Fear and Loathing

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deckard_icon.gif logan_icon.gif

Scene Title Fear and Loathing
Synopsis One of Logan's old employees decides that there's no time like the present for sorting out a few unresolved issues with his former employer.
Date March 15, 2009

The Rookery

After the bomb, Staten Island grew to become a haven for undesirables. If the Island is their home, then the Rookery is their playplace. Equal parts gritty and decadent, it boasts dark alleys, bright lights, and every pleasure that one could imagine. Provided you know where to ask, of course.

Some areas have fared better than the rest of the island; some have fared far worse. For each well-tended brothel or gaming house, there's at least one creaky, crumbling structure left over from the days of pre-bomb suburban glory.

The population is considered universally distasteful, even by much of the rest of Staten Island. Criminals, refugees, victims of radiation poisoning… Those who have nowhere else to go often end up here. The most common method of getting out is to have your body dropped in the river, followed closely by being left wherever it is you got killed.

Good luck.


That motley drama- oh, be sure

It shall not be forgot!

With its Phantom chased for evermore,

By a crowd that seize it not,

Through a circle that ever returneth in

To the self-same spot,

And much of Madness, and more of Sin,

And Horror the soul of the plot.


It's at an hour of night wherein not even the Rookery is alive. Some neon signs glare pointlessly down into the streets, others switched off entirely, and unlike the city that never sleeps over yonder, there's hardly the sound of any traffic. Within the darkest point of the evening, in both what the sky has to offer, and the points of light on the street.

The Happy Dagger is one such building still lighting up the late, late evening, a point of neon pink, orange, and yellow on the street, exuberant and warm. But even now, the windows are empty of activity and begin to go dead, like blinded eyes winking into sightlessness. The cursive garish pink words of the establishment's name switch off. Rain seems to hover above the ground in a fine fog that drifts vaguely white down the street, and above, the black sky starts to become an oily grey, sunlight considering its options in rising or falling.

The door swings open, and out steps Logan, his cane clasped beneath his arm as he comes to pause out from the Dagger, hands up to protect the flame light of his lighter as he touches it to a cigarette clenched beneath his teeth. The remaining lights cast a distorted shadow of the lanky man onto slick, puddled pavement, before everything finally begins to switch off, the Dagger is just another dreary building in this dreary neck of the woods. Once all the lights are gone, it's easy to see the cracked paint job, the cheapness of its construction, all the flaws that neon washes out.

Leaving this behind, he starts to walk, moving off down the street at a long striding pace, cane shifting to be held in his hand and click against the pavement in a sound now customary to him. Step step-click, step step-click. His figure is cut in a coat not quite as expensive as the rest of his clothing, designed to hide it under grey wool and shabbiness. The shininess of his shoes and the pinstripe of his slacks tells a different story. The fire-end of his cigarette glows as he draws in a thick breath while he walks, letting out the smoke to mingle with the fog.

Step step-click, step step-click, step step-click, step step-click scuff step step. Somewhere along the road, where a particularly dark and musty alley intersects with the grimy street, the regular pattern of Logan's precise footfalls is joined by a second set. No cane, and no company. Two cheap work boots black against damp asphalt, scuffing with stealth that's just a little too deliberate in their creeping stir through the clinging fog. Something surreptitious is afoot.

Something tall and lean in a black ski mask and leather gloves, with an overcoat far shoddier than Logan's best effort to seem pedestrian likely stripped off the back of someone who should've been paying more attention. The clothing underneath that is largely nondescript, save for the text stamped in green across a faded blue t-shirt under a white button down: ROOT TIL SPARROWFART. Whatever the fuck that means. He never thought to ask.

His breath fogs thin in the chill pre-dawn light, both hands occupied. The right by a a blocky grey gun, the left by something shiny, delicate and cylindrical. Rather than announce himself, he waits for the onset of a reaction, one finger already curled heavy on the trigger, just short of a pull, exactly like you're not supposed to do. Fight or flight. What's it gonna be?

Or an entirely different instinct altogether. Pale eyes draw up from where he'd been studying the dirty pavement flowing slickly beneath his feet, towards the sound of other footsteps, and stopping in his own tracks when his gaze automatically lands on the most threatening shape in the vicinity - the unmistakable silhouette of a gun. Logan's eyes automatically flare a little greener, and nothing really happens, save for a brief intermission of the ability found within the system of the gun wielder, his eyes settling back into their usual colour of far less vibrant, icy green.

"This is all a little ordinary, don't you think," Logan says, neither fighting or taking flight just yet, even if he goes rigid with tension, steam of his breathing wisping out in short, curling bursts. His face contorts into something pleading, almost sympathetic, a step forward as he says, "I don't have any— " And that's as far as he gets. Fight or flight? Maybe both. The cane arcs with a flash of silver, much like he'd done to Eileen when trying to bat the pistol from her hand, aiming to knock aside the man's point blank aim so that running might mean anything at all.

Outwardly at least, there is no readily apparent ability to quash. This particular masked menace fits in well with the laborious drag of early morning through Staten streets in an ever-increasing state of disrepair. It's exceedingly ordinary. Shabby ski-masked man with gun attempting to take on wealthier man in the indistinct haze that characterizes this particular span of not-quite night or day.

The milisecond movement registers, he steps back and pulls the trigger, too wary of that cane to have any interest at all in being in range of an unexpected swat. The routine nature of the exchange becomes slightly less so. There is no bang or kick or expulsion of gasses — just the spring-loaded leap of twin taser prongs eager to lance through Logan's coat and into the flesh beneath.

The snarling wolf head's trajectory finds nothing, save for scratching its nose on the wall of the nearest building, before falling away entirely with a heavy clatter as hands loosen. The yelp Logan gives as the prongs stab through wool, silk, and skin in the split of a second is enough to pierce through the silence, body jerking as electricity flows invisibly through the wires and into flesh. No, this isn't exactly routine at all, and the shock of both pain and what's happening writes itself on Logan's features.

It's his right leg that fails, collapsing beneath him like so much weakened support structure, and sending the man toppling down, hand smacking against the pavement in a purely instinctive effort to catch himself. The pain is sharp, mind-numbingly paralytic for the moments it lasts, which seems to go on forever.

Electricity crackles and snaps sharp through the humid air, racking harsh off the walls stretching high overhead when Logan's assailant pulls the trigger one more time for good measure. Teeth bared through the mask's open mouth tug the plastic cap off the syringe gripped in his left, then spit it aside, and a twee squirt of transparent fluid later, he's down on one knee. A gloved hand flattens over Logan's face, shoving it further aside so that he can jab the needle neatly into his neck while he's still disinclined to resist.

It's hard to tell where the taser's stopping effect ends and the tranquilizer's begins. There may be a subtle grace period in between. Deliberate planning aside, this guy isn't a doctor. The spent syringe is cast aside, the taser is tucked into his coat pocket, and he leans to retrieve the cane so that he can fling it back into the alley he came out of.

One way or another, Logan is doomed to follow. Both hands seek purchase around the collar of his jacket, and he starts dragging.

The bridging gap from the forcible nature of the taser to the more gentler, insidious effects of the drug injected as shock into Logan's system is moment that lasts all of three seconds, enough for panic, anger. Muscles sore from the assault of electricity seem to blaze with protest as Logan struggles to get to his knees, his hands, swearing some Britishism under his breath— "fucking— bollocks— " and then the world tips over again, slowly dizzying. "Oh…" is pretty much what he has to say to that, sprawling once more— just a moment, I'll get up soon, it's early yet— and only the rough, trapping grab onto the woolen lapels of his coat jerk him back to reality.

Hands grip not quite weakly, just ineffectually at the arms of his assailant as he dragged across pavement. "Who're…" is the beginnings of a question, a protest, and it's lost again into the fog of his mind collecting much, much thicker than the wet haze of pre-pre-dawn Rookery. God, get a grip John— but he can't. It's the chemical. Always the fucking chemicals, isn't it, oh yes, doot de— he's being mugged, or worse, and his mind is in fragments from the sedative in his system. A weak struggle ensues, legs curling, kicking, but not before shined shoes of Italian leather disappear around the corner of the alley.

Their progress isn't exactly hasty with one less intent on being dragged than the other might hope, but they get there. Into the deep and the dark of an alley still thoroughly sheltered from the encroach of early morning. Whatever rats didn't scamper from the whirl and clatter of the cane scrabble to safety now, tiny claws scratching at concrete more effectively than Logan's human hands in their efforts to escape.

Fog recoils from the swifter movement that accompanies the end of the dragging effort. Logan is dropped unceremoniously, and out comes a roll of duct tape. The Brit is rolled over like a well-dressed log, wrists bound in a thick figure eight of the tarry stuff before he's rolled onto his back again. The process can be repeated at his ankles. Then, then then the wiry guy looms back into full view, mask black against the duller conformation of grey bricking that rises up on the left and right sides of them.

A swift jerk of movement later, the mask is gone, replaced by the wild haired and wilder-eyed face of Flint Deckard unsmiling from on high. His eyes burn cold, unholy light scattered and dispersed blue through the fog. Even blurry and ill-lit, the harsh angles of his face are hard to mistake. His voice is just as distinct over the familiar swish and click of a hunting knife being thumbed idly to life. "Hello, John."

Slow on the uptake, continually, only realising what's happened to his wrists by the time he's rolled onto his back with his arms trapped uncomfortably beneath him, realising what's happened to his ankles by the time the snap of breaking tape is audible.

Logan's eyes shut for a moment, squeeze as if trying to gain back his train of thought, a miserable, uncomfortable almost chuckling sound escaping him, more of a whine than a laugh as he briefly thrashes against his bindings, which does nothing but lay his heavy coat open. Down here in the grimy dark, the silken nature of cream shirt with its golden stitching seems too flimsy and delicate for this environment, and the more executive choice of pinstripe slacks too refined.

He opens his eyes just as the man comes to stand over him, recognition managing to read on his face through the half-drugged daze. "Mr. Deckard," he says, voice dreamy, with a slightly hysterical edge to it. "You got your eye. Eye back." Swallows, tries to string a proper sentence together as his heart starts to beat in his chest in a relentlessly tiring manner, especially when he glances to the knife that's brought into the picture. His words come slowly, deliberately, accent curling around them. "You're making a mistake."

"Probably," Deckard agrees without fanfare from his post near Logan's head, lambent eyes unblinking in their careful scrape over his handiwork so far. Then the rest of him is moving again, left leg crossing over the pimp's chest to brace a knee against his midsection. Pressure builds at the gut and diaphragm, pressing hard through the spine and into bound wrist bones. His other knee settles against the ground, bringing him down to a more workable level. One deep breath. Two deep breaths. He tips his head and turns the knife over, gut hook eased under the lowest layer of expensive collars beneath him. "Screwing up is kind of my thing."

At closer range, the state of him is a little easier to discern. He hasn't shaved in well over a week. Possibly two. The grizzled bristle of it is decidedly homeless in its implications, complimenting the air of careless insanity that he's enveloped himself in. He has ski mask hair on top of that, dusty grey and brown framing a face that's clearly suffering from some kind of nutritional and/or hug-related deficiency. He does not look healthy.

A precise drag of his right arm draws the knife down through a shirt that probably cost more than his entire wardrobe at the moment, exposing the other man's chest to the cold air and whiskey-laden furl of alcoholic breath. "You know, I've had all this time to think, and I'm still not exactly sure what I want to do with you."

An unwilling grunt sounds as Deckard's knee presses down against his stomach, Logan's jaw clenching. Green eyes quickly scan Deckard's features, and it's not so easy. As if supremely tired, or drunk, his vision gracefully splits into double, wavers, snaps back together again. Rinse, wash, repeat. But even then he can still see the signs of a man nursing something ever so slightly broken inside. It's Logan's job to detect such things, in a sense - less a knack for psychology and more of an intuition for weakness.

Weakness manifests in bizarre ways, and is more dangerous when the wielder of this weakness has the upper hand. Logan's breathing becomes a little staccato when the knife descends to slice through fine silk, the cold of early morning spring drawing a shiver from him. Not just the cold, though. "Aren't you. Man should— should know what he wants." He tries to meet Deckard's glowing gaze, as much as it might not matter when that ability is activated.

"Revenge— revenge is cheap," he says, voice wavering behind gritted teeth. Anger surfacing for a moment, a soothing palm over the more fluttery beginnings of panic that defines itself in that vibration of his voice. "Truly. I'd like to say I expected better from you." Despite the knee stapling him in place, he tries to squirm away, to little avail, body slumping back down against concrete. "We had a deal," he finally hisses.

Dooown through the silk, by careful feel more than visual register, smooth almost non-resistance cut short at some point before the knife can bump Deckard's own leg. It's flipped over again, blade end tipped down against the taut grip of skin to sternum until Logan starts to struggle. It lifts, hesitating, just as the gaunt man behind it suffers a moment's pause. Only then there's that mention of a deal. There's no time for thought between the grip of a gloved hand over Logan's face, lifting just enough to smack the back of his elegantly symmetrical skull back into pavement. It's heavy with the stink of city rot, made worse by the wet sheen that's probably coalescing as crystalline dew on flower petals on some other, less aborted island paradise. Not here.

"You cut out her tongue." Pointed statement of fact, though he does not expressly know this to be true. Trusted people have said so. The knife is back at the sternum, this time tracing a little right, close to the meet of narrower rib bone and the faintest tell-tale tremor of the heart that lies beating fast beneath. "You should hold still." In goes the knife through thin skin, though it doesn't get far before he has to lean more pressure against the thicker resistance of cartilage just past it. "I couldn't label everything I'm seeing on a diagram but I'm pretty sure some of it is important."

The smack to his head against the pavement gets barely a complaint, just the parting of his mouth as a gasp wisps through it and the slight unfocusing of already bleary eyes. Message received, at the very least, Logan's teeth clicking shut and glaring up at the man with fear and loathing, which is half the title of a popular movie that ends with in Las Vegas. However, this is far from Las Vegas, though the Rookery's bright lights and decadence strives to replicate it. Down here, in the back of the alleyway at this hour of evening, it barely exists. The world constricted in two walls on either side and some vague dark nothingness above his head and below his feet but mostly just filled with Flint Deckard pushing a knife between his ribs.

That gets a reaction, a shock of a cry piercing through the silence, trailing off into a whimper that underscores the advice he's given, that he obeys after a badly timed bodily twitch. "God," Logan grits out, turning his head away from Deckard. Bright lights seem to spiral at the edges of his vision, and he has no defenses.

None. His hands are lax in their restraints crushed beneath his body, exposed torso containing a frantically beating heart and roiling nausea. "Bitch talked too much," he spits out, against his better judgment, but it's all he has. Revenge is cheap.

"You raped her." Here comes the blood. There's less of it at first, when he keeps closer to the bone, but when he's in sufficiently deep enough to start a series of shorter up and down cuts to clean a line nimbly left to right through thick pectoral muscle, there's more. Just a hair deeper, down between the ribs, and there's a juddering flicker of lung pushing out against the fresh flow, peeking at air in a way lungs should never really have a chance see it. It's not the lung he's interested in, though.

Further struggle at this point smothered by the sheer weight of him pressing down against Logan's middle, he swaps his knife from right hand to left. The better to have the former free to poke a finger down through partially exposed ribs and into Logan's chest cavity. The left lung's swell is something to be carefully nudged aside, but various other connective tissues and all around important things are given less respect. He keeps on pushing until he's got two fingers in past the second knuckle, blood squelching and bodily heat contributing to the fog in a quick, tenuous lift of steam.

He is poking John Logan in the heart. Or at least, in the sack that holds the heart. Close enough. The regular jump of it against his fingertips is curious enough to shut him up for several seconds. Way more seconds than this should be happening, fascination lurid in the ghastly light of his eyes while he watches.

The invasion is about as sickening as it is painful, Logan letting out a series of appropriate sounds at every slice, saw, poke and prod. The dissection makes those spiraling bright white lights in his vision burst into fireworks as he clamps his eyes shut, trying to hide away from Deckard's fingers digging so deep into his chest. He breathes in chokes and gasps, and finally a sob, giving way to tears that fall carelessly down the length of his nose, down a cheek, head still tilted away as if it'd make a difference.

"I didn't," he says, voice strained, as if his vocal chords had been wound too tight with guitar tuners, threatening to break apart at each word. It comes as a whine, pure Cockney lacing his words. "Didn't touch 'er, didn't… oh god— " Panic makes his heart flutter against Deckard's prying touch.

Finally, he tilts his head back to look up at the man, the confusion of pain and anger twisting pretty features into something uglier. Probably something a lot closer to what's contained behind such advantages, too. "Nothink you c'n do t'me'll fix it. Damaged, the pair've you." He sneaks a glance downward and instantly regrets it, seeing the digits buried to the knuckle.

"It's too bad you can't really see." Finger bones and tendon curled almost gently against the heart's faltering beat, Deckard doesn't procrastinate for too much longer before he withdraws, gloved hand glistening under its coat of blood, even once he's swiped it carelessly over the as-of-yet unspoiled half of Logan's chest. The knife is taken back up in his dominant hand, and he's back to looking for other places to cut, sticky blade traced idly across the join of jaw and neck while he considers.

"She's still trying to take the high road." Ha. He breathes out a laugh, no humor behind it. Just more boozy fog and a white sliver of teeth while the knife edge finds purchase and slices, pressure lacing every so carefully shy of the jugular. "You're setting yourself up for failure if you think you can plot her downfall with a knife and whatever it is you do with your hands. People like you and me — we can understand each other."

Ignorant of the blood seeping dark into his blue jeans, Deckard scoots himself up a few inches, the better to peer down at Logan's tear-streaked face when his eyes go briefly dim. Blood drips thick from the knife tip hovering over the younger man's eye, cooling quick in the near-freezing air.

"What is it for you? It can't be just the money. Is it the power? Does it get you off, having such complete and…utter control over a person?"

Drip.

"Because…you might be onto something, there."

A hiss whispers through Logan's teeth at the fresh slice at his throat, a brief stab of fear that it would all end there with a draining of blood, but no. Deckard knows what he's doing. His scattered attention, still spiraling from the fading drug pumping through his veins, manages to hone in on the tip of the blade so prominent in his vision, the drip of red causing him to flinch and for a moment, he almost breaks under the pressure of renewed tears, angular jaw trembling until he grips onto what resolve there is left. Not a hell of a lot, really, but he can pretend.

"It's not bad," he admits, thickly, the corner of his mouth twitching up in a desperate kind of smile that's quick to fade. Deckard's effort are impersonal - gloved hands, cold blades, clothing separating him from what he's exposed of Logan, and there's not much he can do with his hands so bound, even as he tries, feebly, to work against it. But he tries, and it's not even enough to change the colour of his eyes, just an urging of serotonin. Short of the euphoria, it's a giddy feeling, which in this situation is a double edged sword.

But it can't get any worse, anyway. "What do you want?" he murmurs. "Money? Protection? We could've— " His voice cracks, and he struggles against the panic and pain, the cold air feeling caustic against the open wound in his chest. He breathes in a deeper breath, regrets that too as he shudders it out again, eyes squeezing shut. "Could've done well together."

"You would have used me like you used her." Not actually a denial. The knife turns over once, twice; rotating in just the nick of time to keep the next sluggish droplet from falling. "All I wanted was a job. Something to keep me engaged. Keep my mind off of other things. The world almost ended, you know. So there was that. …And everyone thinks I'm a murderer." Not strictly related. And not a label Deckard'd be able to argue himself out of easily if caught in his current position. "I guess I am. Just — not the way they think. It'd be funny if it wasn't so fucked up." He chuckles anyway, knife tipped into a lazy, not-very-explanatory gesture. Serotonin is a fine thing.

There's a mild easing of pressure off Logan's chest when he resumes his post of a minute or two ago, further down. His eyes trigger back to life, the left still lagging somewhat behind the right, but no less demonic once it's caught up. "I don't know what I want. Generally. Philosophically. From you — I dunno. I'm just kind of happy to see you suffer."

He can breathe easier now, but the sudden lighting up those brilliant blue eyes doesn't ease him in the slightest. The knife isn't hovering over his eye, though. That's bonus enough. "You wanted a job," Logan agrees, somewhat breathlessly. His arms wriggle a little in the thick sleeves of his parted coat, working at the bindings wrapped tight around his wrists in a sluggish, experimental squirm, mouth narrowing before he gives it up again. "An' I gave you a job. You're the one who fucked it first, Mr. Deckard."

Interesting interpretation, emphasis coming off too hysterical to be smooth. Ordinarily silver tongue split. It's hard enough to form sentences, let alone good ones. "Went looking where you shouldn't've. Now 'ere we are."

The wound in his chest is an aching source of pain still, split muscles cramped to hell, nerves that should never be exposed exposed, and bleeding freely still. Dark red lines streak from the cut at his throat, collect in blonde hair, congeal. Logan struggles again, sweat from his hands and wrists slipping a little against the tape, but not enough still. It's like trying to move through water, and Deckard feels so oppressively heavy.

"I almost believed you. Thought the same thing, the first time around. I think, maybe if it had been anyone else…" The knife tip prods down into the midline just beneath the diaphragm, drawing out a bead of black there under Deckard's careful scrutiny. The stuff that smells is stored under there, along with the guarantee of a slow and agonizingly putrid death. Deckard flips the knife one more time, gut hook teased gently at the little hole he's made so far. It splits an eency. Weency. Bit wider.

Granted, there's plenty of muscle left between here and there, but it's the principle of the thought process, really, that counts, written comfortably into the lines and shadows that define his long face.

Then: a sift and a click. The knife is folded over, and Deckard leans forward enough to shuffle around in the interior of Logan's coat. First for the familiar outline of a cell phone. Then for the wallet.

The wallet is flipped open — carefully, to avoid blotching blood over any cash that might be inside — and then tucked away into his own coat. The phone is dropped aside, and with a certain amount of stiffness from the cold and middle age, Deckard pushes up to his feet. A heel is planted against Logan's side with a little too much force, and he rolls him partway over to reopen the knife. The bindings are cut. He does not take care to avoid any fingers that might get in the way.

How many times can one face death within the space of ten, fifteen minutes? At the whim of someone who's snapped a little on the inside? He watches those careful mental processes flicker across Deckard's readable face, the man making no attempt to mask such things, for good reason. Not trusting himself, there is no urging of chemical influence. For once, Logan simply doesn't trust himself not to do the wrong thing, push the man thing wrong way, and end up with a knife buried eternally deeper in his torso.

And so Logan almost starts trembling with relief when knife is drawn away, when Deckard stands up and kicks him over. Hands are freed at the detriment to the skin of his fingers, but that's okay, in the long run. Arms stiff from strain awkwardly move back to somewhere more comfortable, drawing both his split shirt and coat back across his warmly bleeding chest, still half-curled on his side and clenching his jaw so tightly his teeth start to ache.

No protest when he's casually robbed, money and cellphones are easy to come by. His health is starting to become a precious currency to guard closely. They'd had a deal. "You finished?" he mutters, thickly, almost too quiet to decipher but loud enough. He doesn't go to loosen the tape around his ankles himself, subdued to the point of willingly remaining lying on the dirty alleyway floor."

"I dunno. Were you hoping for a Happy Ending?" Knife still open and brows lifted, Deckard sounds like he's offering.

Rather than go there, he kicks the cell phone over, less interested in its contents than those of the wallet and Logan's rib cage. The clunky gun in his pocket is removed: the cartridge still attached to the pimp via prongs and wires ejected before the rest of the gun is replaced. The ski-mask comes out next, pulled down over Flint's weathered and bristle-bearded mug with some sticky-fingered adjustment when the eye holes fail to line up properly.

Sadly, he looks less insane with it on.

"You should probably call a doctor."

There's a huff of despairing laughter from Logan, and despite himself, one long fingered hand reaches out to close over the cellphone, drags it inwards. Accepting this small mercy. It hurts and he wants to scream it out until it's gone, and maybe he will. But like Deckard says; he should probably call a doctor. His ankles work ineffectually against the tape as he manages to push himself up to sit, to shuffle away enough until his shoulder finds the wall, keeping an arm folded, keeping his coat closed. He's paler than when they started, shock setting in to make him flood with cold and hot and make sweat stand out on his brow. He has a hole in his chest.

But he'll live. No rest for the wicked, not this morning. Logan casts a sullen look up at Deckard, now, taking in his appearance from where his black gloves shine blacker with blood, where his eyes peer through the mask's eyeholes. One pale hand moves to jerk the taser prongs out of his body, as he mutters in a wavering voice, "Startin' to think you should too."

Not interested, then. The blade is folded over one last time, then shoved down onto his belt, bloody coating and all. Deckard needs new clothes. The wallet should help with that. Or the taser. Excuse me, sir, I need to borrow your pants.

No move is made to help Logan in his efforts to do whatever he's doing down there on the ground — sitting up and collecting the phone and making observations that are probably true and so all the better for firmly ignoring.

Flint is tired, but not that bad off otherwise. An even number of hollow eyes and no extra holes when he turns to walk away, boots dragging over cement while he gives the mask one last tugging adjust. He's practically in the black for once.

The plastic casing of the cellphone creaks a little under Logan's fingers, watching Deckard walk away and disappear around the corner. Finally. The tears come in shuddering rounds from relief, the tension of fear, the blunter aspect of pain; neglecting to call anyone for help and Logan half expects the shadows to taunt him any second now. They don't.

They don't really need to.


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March 14th: Searching for Serenity
Previously in this storyline…
Bought and Souled

Next in this storyline…
No, You

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March 15th: With a Capital "T"
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