When Fear Compels Us

Participants:

abby_icon.gif jack_icon.gif logan_icon.gif

Scene Title When Fear Compels Us
Synopsis Things don't go as planned. Not anywhere near as planned. This is what happens when you're scared.
Date February 23, 2009

The Happy Dagger - Basement Tenement

It's a bedroom, for all intents and purposes. There's even a window, although it's high up on the wall, and barred with grill and glass. Should someone peek, they'll only see dirty alley way and the flat, nondescript backdrop of a separate building beyond that. The room itself is bleak, if comfortable. The walls are cement and unpainted, the floor cheaply carpeted and the bed adequately dressed, a single thing pushed into the corner of the room. An empty book case gapes from the opposite wall, and a heavy oak trunk, something of an antique and actual worth, rests next to it, previously empty but now filled with at least most of the room occupant's belongings.

Two doors after that, one that stays locked and leads to out, wherever out is, and the other torn off its hinges to reveal a very basic, slightly rundown bathroom. But it works, hot water running at will, a working toilet, partially cracked mirror moderately clean, and towels and bare necessities provided.

It's designed for existing. But not much more than that.


It's an awkward hour, nearing morning. Early birds would have risen and party animals might be crawling into bed, and Logan is neither of these things. He's just nocturnal. The chaos outside would have risen, and then died down again in the early hours, but men walking the hallway would be heard more often than usual, checks in with security - faces gaunt, faces not, peering into Abby's door to check her presence before disappearing again with a lock click.

Security breach. It doesn't happen often. And when it does, it's rarely successful.

As the light comes hazy and ashy through the high window, determined foot steps sound down the hallway, a shudder of a lock in a key, the door opens with its customary whine. There's no cane in sight, as if Logan had no patience for affectation, another sign that things are amiss. That, and the steely expression he's not bothering to mask with a wink and smile right now, as he enters Abby's room and pushes the door behind with a wrist flick of disdain.

Deckard's gone. Grabbed and gone. not by Logan and friends. So it is that when she's been checked on, the healers been in the same place each time, when the head pokes in. "Still here" cracked voice when they appear. Despair when the door is locked. Not a wink of sleep she's going to get. Too terrified to sleep. So it is when Logan makes his appearance this time, that Abigail flinches when he enters, the door closed behind him only further presses the blonde into the wall as if she could disappear into it. Wary, scared, terrified. "Hello"

"Hello," Logan says, not without irony in his voice, but no smile this time. No flare of green and feel good chemical. He looks silently angry, and who knows what that means for a man like John Logan? He wears a cream shirt with golder stitching on the cuffs and collar that speaks a little of the whorehouse's own theme, tucked into black jeans, polished shoes beneath that. And in his hand, a book. The book, in fact, and a brief twist of a smile tugs at his mouth as he holds it up. "I'd forgotten you'd wanted this," he says, and carelessly tosses it like a Frisbee onto her bed, the pages rustling harshly as it arcs. "There you go. What'm I gonna do with you?"

"I told you Logan. I warned you. you didn't want to take me. Your bringing this all down on your head yourself" Abby glances at the bible, a wince for it's treatment before she emerges from her corner to take it. Her hand closes around the leather bound volume with her name on the front and bring it to her chest. Back to the corner she goes. "You'll do with me, what you choose to do with me, and i'll have no choice but to go along with it, until they come to collect me. They will come to collect me Logan. Your not the first to have done this" She's trying hard not to make her voice aggressive, hunching her shoulders over her book and her knee's. "I need a coffee maker, and coffee. The red bull's not doing it. I need food that's going to give me energy, not.. greasy burgers that make my stomach turn and soup. If you keep pushing me to … unconsciousness, without letting me bulk up on what I need to heal yours and muldoons fighters.." Abby shakes her head.

"and no, I didn't know that was going to happen. I don't know why the didn't take me too"

As Abby occupies her corner, Logan moves towards her bed instead, sitting down on the edge with his hands braced against the mattress, casual as you please. His eyes are a glassy kind of pale as he watches her talk, his expression blank as she points out her needs in order to be what they require her to be. But Logan is the kind of man who might kill a cactus just by neglect, and it might well just go by. It's a wonder if ever brought her Red Bull. "Whatever you get," he says, "it won't be here. I'm not going to let a little thing like you bring my world down, do you understand?"

He leans forward, gaze sharp and seeking out eye contact. "Tell me about them. Who are they to Deckard? Who are they to you?" His voice is firm, demanding or answers, everything enunciated very clearly, although perhaps, due to the slight sheen on his brow in the morning light, he's been drinking a little.

"Deckard is someone who hates me, but at the same time, has an … chivalrous bone in his body. He thinks I'm crazy because I believe in god and that god will answer my prayers and can on occasion be prodded to … look out for me" She doesn't know about Teo and Eileen's visit, and her last two visitors have been incorporeal or telepathic so He can't possibly know about them. "Don't kid yourself. I'm.. not that important to him. He's broken my nose and cheeks before, and I've smashed in his face with a flower pot"

"Well," Logan says, hands coming up to adjust the sleeves of his shirt beneath his jacket. "He lost an eye over someone not that important to him, for however briefly. Not many men would likely choose that fate. That's not what I want to know about, though. Tell me about the hell I'm bringing down upon my head, Abigail. Names. Faces. I want answers or you'll pay much the same way Deckard did, if you aren't careful. You do a lot of talking, you know that? Just not the right kind."

"Who came?" Abby still watches him with her tired blue eyes. "Someone came. You wouldn't be like this, i'm sure, if someone hadn't come. From what I've seen, you don't get flustered…" There's a pause. "Or scared. So someone… visited. How long did you think you could keep me and not have it leak that you have me? When people are miraculously healed repeatedly from mortal wounds. I'm surprised that god's even letting me heal your fighters" She looks down to the bible she's holding tight to. "His eye will be fine. I'll be taking care of it, when they come for me and get me out. They're not going to leave me here to rot and if they knew where he was then they know where I am John Logan and your time, is running short"

Flustered. Scared. Logan's mouth curls into the slightest of sneers at what he perceives to be accusations, certainly, but listens. "No one will be coming for you, Abigail," he says, his own brand of tiredness obvious in his voice. "Or they will, and they'll find an empty room, and the game'll begin again, won't it. Cat and mouse. I had hoped to enjoy your stay here a little longer, but unfortunately… you are most correct. Time is running short." The bed creaks, now, and he stands up from it, the window above casting his shadow away from her but all the same, he makes up for his lack of bulk in height, a looming forward that moves closer to her. "Tell me who you know that walks through walls. Tell me about Eileen. Tell me about Teo." He crouches in front of her, a hand reaching to take a bare wrist in his hand, eyes beginning to glow green - but no effect is kicking off, it seems, not yet. No rush of pleasure.

Oh god. He was gonna touch her. She's got a skinny wrist, and she tries to pull her arm away from him, but that's pretty useless. She ends up gripping her hand in a fist, looking up at him. "I don't know anyone who can go through walls. Your sorely out of luck on that count" Eileen. Teo. That's who came. 'They're people. Human beings" That's all he's getting out of her this time around. "And your afraid of them"

"Am I?" Logan says, with a sudden smile that doesn't reach his eyes, hand refusing to release from her wrist, fingers strong, likely leaving temporary red marks in her arm. It starts, then, slowly. The way her heart starts to hammer, the way breathing shallows, these are only byproducts of the chemical release that encourages something of a panic attack. Adrenaline works through her system at his command, and builds, slowly but surely. "I'm not the one that's afraid, I think you'll find. Answers, princess, I want them."

"Your a monster. A peddler of flesh" Panic. It's chasing around the edges of her, making her hold onto the good book with her one hand, close her eyes and hold them tight. She's not really afraid. it's him, it's all him, that's what she silently telling herself. He's making her feel like this. "God, give us grace to accept with serenity the things that cannot be changed, courage to change the things which should be changed, and the wisdom to distinguish the one from the other." He's not going to get the answer he wants, just the start of a prayer, voice burbling up from her on the quickened breath.

It's a battle of wills, Logan magicking the panic attack higher and higher as her prayers tumble from her lips between the gasps in and out. He's not going to ask again, she knows what he wants, and while Logan is many things, a beggar is not one of them.

Her wrist is released in the same moment he brings his hand around in an open-palmed slap to her face, a petulant move that's likely more instinctive than thoughtful, the crack sound it makes interrupting the sound of frantic prayer.

"They left you here," he says, his voice wavering a little. "They left you here to me. Now I ask like I asked before, what'm I gonna do with you?"

The Healers face follows to the left with the force of the slap, tears springing to her eyes at the sting and her teeth taking on an ache at the act. It's a pathetic sight really, huddled, crying, her heart painfully pounding in her chest from the chemical manipulations of the pimp. The pain cuts through the fear that's choking her, enough so that she swings her hand back at him. the one with the nice leather bible, right back at him. " They DIDN'T ABANDON ME! THEY'RE COMING FOR ME!" She kicks her foot out as well, aiming for his middle and low, more heel than the rest of her foot. "THEY FOUND ME ONCE, THEY'LL FIND ME AGAIN!"

Never give a Bible Thumper a weapon and some incentive, perhaps, is the moral of this story as the book connects with his skull, which doesn't hurt as much as the sudden lashing out of a kick. They fight back, sometimes they do that, especially when they adrenaline is hammering their heart into a frenzy, and Logan only grunts, scuttling away a few inches and eyes dulling back to their normal icier green colour. A rasping chuckle, and then his hands reach out for her, to bring the flailing, chemically-altered woman down onto the concrete ground, in at attempt to cross her arms over her chest and pin them there, Logan kneeling next to her. "Sssshhh," he urges during this attempt, nothing held back behind the brutality and strength he shows, no real regard for the fact he's handling another person.

Or the other moral of the story is, don't corner a panicking woman after you give her a weapon. It's a whole new way to study the bible really. It's called putting your mind into it! She's used to having a high heart rate thanks to the perpetual intake of caffeine, red bull, stimulants, and she's giving Logan a run for his money at trying to pin her down. She uses her legs much as she can, wriggling, trying to get under the bed and away from Logan. Get to something else, kicking and scratching the whole way.

There's nothing dignified about this. A desperate scrabble on the ground, freedom vs. capture, and it's about when she manages to get in a slap that scratches marks across her face that Logan growls out some Britishism and lets her crawl towards wherever she wants for the next few moments, trying to get his own heart rate down, trying to rein in his easy anger that comes much like the breaking of a dam, almost impossible to stop once it starts.

"So, good news," he starts, as if perhaps his attack, her attack, had never happened, kneeling on the ground, fixing his shirt a little. "You get to be with your little friend for the rest of your time with us. Would you like to know the bad news?"

Abby's breath comes harshly from under the bed, putting herself in the back corner, out of his sight directly, and in the dark of the bed. Her hand slides up to where she had her little insurance police tucked away. Thank you Bebe. It's that spork she left with the soup. Plastic it may be, but the shaft of the spoon is a sturdy plastic and with decimated red bull cans and their sharp aluminum edges, Abby made herself a weapon down in her captivity. "Whatever it is, you'll have to come down here to get me" Her hand curls the jerry rigged weapon close to her, the words panted out on each outgoing breath and her pulse making things hard to hear as it rushes past her ears.

Abby will hear more than see Logan get to his feet - the awkwardness of such a motion, of one leg too stiff to be comfortable, manages to evade audio cues, at least, and he even takes the a moment to stretch that leg, swing it at the knee gently before setting that foot down again. A couple of footsteps, but nothing very close, even if she can see his polished shoes come into frame.

"Now, now, if you're going to be moved than you can't well hide under the bed. What could I possibly do to you, Abigail?" he asks, his voice back to that smoother, calmer tone that's far more customary to him, and now… her panic begins to subside. It's not euphoria, it's not even a little bit of happiness, but the adrenaline starts to pull back against her will. Perhaps in preparation for something different, but for now, it clears her head, at the very least. Just in time for him to reach a pale hand underneath the bed to grab, to pull.

Through the vibrations in the floor, it might be clear that foot steps are approaching outside her room, headed down the stairwell.

That likely was John Logan's mistake. If he'd kept her at the state she was, she might not have done what she prepared to do. She would have been too scared. She promised Deckard. There's something more then chivalry between the two. She puts up a fight, just a little, the adrenaline fading, coming down from her panic attack and she uses it, best she can. Abby judges where Logans head is, where his face is. Waiting, distracting him with her kicking feet.

It's when she's nearly out, when he's got his face at just the right angle that She lashes out again. No bible, not this time. It's solid sharp and pointy plastic and she tries to make sure that it hits the intended target: Sunk into Logan's right eye as much as she can manage it. Eye for an Eye. Bruise for a bruise, blood for blood. "Go to hell John Logan"

Eloni went for a smoke break. That is, after he reached out with his link to tell a couple of other security guards that Mr. Logan needed a little assistance, and could someone please bring a knife? Thanks. Eloni has had enough for to last him a week or so. And as Jack and whoever was on duty and got dragged along with pirate move down the stairwell towards the familiar room of the woman called the Nun, something rather unexpected sounds out, bleating through the doorway and down the corridor.

A piercing scream, and not from one of the women trapped there, but what sounds like their leader, their boss, the usually untouchable Logan. The door is unlocked, and with a heaviness to it that does little to muffle this sound.

Inside, the shiv clatters to the ground, and she was no expert like Logan, but it did the job of injury and blinding if nothing else. He falls back with that scream that sounds far louder in this enclosed space, a hand coming up to clap a ruined eye as the other shuts, and blindly, he moves away from the woman, voice reduced down to panicked breathing.

The shiv is grabbed again and back under the bed goes the blonde healer. pressing as much of herself, as opposed to before, against the wall, in the darkness of the bed. Her nostrils flare, heart hammering again and panting softly. Abigail's ready to slam the whittled down spork handle on any hand that deigns to come under the bed after her.

Jack was partway through a rare shave when the call came through that he was needed. Seconds later, he kicks open the door leading down to the basement with his face still half-covered in foam, his ever-present Webley revolver in one hand and a straight razor in the other. "These bitches in the basement will be the death of you, mon capitan…"

The lilting call only serves to broadcast his arrival. Though he's flanked by two of the immense troglodytes that pass for Dagger security, he's trade both of them and the two upstairs for Eloni. Unfortunately, you can't always get what you want.

The barrel of the immense revolver leads the way as Jack enters the cell. Screaming boss. No immediate signs of the prisoner. Only one hiding spot. He draws back the hammer on his firearm and takes a bead on the mattress while motioning to the guards. "Drag her out," he orders one. "Don't kill her, but don't be gentle. You," he points to the other, "Get John in the corner. He gets another scratch from this bitch and I'll shoot you myself."

The guards are paid well enough to comply, and comply they shall. With gusto. Trogolodytes fear no sporks, and while Logan may not always be a kind employer, he's a well-respected one. Harming him is the fastest way to raise the ire of the entire establishment.

It hurts. There are no real words for it. His eye isn't removed, but it's a tight ball of pain in his socket that thrums harshly down nerve endings and makes him want to scream all over again, but at the sound of people coming into the room, people he only barely remembers summoning, Logan uses every ounce of willpower he has on not making a sound. He keeps a hand over his eye, and it may take a crowbar to stop him from covering it so, and blood is already trickling down his face and soaking into the collar of his designer shirt, and it's horribly undignified so much so that he could almost ignore the pain and horror of it. Almost.

He makes a wordless grunt of protest as he's urged, pulled into the corner, stumbling, staggering, guided, and he comes to sink in to the same corner as Abby had. "Bitch… fucking bitch…" he murmurs rather tragically. Oh god, don't lose it here, not now.

Head first? Feet first? Spin the wheel and see who gets what! Spork stab. Spork Stab. It's sharp. Really sharp and it's breaking skin of the one trog who gets the unlucky end that is her hands. There's a grunt with each stab. "YOU TOOK HIS EYE! I HOPE TO GOD I TOOK YOURS!" Sporky stab, sporky stab… last one fails as the man gets smart and grabs the hand with the spork and the Blonde is pulled from under the dusty bed, kicking and screaming at Logan about sleeping in the bed he made, and that he better cherish his time in his safe little brother because the wrath of those she knows is coming and there's a holy hammer about to fall on his head. But she's out, and not even Jack with that gun is scaring the blonde right now.

The trogs don't care. Not only are they far too manly to be concerned by something as inoffensive as a spork, they're payed too well to hesitate. The bed is flipped roughly to the side, eliminating Abby's hiding spot. "Fuckin' penguin," he mutters distastefully.

Then, unceremoniously, he shoots her in the meaty part of her thigh. Twice. Once to put her down and once to make himself feel better about life. The sound of .455 caliber rounds blasting off in the confined area is painfully deafening.

With a subtle wave, Jack indicates that the guard not tending to Logan should pin her to the floor. Trog #1 complies by resting one foot and a few hundred pounds of body weight on the healer's fresh bullet hole.

"That looks painful," Jack comments lightly. "I recommend you hold very still. Logan?" he doesn't turn his head as the query is made. "You green, mate?"

Someone is trying to move his hand to inspect the damage. Unacceptable. Logan almost growls at the guard and shies away, other hand fending off his efforts, his breathing coming quick, nostrils flaring. Not about to panic. Not here. "I'm not drunk enough for this," he slurs, the mushiness of the words attributed to the nips of gin he had upon coming down here, and his body reeling from the injury.

All the same, Logan levers himself up to stand, a sweaty-palmed hand balancing himself against the wall. "I want— she's to be moved to the warehouse," he manages, hand still covering the injury, other eye barely opened either. "And I want her tongue out. Understand. Cut it out. Let her try whisper her precious fucking prayers then…"

And that's really all there is left for the pimp, because his knees buckle, and the man that had been tending to him quickly moves in to stop the fainting Englishman from collapsing completely. Which has the benefit of exposing what happened, his right eye a twitching mess as the other stays peacefully closed. And unfortunately, for Abby, no chance of clarifying if he really meant that order, or if it was the impulsive snarlings of an injured tyrant.

For the second time in her life, she's shot. Only there's no flying SCOUT officer to whisk her away to a hospital, save her from her attackers. There's a bulky man weighing down on her leg, making the blonde scream, a scream that likely put Deckard's howl to shame. Her ears ring from the the sound of the gunshot, but not enough that between the inhale of breath and transition to the next scream that has with it a sob, she hears Logan's orders. Struggling in earnest again, Abigail tries to find another place to hide, get out from under trog #1's weight and foot but it only succeeds in more pain. 'THEY'LL FIND ME YOU SON OF A BITCH!" Screamed at Logan despite that he's fainting. "GOD HELP YOU WHEN THEY DO! ALL OF YOU!" She's well on her way to joining him in the unconscious pile as the pain from her leg starts to overwhelm her.

Ever-industrious, Jack glances down at the straight razor he's still holding, then at Abby, then at his remaining troglodyte. Absently, the razor is lifted to scrape off a swatch of foam and stubble from his face. SPLAT. He slings the blade sideways, flicking away the shaving refuse as he takes a step closer.

"Hold her tight," he instructs his surgical assistant. "If she bites me, you're the one who'll pay for it."

Then, smiling beatifically, he leans down until his face is a scant inch from Abby's. "Shhh," he murmurs. "God won't help me, and he definitely won't get you out of this. Besides, you should save your breath for screams."

Fade


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February 23rd: Predatory
Previously in this storyline…
Predatory

Next in this storyline…
One Finger, or Two

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February 23rd: The Good Of The Country
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