Participants:
| Scene Title | Children And Their Dolls |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Abby thinks she knows who killed Hokuto, and violence ensues. |
| Date | March 17, 2010 |
She's not welcome. Just how enforced that is, who knows. Much like Old Lucy's where only Danko and the Ruskie's have ever made it to having their picture's behind the bar with a strict 'Do not let in' and Logan's just on the honor list, one Abigail Beauchamp is as well. Not that she would usually be found in this sort of place. Likely to turn her red with mortal embarrassment as ladies swish and twirl and do their thing to earn a living.
But being told she's unwelcome doesn't stop the blonde from coming into the place, showing ID when prompted to prove that she's legal age. Jeans, boots, jacket, sweater and bundled against the weather that she drove through just to get here, she's coming in regardless of John Logan's wishes and immediately setting about like a greyhound with prey to find the evolved manager of the place. Caliban is going to be unhappy. :(
They know by now to at least let him know when the unwanted blonde woman swishes through the doors, and because it's a slow night, Abby's presence does not slip by undetected. Most nights seem slow, since winter decided to stay for good, business not what it is when the weather is better, both in terms of clientele and employees. The music is loud, crashing off the walls and the high ceiling, the lights dazzling, but it's a small show of a few girls spotting the place and a scattering of patrons.
Logan is not hard to pick out. Swinging his legs down off the bar from where he'd perched to sit upon he far end, nursing a drink, he starts towards Abigail, a lanky figure in tailored lines of black and red, and more distinctly, a rolling gait to his walk — his right leg is stiff, and he has a cane in his hand, seeing use. Though Abby knows that the scratch she saw to on the bridge would not cause this kind of hindrance, the patchwork slashes of twisted, older scars she would have had to notice possibly have something to do with it.
Disfigurement. He'd never asked her to heal it, back in the day. "You just can't stay away, can you?" Logan says once he's in range, coming to a halt, silencing that thump-thump-click pattern of his walking.
She couldn't help but notice his leg as she had cut off the pantleg of his suit so that she could clamp gauze over it and make sure he wouldn't bleed to death on her watch. No pity to be had for the state that his leg was in, the flesh obviously torn apart by something and healed up improperly.
Up comes her palm, whip crack like Deckard once did to her. Only her gave her the back of his hand and Logan's getting her palm. She's only ever hit one other person and it was Magnes. Strangely, it was over Logan. But that was another day and today, it is over someone else. "You killed her. Didn't do it yourself, no, you have everyone else do you dirty work. Why? Because she asked for your help? Because she dragged you into unwillingly and made you do something good and nice and repent for what you did to me!" The blonde is spitting mad - literally little tiny bits of spittle flying from her mouth as she finishes the slap with her hand clenched into a fist and one finger pointed at him. She doesn't care who's watching or what scene they might be making.
Logan is forever quick to fight back. To escalate. This time, he's slightly too stunned to do so, the blow turning his head and making his cane gracelessly slip against the ground, although he's as certain to keep a grip on it as he is to stay standing. A hand comes up to his mouth as wide green eyes stare flat and pale across at her, rendered mute for once and ignoring the way the security guards shift uneasily, though their boss isn't calling for help—
Then he moves. The cane shifts in his grip, held around the middle, the curved handle swung down to connect with a crack against her knee. That has someone moving forward, but a sharp and snakish glare from Logan has them going still as if turned to stone.
"You're wrong," the Brit hisses, between gritted teeth, and then adds, "And she did deserve it."
Seems too stupid to just stand there, expecting someone to just take being hit in the face. Magnes took it. Logan, Logan doesn't take it and just like that, cane connects to knee and Abby goes down, giving out from under her with no small amount of pain that's expressed in the scream that comes from it. Pain shoots up her leg, down her leg to the back of her foot. Both hands fly to her knee and she looks up… waaaaay up at the former pimp.
"You're lying. Who breaks into a bookstore to steal money and shoots the oniermancer owner but doesn't take money!? You don't walk away from what you did on Staten Island and never look back. You didn't do it yourself but I'm sure you had a hand in it. It's just your kind of thing. Can't stand to cut out tongues yourself, have someone else do it. Can't kidnap helpless women so your can whore them out, addict them to drugs! Promise to cure them of their ability!" Abby yells and sneers all this at the owner from the floor of the club.
This is a mess. A noisy, scene-y mess, and it's usually not Logan to be the one to be aware of it, usually at the centre of it, creating it — but this is his business, and a guarded kind of look around the place forces him to take note of the way the dancer in the centre stage has stopped and is staring, her hands wrapped around the pole she'd been wrapping herself around just prior. A few paying customers are watching this particularly spectacle too, and Logan is trying to work out his temper through— breathing in and out.
"Oh, Christ, would you shut up," he hisses, awkwardly descending to kneel and crouch before her, brow crinkling as his own leg twinges with the movement. "Yes, you're perfectly correct, it has me written all over it, but I didn't fucking do it." Much quieter, he's nearly whispering as he makes as if to offer her a hand up, although it's mostly for show. "But do you even know who you're talking about?
"You're talking about a woman who let the worser part of herself run away and drive people to suicide for no reason. She haunted people, preyed on them, and killed them if they got in her way. You want to go into detail about the things that I've done, take a look at that bitch's track record. It's a fair bit bloodier than mine."
You just don't speak ill of the dead, or people like Hokuto who to Abby. Not the woman who's friend with Niki, who's also Jessica the former company-slash-linderman goon. Regardless of how much pain radiates from her knee, Logan made the mistake of kneeling down and getting closer to Abby. He should have learned that lesson from the bible so long ago.
Good thing she doesn't have a bible right now because Abby's palm strikes again on the same cheek. "Don't you talk about her like she knew what she was doing. She didn't and it almost killed her to stop it." Abigail yells at the other man. "For all that she did, at least she was trying to make up for it. Never once did you apologize for what hell you put me through, what you still put me through you son of a bitch!"
He has a knife that he could use. A gun up in his office. Instead, Logan's hand darts out and grips her wrist, bringing it up off the floor so she only has the one other hand to balance on — and thus, stop hitting him, rolling his jaw and shaking off the slight ring this second blow had created in his ears. "Don't talk about me like you know a fucking thing," he snarls, still quiet, still vicious. "Maybe if you did, an apology might mean something. But you don't, and it doesn't, so don't act like it would make a difference. The best I can do for you is stay away, and you make it awfully difficult."
Fingers around her wrist will probably create bruises come morning, but so did her hand across his face. "Now you listen to me. I'm not your enemy — you've got enemies. And you'd better hope they get bored before any more of your little friends wind up dead, do you understand?" Be glad I warned Robert or it might've been 'is face in the morning paper."
Pain in leg outweighs the pain in her wrist and she's nearly vibrating with adrenaline, anger and now fear. "They came to you…" Who else could it be. "Kozlow or Dreyfus? Or was it Yvette Volken? We know about them already" But there's other things implied. It means he knew they were going after people but only saw fit to warn Caliban. "Robert was there in Russia with us Logan. They already know about him. Do you know why they're going after our friends? Because Elisabeth killed Dreyfus's son when he attacked Teodoro after hurting Robert" She calls him robert. "and helped them kidnap me. And they're coming after me because I'm the one that killed their boss. You knew and you didn't warn others? You only warned Robert?"
There's marked interest in Logan's eyes, as if entirely removed from this configuration of their two bodies on the ground, joined by his clasp on her arm and his cane lying clasped against the ground with his other hand. "Don't see how them already knowing about him means I shouldn't. In fact, it's probably fair and good that I did or he would be dead, wouldn't he? I warned Caliban because you don't bite the hand that feeds you. What do I owe you? Any of you?"
Black polished shoes arrives in their periphery, a security man who, thankfully, is not Flint Deckard. Logan releases her arm with a shove, and moves to get to his feet. "Help the lady up," is a muttered command, and the finely dressed muscle goes to do exactly that, hands like polished brown wood and deceptively gentle.
"Two months of my life and my own fucking tongue" Abby spits out at him as he lets go with a modicum of violence that forces her to balance on her hand that has fingers digging into the flooring. Those hands work to help her up, pained breathing as she's upright and her hat is picked up and given to her. She's not walking out of here on her own two feet much less driving to her next destination which is likely to be the emergency room. Maybe one of her ever constant watchers will be able to see to getting her there. Either that or she'll end up taking a taxi which are scarce in the weather right now. She doesn't spare another glance for Logan, just leans on tall dark and muscled to start making her way out. Crazy blonde bitch is leaving the building.
She gets all the way out of the building, even, into the blistering cold that probably does something to soothe the ache in her knee. But she's not alone for long — long enough that there was clearly some hesitation involved, on Logan's part, but he follows her out. The light from the neon sign out front casts ghostly pink and green down onto the sidewalk, warmer golds from the window displays of posters. The click of his cane might do something to herald his appearance, if his voice doesn't instead.
"He scares me."
There. Logan lifts a shoulder in a shrug, which turns into a sharp shiver, having not come out here in an overcoat. Fffuck it's cold. "And maybe I'm not quite at the stage where I'm keen to lay down my life for you lot. I thought I could get away with Caliban, if only because he's got some intelligence about him. Kozlow finds out I'm helping you people, I could lose more than my leg."
Abby looks over her shoulder at Logan when he emerges not long behind them. "You'll never lay down your life for us because you value yours too much Logan" So it's Kozlow who visited. There's a glance from his face, down to his leg or what little of it that she can see over the hulk of a shoulder. "You knew Ethan Holden. He apparently just as bad. Don't deal with him Logan. Just fuck off and leave your nose out of this. He makes what you did to me look like a child playing with dolls" And she doesn't mean her knee right now. The anger and venom still saturates her voice, the standard as it always seems to be when dealing with Logan.
"That's because that's what we were," Logan says, whatever softness that had crept into his voice suddenly gone as fast as a cold snap. "And I'll fuck off when I choose, not on your terms. Don't come out here again, you'll find yourself with a closed door in that pretty face of yours." And he's moving, wary of ice under foot, stilted from his limp, but going, disappearing into the relative warmth of his strip joint.