logan_icon.gif magnes_icon.gif

Scene Title Business-Like
Synopsis Logan and Magnes finish a transaction and verbalise where they stand.
Date March 29, 2010

Burlesque: Logan's Office

It's early enough at night that the noise coming up from the dancefloor is not the brassy bombasticness in the fashion that gives this place its name, but thudding, monotonous techno vibrates the floor under Logan's desk instead. Think about it — he could be home. In bed. Healthy. Instead, he's here, even if no one would probably blame him for skipping work, and that he's probably skipped it for longer intervals than what he'd intend, anyway. But there's too much going on in this city, or so it feels like, for him to tuck his head in the sand. Though the world has been thrown back into the depths of winter, New York isn't hibernating.

With his feet kicked up onto the edge of his desk with an arm draped across his face, Logan could almost look relaxed, lights low and office quiet save for the distant sound of music. He's put effort into his clothing, his patent leather shoes polished to shine, black slacks, a silvery-black shirt that shows the grey wifebeater beneath it, and a spaceheater warms the room almost uncomfortably. It's very much an office, decked with antique furniture, and an Iranian rug lying between his oak desk and the door.

A glass of wine sits next to his hand on the polished wood, and an ashed out cigarette lies in a dirty ashtray. He feels like hell.

And one of John Logan's personal demons is marching right up to his office after making an appointment and showing his ID. Maybe the former pimp forgot, maybe he's just not all that concerned, but there's suddenly a brief banging on his door. The gravitokinetic is wearing layers of shirts for heat, and a short black leather trenchcoat over that, loose red spirals hypnotically going down his black pants and to his black winter boots. "I'm here to collect." he ominously announces, hands in his pockets.

Breathe in, breathe out. Logan lowers his arm to peer at what the world is bothering him with now, expression neutral. Bruises colour along his right cheek bone and the bridge of his nose, as if perhaps it had gotten broken at some stage, although the line of his profile hasn't seem to change. Drawing his boots and their slight heel up and off the desk, Logan sits upright to study the other man. "Took you long enough," he says in a voice that suggests a heavy amount of chainsmoking, and though his office does smell of smoke— not that much smoke.

He's sick. Past the bruises and the glamour and cut of his clothes, that much one can see just by looking at him. "I was wondering when you'd think to come by, Varlane."

"I've got a new job, I've only just gotten used to scheduling around it." Magnes closes the door behind him, not bothering to look for a seat, he just lifts both legs up and floats with his legs crossed, coat continuing to hang. He's read enough comics to know how to create atmosphere. "I need my eye fixed, fast. I don't know how you intended to get it done, but I need it. As far as the money you owe me, make sure Eileen gets it, and don't tell her I had anything to do with it."

Pale eyes stare through Magnes, and there's a paused moment where maybe Logan didn't hear him, or is hearing something else. A crease of concentration shows in his brow, before he smooths it out with his fingertips, hissing out a rasping sigh. Magnes, for all intents and purposes, remains floating by the time Logan is looking away. "I'll tell her it was a very generous tip," he states, voice wry, before nudging his feet against the floor to swivel his chair around.

Reaches for a notepad to scribble a name and number on gold-flecked paper, handwriting elaborate but clear enough. "Here," Logan sniffs, pushing the slip across the desk without bothering to get up. Zhang Mu-Qian is written there, with a phone number and an address to a clinic in Chinatown. "She'll do it. If she asks for money, just kick it to me. I'll take care of it. She won't refuse, though — 'specially not if you show up in person and show that," he points his pen at Magnes' dead eye, "at her."

"Works for me." Magnes takes the paper, cracking a smile that he was actually successful, then stuffs it into his pocket. "You don't look so good. Would probably look worse if I did it. You just keep your nose clean… and please treat Eileen well?" he asks the last part with genuine sincerity, placing his boots on the floor again with a stretching of his legs. "Seriously, I don't want her doing this, but it's what she wants. If I find out you have her doing anything more than what she's already doing, no one's gonna be happy. I didn't come here to make threats and stuff, but Eileen's a really important friend, and I just wanna make sure she's safe and respected, like she deserves to be."

Paper passed off, Logan leans back in his chair again, fingertips up to roam against the fading bruises on his face, unfocused, before his attention sharpens again as he regards Magnes with a chilly kind of interest that lingers before he speaks. "I can't promise anything about respect regarding that woman," he starts, "but no one touches the girls. Not the security, not the patrons, and not me. You're right — she's where she wants to be, and she can leave whenever. Might save me a lot of fucking pain and bad business if she did, to be honest."

He lowers his hand to cough into his curled fist, that hand then spreading to press against his own chest with a look of discomfort, passing and fading. "You just keep everything between us nice and business-like and you won't have a problem. Spread the news, even. I don't get personal 'til it gets personal."

"As a business person, I don't really mind you, but I'm never gonna forget what you did to Abby, any of it. I know you can probably do good, I believe everyone can do good. I've met people much worse than you since last year. Just don't hurt the people I care about and things will stay civil between us." Magnes turns around, opening the door before looking back briefly. "I'm learning I have some anger management issues, and I deal with them in a pretty unhealthy way. So… yeah, let's keep it business and you don't touch them, ever."

The door's closed, and he heads down the stairs, through the club, and out the door, keeping it civil but not even remotely polite.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License