Participants:
Also featuring:
| Scene Title | Barter |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | The Ferry does business with one of its oldest and most reliable contacts. |
| Date | March 31, 2011 |
In Dreams
Clandestine meetings do not always happen in the dead of night, lit by the flickering glow of gas lamps turned low — sometimes they occur in the dappled springtime sunlight filtering through the large, ornate glass windows of someone's living room at approximately nine in the morning. It's a nice house, but it's also an old one with high, stately ceilings, scuffed wooden floors covered by throw rugs in deep, vibrant colours that compliment the contrasting patterns of the furniture's upholstery. A leather settee sits in front of a fireplace that does not need to be lit this time of year, and in one corner a wingback chair of deepest violet with gold embroidery and a pillow inspired by the eye of a peacock feather — indigo, gold and viridian.
There is a coffee table upon which there is, for once, coffee placed on a silver tray along with the cigarette case belonging to the master of the house, who is seated on the far end of the settee with his wife, a younger woman whose long red hair she wears piled loosely on the top of her head in ringlets that are easy to maintain.
When the doors that separate the living room from the house's narrow entryway open, a woman even younger than Logan's wife — really only a girl, and without any Registration papers of her own — steps inside to announce in a soft, demure voice that his visitors have arrived before she excuses herself and leaves Logan and Tania to their business.
There's a bowl in front of him, with the coffee and the cigarettes. It has something in it. Bran and. Fruit. Turning slowly into milky homogenous healthiness in its rejected neglection, pushed aside in favour of picking up cigarette and lighting one in long practiced movements.
Grey slacks and matching grey waistcoat are a dull spot in the vibrant mismatch of the room, save for red satin backing and lining, his shirt just crisp white and opened at the collar. Shoes in polished, patent leather, one resting against a squat, tassled footstool in recline. At one point, Logan probably did consume food, considering he's lived long enough for silver to pepper through the grow in of hair down narrow jaw and through the short cut brush of off-blonde hair — but today, he's content with nicotine and caffeine as two poisons of choice. No matter what the redhead at his elbow might want to say about it.
Announcement from the girl doesn't have him rising to his feet, instead just offering a minor hint of a smile before she's gone, and sending a draconic stream of smoke in exhale directed away for Tania.
Tania's business, at least, seems to be of the literary variety, as there's a book in hand as the girl comes in to make her announcements. She lowers it to her lap, exposing the fact that it's in Cyrllic instead of English. "Thank you," she says to the girl, because she always makes it a point to be kind to the help as a matter of course.
Her gaze slides over to Logan, an eyebrow lifted in amusement, "You could have at least had the fruit." She does have something to say about it, but seems to know it won't change things any. Her book is set aside and the cream fabric of her simple, free flowing dress is pulled along as her feet drop to the floor; she seems to think it's important there are a few more cups of coffee ready, as she leans forward to pour. She even refills Logan's.
The hard soles of a pair of black flats click on the floor, it's one of the few times this particular woman will dress nice. She wears a dark blue dress, simple, but nicer then blue jeans. It's really only one of the few outfits she has for such things as a business meeting… or church. Tho' admittedly, every time she finds herself in this kind of outfit, she misses her jeans… desperately.
"Mr. Mrs. Logan." Even as her long braided locks have taken on more white then gold and her back aches a little, Kaylee still holds herself with a certain dignity. Head dipping towards each her tone is pleasant and offers respect, a smile doubly so, which deepens the lines at the corners of her blue eyes. The movement makes the thin gold chain with it's thin cross, glint softly.
She considers each, though the telepath isn't trying to read minds. Her own morals keep her curiosity at bay. It would not do to invade the mind of one of their supply men.
From the long inhale and the lack of wrinkled nose or bad face, the woman known as Gwen Chevaliar certainly doesn't mind the smell. It's nostalgic, really. The graying roots are visible in a few places, because vanity is only so important in the end.
Gray remover isn't on the top of the list of essentials.
The woman's clothes seem heavier than the time of year might call for, but also clean and presentable to civilized company. And unlike the other female companion, she's not clothed in a dress, but tan slacks to compliment the same colored dress jacket. The practical and worn boots don't really fit with the image, though.
"Thank you for seeing us," she adds on the heels of the older woman.
The big bad wolf is last in and least welcome, rangy and grey from the close kempt scruff on his head to a glint of gunmetal at his hip when he slows to let Kaylee and Gwen ahead of him set the mood. He's long in the face, silver and ash dusted in a surly haze across the lines carved in stark around his mouth. Brow hooded, jaw hollow, ears a-jut, he's looking sharp(er than usual) in a black vest and trou, once-white dress shirt scored with threadworn scuffs up one sleeve and yellowed at the collar.
His shoes sure are shiny, though.
For that matter, so is the skeletal arrangement of his left hand: slender phalanges wrought from metal at his side, radius and ulna bound in cables of copper wire and inky carbon all the way up to the sunken roll of his sleeve. There's a whirr and distinctive arachnid click when he resettles his weight, one eye less bright than the other when he scans the room for the fourth time.
He doesn't say thank you or hello. He's just here.
Logan only dignifies talk of fruit with the curl of a lip which she can take to mean as facetious enough rather than very snarly. He isn't unfriendly, much. But green eyed stare, the same tone of cheaper jade, has overtones of hostility to it as he surveys the faces that single file into the room, and all three know a frenetic sweep of dullness on a chemical level. Deckard's vision stabilises to normal before relenting again, Gillian's constant knot of augmentation a sudden missing tension, and then Kaylee, made deaf in her head.
Which is where blanketing negation remains, like a kind of roulette, the telepath getting a crooked smile. Logan leans forward in his seat on the settee to ash cigarette, then indicate the seats directly opposite. "Yeah yeah. Sit down."
Whatever comments Tania might have in return for that lip are left silent as the others file in. She may be the friendlier of the two, but keeping personal lives private has long been second nature to her. So, instead, she turns a kind smile to the trio in greeting, "It's good to see you all again." She seems to mean it, too. "I hope things are going well?"
It's a leading question, a gentle push toward the purpose of these meetings. But she follows it up with a more socially minded one, "Would you like some coffee? Something to eat?" Let it never be said that Mrs. Logan is a bad hostess.
As all the mental noise drops away, Kaylee makes a point not to flinch or show how literally deafening that sudden silence is. There is only an ever so slight narrowing of eyes at Logan. Yeah, she knows what you did. It's not a new game for her.
Moving to sit, she hazards a glance at her companions, before answering their hostess. "None for me. Thank you." Straight backed and feet crossed at the ankles, hands brush her skirt as Kaylee moves forward to the business at hand. "Things are going well enough, I suppose." Not really spelling anything out really, but Tania's hospitality gets a bit more of a genuine smile. "However, we are in need of medication. Antibiotics and such things." She looks between both of them, gauging reaction without the benefit of her ability.
When the tension fades, Gwen can't help but shiver as she sits down. No matter how annoying some things can be, losing them is just as disconcerting. Despite the rejection of the older woman, she nods at the offer of coffee, a thin smile showing more wrinkles than dimples with her current age.
The words of what they need are stated, and after a few moments she follows them up with her naturally raspy voice, "We will need to agree on a form of payment— a trade of sorts. I'm sure we can find something we both agree on for continued business." Though at first she's focusing mostly on Logan her eyes shift away at the end, to the much older man of the group.
Logan has reconnected.
"Coffee," says Deckard, please en absentia. He's wandered from foyer to fireplace, bionic index finger tapped tick to mantle decor. And he's searching Tania's legs for booby traps across the room in a way that might earn him an expansion of Kaylee's invisible buffer if he isn't careful.
Tick.
Thump thump thump thump go little feet in socks on the stairs. They don't belong to the maid returning, but rather a small girl with a long, flattish face and blue saucer eyes that match those of the Siamese kitten she draped lazily in her arms. She can't be more than seven or eight, but her taller, willowier companion who drifts into the room after her is a few years older, maybe thirteen or fourteen. The elder of the two wears a gauzy sundress appropriate for the weather with a cardigan in robin's egg blue pulled loosely over it, which she's likely to discard when the sun has finished burning the dew off the grass outside and it's a few degrees warmer than it is now. The younger is still in her nightshirt, which is unsurprisingly covered in cat hair.
"Mother," she laments in the doorway as the older girl comes up behind her and places a hand on her shoulder, reminding her not to go rushing into the living room while their parents have visitors. "Oscar de la Renta threw up again."
"Well, we're all demanding this morning." Coffee or med supplies, although both are theoretically on offer. Logan's voice is preserved Brixton to the bitter end, although husky tones gone over with razors or, to be more literal, too much smoking in the course of his existence. There's a flick of a glance up and down the cyborg at his mantle when Deckard doesn't sit on command, but Logan doesn't push the point — instead leaves that conversational space open for Tania to serve coffee.
He imbibes his own, porcelain set down in favour of collecting up crystal ashtray. "Didn't factor in medical supplies in this year's budget?" he asks of Gillian. "Because money usually— "
And business time grinds to a halt, and Logan might not be terrible for letting genuine irritation flash in his eyes gone deeper green for keeping Kaylee unhearing. He has other reasons going for him. The name of the feline— hopefully it's a cat, anyway— goes without batting an eye. "Vera," is automatic scolding without bothering to get to his feet, followed immediately by; "Tania." You deal with it. Connecting names like dots.
Tania pushes up to stand from her seat, her movements fluid and her expression even. Calm. It's hard to say what her thoughts are on them not being able to pay, but that has always been more Logan's forte than hers.
Two cups are picked up and two delivered and no booby traps in either. Or her legs, it would seem. She's just handing Deckard his when the girls make their grand entrance. There's a glance to Logan, who gets a nod as she sweeps over toward the girls. Her fingers brush over the younger's face in a gentle, loving gesture while she looks over at the elder. "You both know the deal. You wanted the cat and you promised you'd take care of him," she says, her hand moving to her hips.
"Diana, help her clean up," she says, nodding back toward the stairs. There's an indulgence about it all, but still, she's not the type of mother to tell them to get someone else to handle it for them. She looks down to Vera, her hand still on the girl's cheek. "You know not to interrupt when we have guests," is her gentle chiding to the younger, "Now go on, and I'll come check on you both and Oscar soon."
Lucky for Flint, the business at hand keeps Kaylee's attention focused and their host has her unable to hear anything but what is vocalized in the room. His search for booby traps in rather… inappropriate places is gone unnoticed. So the 'buffer' is safe in it's current spot for the moment. No guarantees if he keeps it up, tho'.
Fingers lace and sit neatly in her lap, perched at her knees as she settles into what might be a long negotiation. At least, until the interruption brought about by smaller persons. The cats name gets an amused look and a glance towards Logan, brows tipping up slightly at the cat's name. Really? Father like daughters maybe?
Still, Kaylee's features soften as she watches the mother with her children, a flicker of sadness before she looks away and down at her folded hands. Quiet as she waits for the girls to be cleared out and business to continue.
Any immediate response that Gwen had worked up is stopped when the young girl suddenly appears in the room. The words die for many reasons, and it takes some time for her to look away from the children. Mostly because that thin smile is becoming something a lot more genuine. The woman always has had a soft spot for young children.
With a shake of her head, she decides to push on with the business despite the little spies. "We're— There are many methods equally as sufficient that we can agree on, I am sure," she says, though the first part seems to have been cut off—
The woman is trying to avoid swearing in front of the couple's daughters.
There's a moment when Tania is handing Deckard his coffee where it seems like he might ~toe a line~. She's looking away, Logan's looking away. Everyone is looking away.
But both of their hands are on the coffee.
His right and her right, fine-boned fingers and his netted under knotted vein and scar tissue. He's looking down hard when she finally steps away and he curls his free fingers into the mantle instead, metal sunk soundlessly into softer wood a good quarter inch.
Restless. Bored. Not interested in pretty children or kitty skeletons or beating around the bush, tension bristled up the back of his neck when he prowls on along the wall with his coffee.
"What do you want?"
"Are you sure that you don't want to give him a different name?" Diana asks Vera in a low, private voice. "One that you didn't find in Father's swea—" ter. She doesn't get the opportunity to clip out that last syllable, however, because Vera is suddenly squeezing the kitten so tightly that it squeaks out a shrill, plaintive mew.
She's just noticed Deckard's hand. "What's wrong with him?" Vera whispers, sotto voce, and she addresses this question to her mother rather than her sister, who is carefully extracting the kitten from Vera's grasp. Diana raises her eyes to Deckard's face, giving him a mild but sincere look of apology, though she's too shy to hold his gaze — only to seek it out, then veer away again whether or not she succeeds in meeting it.
"What do you have?"
It's a swift kind of reply, pushing past queries over there about whether or not the cat should be named after a designer, but it's not an attempt at wittiness — it's a sharp reminder about who has come here wanting for anything, and surrounded by soft furniture and soft wood and paintings on walls that only betray Logan's true status quo in the unfinished paintjob crawling cheap up to the ceiling, the mismatched array, a glazing affect like when he hikes his accent up a class. He's about to say more when that mewl quietly squeaks out, and he seems on the brink of turning from negotiations to bicker domestic about how he had said he wanted to get them a lizard, something that doesn't shed or throw up on Iranian rugs.
"Di, go upstairs. Take the s— take the cat. Vera, come here." Trusting the woman in the equation to usher the elder as directed, Logan puts out a hand to usher Vera farther into the room, negation shifting off Kaylee at the same time. There's a degree of compliance that, to outsider eyes, could just speak of a very obedient girl. The three in the room can take it or leave it. His hand closes on Vera's. "That was very rude. Apologise to Flint, would you?"
He casts a look around that meets all three sets of eyes, direct. "I like money. I want money."
Tania seems to take it for granted that their father will handle any real breach of good behavior, as she only lets out a sigh at Vera's question. But she puts a hand on Diana's back, whispering the direction to go back upstairs as she ushers her gently in that direction. It's a mothering style likely birthed from a desire to not be anything like her own mother.
But instead of following her up or returning to her seat, she lingers there, to better guide the younger in the same direction when it's her turn.
Maybe it's the harshness of Deckard's demand or the innocent question of the child that draws Kaylee out of her own private thoughts. Taking a deep breath, Kaylee looks up to meet Logan's gaze. "I think we are very aware Mr. Logan that you enjoy monetary compensation." Her chin lifts a little in a sort of defiance. "However, as stated we don't have cash… so as council, I am authorized to offer you a means to get you the money.
"Namely, electronics from a down jet. Intact and I've been told in working order." Kaylee's brows lift a little in question. "Surely, something like that must go for a pretty penny in certain circles?" Something in her tone says, they may have already checked this or maybe it isn't the first time they dealt in something like this..
"And you know we're going to be coming back— and doing business with you later, when we do have money," Gwen states, leaning forward as she wraps her cold fingers around the warm coffee mug. She hesitates to take a sip just yet, looking around at all of them, especially their oldest companion.
When her eyes meet Logan's green ones again, she has a serious expression on her face, rather than the pleasant smile she had for a moment thanks to the kids. "We need these medical supplies, and we'll find someone to get them from. And we would certainly prefer to keep our present and future business with you."
Dark coffee sipped and savored slow, Flint holds it on his tongue too long before swallowing. His attention is finally drawn sideways to the girls instead, delicate alien skulls with gawping voids for eyes and two sharp little sets of perfect teeth. It's hard to tell if he's actually heard the implied insult — there's a ringing distraction to his stare locked after Vera's progress that doesn't splinter shrill until Logan's taken her hand.
Wuah wuah wuah medical supplies, present and future business across the room.
He peels her bones back from the pommel of her twee heart, blackly suspicious.
"I'm sure I'm very sorry," Vera tells Deckard demurely, her fair head bowed. She gives her father's hand a squeeze. Diana, meanwhile, slips from the room as instructed by the touch of her mother's hand at her back and disappears around the corner, though Flint will be able to see her mount the staircase, kitten cradled against her breast, and ascend the steps.
Vera sits down on the settee to occupy the seat Tania vacated. All this talk of money and jets is a little boring, but it's been a little while since she was exposed to company, so she raises herself up straight and places her free hand on top of her father's. Her posture is perfect. The same cannot be said of her socks, one of which is pulled up much higher than the other. The little girl's breathing slows — her heart, too. Inspires calm.
He doesn't mind when Vera takes her seat, allowing his hand to be held as he evaluates the faces of the two women in front of him and misses Deckard's stare for as long as he's thinking. He isn't the next person Logan seeks out — he instead glances to Tania, and for all that he rarely consults anyone on the deals he strikes, nevertheless, he reads what he can of her expression before his posture straightens some. And looks at his daughter, a hand coming up to stroke over hair that is silken like her mother's, blonde like her dad's. "Very good," he says, and only then flicks a glance over her skull to Deckard.
A gentle push urges Vera off her mother's former perch. Changing his mind. "Go help your sister," is quiet instruction, before he pushes business on. "There's only so many people who wouldn't sooner take a handsome reward from the Department for your heads. But I'll do it. This time. I'll go out tonight to see it for myself before we— go over the particulars of your demands."
It's really difficult.
Not to cuss. Sometimes.
As Vera opts to sit instead of following her sister, Tania smiles just a bit before she lifts her gaze to meet Logan's. There's just a tick if her eyebrow upward, a gentle tilt of her head. Probably not enough for anyone else to notice much, but her vote is clear enough to her husband.
Of course, she always likes to help.
She moves back toward him as he dismisses their youngest, but not to retake her seat. Rather, she takes up the spot behind him, her arms draping over his shoulders as he gives his decision on the subject. If she's happy about it, it's hard to tell, really, as she has the same, pleasant expression she did when they came in as she regard the trio. But perhaps behind him is suppose to be more than just her location.
"Maybe." Kaylee agrees mildly, studying Logan for a long moment. "Would be a shame though, we've been doing business for so long." And for long after no doubt, despite threats of going else where. She sounds like for a moment she may actually miss it, if it ended. Or not. It might only be polite really.
She glances at Gwen and then focuses on Deckard for a brief moment more, maybe even after all these years, Kaylee still feels a lingering doubt that she's done her job correctly. She studies the oldest of them, before looking back to Logan.
But there is a firm nod of her head, "We'll make sure someone is out there to show you." She might barter with it, but Kaylee doesn't know much about the inner workings of jets. Or things like that. Feet uncross and she's moving to stand. Until he's seen the goods, there isn't much more they can do.
With words of finality as to their audience, Gwen does the one thing she held off doing— she starts drinking on the coffee, even as she stands. Rather than the sips that would keep her tongue from being burned potentially, she's taking larger gulps. It's had time to cool, enough.
And it may be the last coffee she has for a while, as she puts the cup down on the table.
"You are certainly one of the more honorable men we could be dealing with, Mister Logan," she says with a nod of respect— and gratitude.
Cause she was completely bluffing on finding someone else.
The deal is done. There are people who need medicine.
But the idea of "people" is a nebulous one and Deckard's organizational loyalties have always been notoriously frail.
Disgust bristles subtle across the hollow of his jaw and through the uneven brand of his eyes. Even before the last little girl has vanished all the way, there's a warning stiffness about his shoulders that hunches forward by a matter of increasingly dangerous degrees. And there, seconds away from a lot of awkward explaining to do on the homefront, is Tania.
Wrapping around him and. Behind him.
Flint aborts. He also decides to leave. Abruptly and on his own, ceramic and coffee pulverized back into clay that stains his sleeve and dribbles across at least two rugs on his way out the way he came.
He uses it on them, is ground out for Kaylee's ears only. Don't ask me to come here again.