way to save someone? To protect them from pain? It didn't seem to be the kind of thing anyone he'd met thusfar would do.

That was his problem. He'd seen all walks of life. School teachers, who had to go to their class the very next day. The rich, and the famous, the poor and the underhanded. No one was exempt from the standards he'd come to expect from people. If that was the case - 'good' people were a terrifyingly rare breed. He ran his fingers over his arms, to protect him a little better from the cold.

"If that's the truth... if there really are good people running around, then..." Do or die. Sink or swim. Life or death. He could flip a coin, at this point, and have just as much to go on. Right now it was just gut instinct that was tugging at him. His instincts kept him alive - as did his quirk. As he finally let those dark eyes open, so that he could look at her, he watched her carefully.

"I can't believe it. I've never met someone who was legitimately a good person. So..." He let his gaze narrow on her, almost a glare. The kind of thing that was enough to peel paint from walls, and send kids and their parents trundling to the other side of the road to get by him without getting close. "I'll try. I'll try to trust you. You're the first person that... that asked. So for now... you've got it."

But, at his roots, he was still a street rat, where everything simply went wrong for him. "But if this is bogus... well... I've survived this long 'cause I don't let people do me wrong and get away with it." It was a thinly veiled threat, certainly - a tone of uncertainty, however, not anger, was what he let in to his voice. He wasn't mad... but he was serious, and he wanted her to know that.

He let his eyes close once more, the intensity of his gaze fading away beneath heavy eyelids. "I need to get... home. Or to one of the shelters. It's hard enough to even stay awake right now." He mumbled, keeping his head on his knees. But it was painfully obvious that he wasn't going to let himself sleep - though he just said he'd trust her, there was certainly a difference between trusting someone awake and trusting someone asleep.

Though - up here, he had something he didn't have often - silence. He was reluctant to leave that.