A Cautionary Song, Part I

Participants:

cecile_icon.gif logan_icon.gif

Scene Title A Cautionary Song, Part 1
Synopsis And she's standing in the harbor and she's waiting for the sailors in the jolly boat. See how they approach.
Date January 24, 2009

Brooklyn: Prospect Park


Despite the bomb's centralized effect on Midtown, the aftermath it had is far more reaching than just the cone of fallout. Prospect Park is one of the many social victims of the nuclear devastation. While efforts were being made to make it a safe and vibrant cultural oasis in New York City's most populous borough, it is now a strange juxtaposition of urban and rural wilderness. It is also where a number of the city's indigent population finds a rest.

Cecile is lucky for many things, even as she scrapes along on the rocks at the proverbial bottom. One, though it is below freezing tonight, it isn't that windy. Two, she has tucked herself into the pavilion on the park's peninsula. Wrapped in layer upon layer of discarded cloth, the woman resembles a pile of laundry more than a living, breathing person.

Late at night, and quiet save for the very distant sound of traffic, and a mist is either dissipating or emerging on the waters that surround the peninsula. Steam of the same hazy, cloudy variety is expelled with every breath as Logan walks, boots crunching against the grass and gravel of this little patch of mostly untouched landscape. He is not having the best night, if only for the fact of the chill in the air and the idea that he could be someplace else. He's bundled into warm and practical clothes, gloved hands clasping his coat closed, the pockets deep and also weighted, the high collar of the garment doing a little to obscure the bottom half of his face in angular shapes of fabric.

The pavilion is noted, and headed towards, his pace slowing down a little as he tries to see through the structure, to detect anyone's presence. If the bundle lying upon the bench catches his searching gaze, it's only indicated in the fact that he continues to walk, moving around the structure. He peers, with something like curiousity, before simply leaning against one of the wooden pillars and extracting a cigarette, a box of matches. A match strikes sharply, a flicker of light, and he draws in a breath of smoke before breathing it out again, adding more to the hazy atmosphere with something less watery and more acrid.

There is a quiet rustle before the dull metal blade presses against Logan's throat, inevitably pushing his jaw back against the wooden pole. That pile of laundry is erect now, and one tentacle-like appendage that ends in a dark hand swathed in a glove that has seen better days holding the scavenged dinner knife, tarnished but still useful.

"Give me one," comes the demanding, ragged voice of the woman. It's clear she probably doesn't need it, given the likelihood of substances that have already forged their way down her rutted throat over the years, not to mention a possible respiratory problem. "Or go away."

A small gasp makes his throat shift against the knife resting there when he first feels the touch of the worn blade, eyebrows raising. Well that is an interesting development, and he almost smiles into the darkness, if not for the fact that cut-throats aren't to be fucked with. With his own cigarette pinched between two fingers and his matchbox and cigarette pack gathered in the other, he pauses for a moment before tentatively lifting the former hand clench his burning cigarette between his teeth. Then, smoothly, keeping himself still so as not to jostle or encourage the knife, he slips a new cigarette out of the pack, and then holds this up, along with the offer of the match box. "Could've just asked," he says, in a tone of mock offense, his voice crisp with an almost uppercrust English accent. And as soon as he talks, something changes just a little in the woman - it's subtle, but it's calming, pleasant, a distant shift of bodily chemicals.

It all gets chalked up to feelgoodery on the count of victory. Cecile smiles smugly, proud of herself that she's outsmarted the posh Englishman. Crisis evaded. He could have a gun or something else, after all. Leave it to a limey to be a fruit in such regards. The woman snatches both the matchbook and cigarette, but she keeps her knife poised while she deftly lights the indulgence with one hand. It only comes away after she's flicked the matchbook onto the ground. "I did ask," she finally says as she exhales a plume of smoke into the gathering haze, adding more chemicals to her own (and those that linger in her) to ease the pains. "I was just persuasive."

His pack of cigarettes is disappeared into the less weighted pocket, and Logan takes a deeper breath of smoke as if in celebration for not getting his throat turned into a ragged, gaping opening. The feeling of goodliness within Cecile is maintained, left to simmer pleasantly beneath all other sensation. "So does this mean I don't have to go away?" he asks, now turning towards her - he doesn't trust most people enough to turn his back on them, and he's learned an early lesson with this case in particular. Pale green eyes dart up and down the hidden figure of the woman, nose wrinkling a little whether at the sight of her or perhaps the smell. His arms rests against the pillar, cigarette smoking just lightly above his head, his other hand now hidden in his deep coat pocket.

"Dunno why you would," Cecile says with a snort of sorts as she moves away from the pillar and toward the other end of the small pavilion. She's still well within sight and sound, but the distance is bound to make both of them more comfortable, regardless of what's in their systems. "Only reason why you gave me this is 'cause you felt bad."

Faint amusement causes that crinkle of his nose to smooth out, a smile pulling at his mouth around his cigarette as he takes another drag from it. "Maybe," Logan says. The pleasant sensation in Cecile dulls some as she moves away, before he allows it to disappear altogether as he glances away from her, ducking his head to see through the structure of the pavilion, as if there were anything to see other than the stretch of misty park land. "Maybe I just like to be generous. Sharing and all that. Is it worth it?" A gesture with his cigarette-holding hand, the glow at the end of it making a brief streak of light in the air.

"No one shares anymore." The woman is as dejected as she is surly when she makes the statement, looking away as she takes another drag on the rolled up tobacco. "But you," she continues, looking back across the structure to the man beyond it, "Deep down, like ingrained in your genes. You felt bad. Coming over here all high and mighty like you was some…some fateful gift. But all you did was kill people and rip up everything you could find to make the place more like home. So you see me. You feel bad. You give me a cigarette. Thanks a fuckin' lot."

"Oh dear," Logan responds, with all the insincerity in the world, unphased if somewhat taken aback by her statements, peering at her with a little more interest now. Contemplatively, he takes a deep, deep pull of smoke, breathing it out of his mouth and nostrils, the smoke curling in a dragon-like manner. Then, he pitches his cigarette away, towards the water though it doesn't make it. "I suppose you're right. If the shoe fits, as they say." The hand in his pocket extracts itself, black leather of his glove making his hand a little shapeless for a moment in the gloom, which perhaps makes the long object that follows it a little confusing until the metal catches watch light there is. It's not a pistol, it's an overkill - double-barrels point towards Cecile once the sawed-off shotgun is extracted from the depths of his coat, not aiming for anywhere fatal, and the trigger is squeezed.

The darkness only serves Logan for so long, and his gift helps as well in keeping Cecile occupied while he pulls out the weapon. When she does she it, she drops the cigarette and subsequently burns her hand. It bounces off her leg, doing no damage through the coats she has bundled herself in.

"Holy fuck!" she shouts, backing away as much as she can until she is up against an opposite pillar. "The hell are you doing, you nut?! I didn't do shit to you!"

"Your people didn't do shit to the British, either," Logan points out, rather calmly, his accent degrading a little towards his truer Cockney, the heightening of the situation stealing away his focus on such pretences. The BANG! of a bullet gone awry could draw attention, it could well save her. In fact, a rumble of an engine sounds out, a deep guttural sound of a truck, and headlights can be seen some distance away, fleeting, as someone steers the vehicle over that grass and gravel, away from roads, heading towards them. Logan doesn't seem disturbed by this addition, however, keeping the gun trained on her. "I don't feel bad now, either. And you're fucking welcome." His voice lightens into something less severe, tilting his head, and he takes a step away from the pavilion. "Come along."

Cecile cringes and ducks when the first shot is fired, moving as quickly as she can out of the pavilion. The truck - someone working in the park, guarding it as best they can from…well, the likes of Cecile and Logan respectively. Adrenaline sweeping away the ache in her joints and the symptoms of withdrawal that had wracked her system for the last few days, Cecile staggers out across the grass, doing her best to make it to the truck before the man decides to unleash the second shell into her back.

The metal and joints of the trigger creak inaudibly as Logan's finger tightens around it, as if contemplating gunning her down as she runs. A few more seconds and she'll be far enough that the remaining bullet in Logan's gun would likely hit anything but his target, but still, he stops pointing it towards her retreating figure, and rests it against his shoulder. After a moment, he more calmly follows her, his expression an icy, stoic mask.

The truck comes into view, now, washed out by darkness thanks to the headlights set on high beam, flooding the area with light far enough to make Logan squint a little. As eyes adjust, it doesn't seem as though this truck has anything to do with the park. A rusty-red colour, beat up and durable, it grinds to a halt and the man that climbs out of the passenger seat is no policeman or park guard or any of the sort. Big, white and bald, he surveys the situation for about a second, before he's moving towards Cecile, aggressive, a knife coming out of his pocket. Behind him, another burly figure climbs out of the truck, and the driver stays where he is, relaxed.

"Help, she's getting away," Logan says quietly with mock concern as he continues his stroll, a smile spreading across his features.

Maybe it's the dark, or maybe it's the way the big bald brute carries himself, but Cecile doesn't see the knife in his hand. She barrels into him, colliding with his broad chest before she bounces off and falls to the ground. She can only imagine the worst, and it's bad enough. If she were any brighter, she might find some difficulty in presuming a man like Logan - a man with goons - would be interesting in doing that sort of thing to a woman like her.

But maybe it's been a slow week for them, too.

First Burly Goon is all over her, switch blade at her throat and then subsequently yanking her to her feet, ruthlessly pushing the knife against skin, penetrating that first layer of skin enough to leave a shining smear of blood behind. Second Burly Goon is moving on over, a pistol extracted from his jacket as a precaution. A somewhat leaner, younger man, a little scruffier and with a smile that flashes brightly in the dark. "Good night for it," he says, in a lilting accent of his own.

"Just get her in the truck," Logan says, raising an eyebrow in an almost 'no nonsense' expression as he makes for the vehicle, letting the two men deal with her. No one is explaining anything to Cecile - there's no explanation for the loops of metal that cuff around her wrists, or the blind fold, or the other warm similarly-bound body she'll come into contact with in the back of the truck as she's shoved to the floor of it.

Car doors slam shut, and there's that rumble of an engine again, making her surroundings vibrate as it pulls away from the pavilion, to drive on out of the park. No one tells her where she's going, either.

But she'll find out soon enough.


l-arrow.png
January 24th: Another Member
Previously in this storyline…
The Ol' Reacharound

Next in this storyline…
A Cautionary Song, Part II

r-arrow.png
January 24th: Woman's Work
Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License