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Scene Title Even
Synopsis It's just another night in the Rookery. Logan and Deckard bristle at each other until common ground through simple math (whores for cash) is reached. Satoru has a briefcase. All is not necessarily well.
Date June 6, 2009

Outside The Happy Dagger

It's a cool night in the streets of Staten, still and clear if not particularly quiet. Music muffles out of open doors and barred windows at a low rhythmic pulse, carrying far in humidity that smudges at the heat of neon signs and diffracts color into hazy halos across cracked concrete. The Happy Dagger stands apart from the rest: brighter, jauntier, more colorful. Louder.

So far the front door is about as far as Flint Deckard has managed to get. Once a familiar face within the Dagger's walls, ever since he left one eye short of what he went in with, things have been a little more…complicated. There's that and the fact that all of his IDs were confiscated last time he got arrested and he hasn't bothered with getting new ones. People know who he is. The bouncers at the door know who he is too. Therein lies the problem.

So here he is, waiting patiently in a suit nicer than most of the ones he owns looking vaguely homeless anyway because it was fitted for him when he weighed several pounds more than he does now, sunken face brushed brilliant pink and firey orange around the hollow set of his eyes and scruffy jaw. He's lost the crutches but retained a limp, mitigated currently by whatever painkillers he managed to hustle out've Constantine last time he was over there. His right hand is bandaged. And he's waiting.

There are windows, long ones. They allow for light to spill out onto the streets as well as glimpses of flesh obscured by chiffon curtains and movement, nothing like you might get away with on the mainland, but so is the joy of not being on the mainland. Makes the spotty electricity and rampant crime almost tolerable, all things considered. It's a circus, illegal, and it'd want to be decadent.

A redhead passed her way by Deckard not a few minutes ago, contained in an invisible cloud of perfume, the clack-clack of highheels scraping against the concrete, her body wrapped in a faux-fur coat and long legs otherwise bare. She slanted a look in his direction before disappearing inside, going unfollowed.

It is only a matter of time. Likely that's what Deckard is waiting.

And when Logan finally steps outside, he's not wearing a suit nicer than all the ones he owns, but it's certainly nice, the narrow-waisted jacket pinstriped and buttoned over the silken red of his shirt, long neck made more so with the top button undone, no tie in sight. No cane either, no snarling wolf head in his hand that portrays a certain ferocity he can't afford to wear so plainly. The heels of his shoes don't click so neatly as that of the whore going inside for work, and his eyes are narrowed on Deckard.

"Figured you'd stand here, wait for someone to come out and play?"

Deckard's suit is a sooty shade of matte black, soft enough that it might pass for grey with the way it welcomes the contrast of neon warmth across the shoulders and back. His tie is loose enough that it seems odd that he opted to wear one at all, delicate, diagonal lines of silver touched metallic across the slack knot. The collared shirt beneath that is murky slate. Everything grey, grey, grey, save for what the Dagger's signs assimilate into their more visceral scheme.

It's hard in a way, being confined to mortal means of looking when figures like the one that redhead is wearing clop past in fur and heels. His head turns anyway, light eyes resting on the red of her hair before they down to follow her ass in for all its worth. The flat of his chest rises over a deep breath, but doesn't make it to exhale. There's a familiar accent at the door, lonelier somehow without the accompanying click of the swordcane. Flint's hands slide into his pocket as he turns, shoulders braced to the younger man's exit. He looks solid. You know. For all that he also looks like shit.

"The guys at the door wouldn't let me in. I've been looking for a star to wish on."

Logan doesn't get much further from the building, as if the lights coming down from the interior and glaring neon affixed to the outside haloed him in a sense of protection. Orange, gold, red, pink light all bask over his shoulders and throw off his personal colour scheme, slants across his cheek as he tilts his head. "For you, Mr. Deckard?" he says, and his voice doesn't betray anything but aloof, Englishy professionalism. It's a struggle. His spine is apparently replaced with a steel rod. "There aren't enough of 'em in the sky."

Up and down, Logan finally takes in the other man's appearance. If similar analysis were afforded to the Happy Dagger itself, one would notice that past the glare of neon, the glitter, the silk, it's an old building; the brickwork is cracked, the paint flakes, damage of age making the entire place decay, if fabulously so. Similarly, Logan appears like he could use a longer night's (or day's) sleep, and maybe an extra meal now and then, if analysed beyond the cut of his suit.

Probably doing a damn sight better overall, however. "I could have you shot in the street like a dog, and you want to get laid."

Deckard's eyes narrow, roving chill between the shadows blocked out by neon's play across the side of Logan's face. His own is as stripped down as the rest of him, skin clinging close to austere bone and drawn muscle. Look close enough and the light plays over individual fibers in the clench of his jaw. He's desperately thin, the ridge of his spine just visible against the span of suit between his shoulders. Not too far off from something that might be shot for mercy's sake, rather than vengeance or self-defense or…fun.

All of this and he still has the nerve to observe that, "You don't look so good, John." John. He sweeps past the Mister and right into First Name Basis territory as he takes a step forward, pushing his own luck where Logan seems disinclined to push his. The effect would probably be more dramatic if his stride wasn't stiffened and shortened by the pain that bleeds hot from his calf beneath the easy swing of his slacks. "Not enough time in the day? Trouble sleeping?" Casual, polite suggestions once he's straightened himself up again. Only making conversation!

"I have money. You have whores. As far as my math's concerned regarding every other factor, we're even."

Tempting as it is to back up, Logan doesn't deign to give him any ground as the older man makes his limping step forward. Only a quick glance downwards given towards the way Deckard's step hitches, but mostly focused on eyes that don't glow. It's a detail one might remember when it's all you can see during the time a knife is forcing its way between your ribcage, but its absence doesn't seem off, necessarily. Just absent, blessedly.

Similarly, Logan's eyes are just as dull and mundane, even if the glare fixed on the other man gives them a certain life. "Even," he repeats, voice flat as the rain-slicked pavement they're standing on. "That's what you're calling it, Flint?" I can use first names too.

His hands make their way into the pockets of his jacket, stance loosening into something more casual, as if maybe no longer expecting a blow. Or uncaring if it happens. The shadows of security guards stretch across the concrete, watchful gargoyles in suits cheaper combined than the one Logan is wearing. The pimp also puts on a smile, head tilting. "I'm fine, thank you. You, on the other hand, look like the stray left out in the cold. Did you come for her?" The question is abrupt; sharper, louder, and spiked with suspicion. "Because you're wasting your time." His center of gravity shifts forward with a subtle, conspiring lean. "Thought I might save you an eye."

No glowing eyes. Not even a flicker. Their absence is a tangible blow to his ability to intimidate. He's tall but not exceptionally so, malnourished to the point of readily apparent illness. Without the eyes he's just a skinny creeper with a gun and a razor allergy, all hard, fiery edges and steep shadowed drop offs.

One more step brings him into more conversational range, hands still tucked deep into his pockets. Casual to casual, with the iron-cast ridge of his spine as stiff as Logan's behind the lazy act draped comfortably over it. "You poked a knife into me, I poked a knife into you. …Technically you didn't have to regrow any organs, so," the ice in his glare flickers upward as if calculating out the difference — dubious math that is then transferred down to the other man's middle in ponderance of organs approximately the same size and density as the average eyeball, "if you really want to get into the nitty gritty…" He lets the offer hang. In part for overall effect. In part because what Logan says next makes his blood run cold in the thick of his veins.

His mouth hangs slightly open; his long face turns into a touch of an aside. He stands very still. Buffering.

Logan's response is a soft snort of good humour, eyes hooding lazily and managing not to move even when Deckard evaluates exactly which organs might properly level the battlefield. His eyebrows lift when silence descends and Deckard has that look on his face, one that can't quite be hidden behind the weathering of age and general hard knocks. Logan settles his spine straight again, chin lifted.

Maybe he said something stupid. Maybe. Somewhere, Muldoon lets out a sigh. But for all intents and purposes— "Cat got your tongue?" Ha, tongues. The corner of his mouth looks into the beginnings of a smile once more. "No one's dead. No one's even where they don't want to be, so you and that sliver of gold in your heart can relax."

His hands extract from their pockets and he brings them together in a sharp clap, clasping. "So. Prostitutes."

"Who do you have?" All the back and forth is dropped, pissing contest forgotten in the face of more pressing concerns. Deckard's voice is like grey slush raked to the curb, cold, damp and rough, bony fingers itching to snatch and twist into lapels worth more than his entire living situation. They fall out of his pockets with an urgency that's difficult to mistake — like he suspects he might need them for something here in a second or two.

Did Abby make it home last night? Could she have caved and come back around looking for him? Who would know?

The tension in his jaw has accomplished new and exciting levels of severity, set off by a sliver of bared teeth at the tongue remark. He's coiling, rangy muscle knotting in his shoulders, ready to pounce and rip and tear. "Anyone I know?"

It isn't serendipitous timing or any sort of precognition that brings Toru to the entrance of the Happy Dagger at this point - pure chance has led the boy here at this particular time. At the very least, he has the good judgment to hang back a moment when he sees his boss involved with… a customer? Someone apparently dubiously important enough to warrant John Logan's Time, in any case. Toru stays a few feet away, making sure at least that Logan does notice he's there, giving the older man the option to acknowledge him, or not.

Although some incentive is offered in the form of a briefcase that he lifts, briefly. Hey, look what I brought you. Pay attention to meee.

But, once that's taken care of, eyes are on Deckard. Sure, there are bouncers about, but at the same time he does feel some sort of obligation to watch out for his boss as well. His job does rather depend on his having an employer.

Toru's presence almost goes missed. Watching the cues Logan knows well of a man trying hard not to make a most unwise decision for the sake of instant, bruising gratification is far more interesting than the peripheral blur of someone's approach. The pimp already has his hands out of his own pockets and his own coiling tension is a little more subtle. He's not sure, yet, what would be more fun - there aren't any knives in Deckard's hands, at least, but then again, the same goes for himself. Bristle bristle.

His answer is brisk, and, back in the business of pushing his luck, it's accompanied with a meandering step forwards. "Yes." And then, his gaze slants to the side, an affected frown, "Or, I presumed so. Either way, I haven't locked the doors. Eileen is free to come and go."

No need for twenty questions, then. She is bigger than a breadbox, and she's not a vegetable (or so one would hope) or even a mineral! John's voice eases out of him quietly. "And so're you. You get an hour, a room, a lady, and then you can fuck off back under whatever rock you crawled from." Halfway through that, a glance to the side finally lands Satoru under the pimp's radar, briefcase and all. And briefcases are rarely bad news. Oh hi. A chin lift should be enough to beckon him over.

Somehow 'Eileen' wasn't one of the names Deckard ever thought he'd be hearing in direct association with the Happy Dagger. His brows level and hood, mild surprise giving way to suspicion that thunders in the distance without anything solid enough to root lightning to. Logan admitted that he had her freely. He says she can come and go.

Despite his intimate familiarity both with addiction and the uniquely attractive nature of Logan's ability, he fails to make any concerned kind of connection there. To make matters worse, his senses are dulled. Retarded. No amount of squinting will tell him how fast the pimp's heart is beating when he closes off the distance between them and glances sideways. Flint follows the look, scruffy head turning to take in Satoru with a swiftness that betrays his own unease for his location and current company alike. His face is as gaunt as the rest of him, neon orange striking harsh at the ridge of his brow and cheekbone. The blue of his eyes is cancelled out into yellow by the same ambient glow — the Dagger's rather than his own.

He's slow to look back to John, indecision twisting irritably at the corner of his mouth only to be scrubbed away by a rough pass of his bandaged hand. He's going to lose it if he doesn't fuck someone or something soon. "Fine." Fine. She's probably okay. …Probably.

The scene is.. awkward? enough that Toru is hesitant to approach, but Logan did beckon him over, and so meander over he does. Slowly, so as not to alert suspicion, under the assumption that Deckard's visual acuity is based on movement. He doesn't look like a particularly savory fellow. Clean, certainly, but … some people you can just tell. And they are on Staten.

Once he does complete his approach, he stands close to Logan, at least enough so to hand that briefcase over conveniently. Mutters, "Mr. Tucker sends his apologies," and though it's a lie, it's a pleasant enough one. The only bit of the conversation between his employer and said employer's client was the offer of an hour and a room, and what didn't sound like a particularly kind felicitation at the end. All things that are filed away in his tiny badguy mind for future reference. 'Boss doesn't like this guy, don't give him the time of day.'

"Should prob'ly talk to you when you're done," the wee goon adds as an afterthought, after a moment or so. Posture is slightly defensive - one arm hangs at his side, while the other crosses over his chest to hold that elbow. He doesn't actually address Deckard, though he also makes sure not to give the impression that he'd like to join the man for tea when his hour's up.

Or during his hour, for that matter.

Fine. Logan's attention swivels to Toru, no hesitation as he lifts a hand to take the briefcase from the younger man, long fingers hooking into the handle to let the item dangle as he listens. It drops down to his side a moment later. His chest swells beneath black wool and red silk, lets out a sigh. "I believe we are," he says, with a glance up and down to Deckard, stepping away. There's no characteristic shimmer of serotonin as a parting note. Some people, Logan doesn't particular want close to him.

Or even liking him, although that would be a losing battle. Even he can recognise that. "Wish granted. We shan't turn you away."

Shan't. An equally insincere smile is delivered to the older man before Logan is gesturing towards the front door with a swing of the briefcase. "There's no such thing as even, by the way," he adds. "Just whatever's coming next, yeah?"

Deckard doesn't look like much of a tea drinker. Again, his chilly glare settles on Satoru when Logan turns his attention in the same direction, measuring and maybe, maybe just the slightest bit skeptical of the semi-interruption. If they weren't already on the street it'd be a 'Shouldn't you be waiting outside?' look. Considering who and what he is, it's odd that Deckard is capable of managing anything in that range of facial expressions to begin with.

"Maybe you should. He looks like he could use the company." That's to Toru, over Logan's head or simply past it when he finally leans into an advance upon the brothel entrance he was initially turned away from.

The last earns a look, flat and cool with a brush of swarthier dislike in passing. If you'd behave yourself, maybe nothing would come next, says the look. It has to, 'cause Flint doesn't open his mouth again on his way back up to (and presumably through) the guys checking identification at the door.

With Deckard's departure, Toru eases up a bit, looking up at Logan a bit questioningly, though that question is never actually verbalized. He lets out an annoyed sort of noise, bringing his hands up to fold them behind his head, and looks upwards for a moment. Fidgety. "Nnn. Well, anyway," head shaken, he kicks at the ground, drops arms to sides.

"Should we go inside, stay out here…?" He frowns a bit. "I mean, it ain't anything hella private or nothin', but… I'unno, maybe we should go inside." Not that he particularly wants to follow at Deckard's heels, but some things may be best discussed with more discretion.

"Tucker had.. some guy with him. Said some stuff. Made threats." Kicking at the ground a moment, he lets out a quiet sigh and frowns again. "You know a dude named Mortimer?"

The look delivered to him by mundanely blue eyes only gets a twitch of a smile, before Logan is watching Deckard depart, ignoring Satoru long enough to nod to the security guard who lets Flint through without complaint. His eyes steer back towards the younger man, one made a different colour entirely to green by the light coming down from the luminous signs. A few rapid, butterfly-flap blinks later, before he simply cuts through with a particularly even, if impatient, "Shut up." Switching briefcase hand to hand, he steps away, then head tilts. "And just follow."

It's not for the glowing entrance of the brothel, but towards the sideways alley that permits them entrance to the upper levels without having to navigate their way through. Shortcut, good for when you're bleeding, or don't want to spirit your way back through a dance hall of Staten Island's finest with a shiny new briefcase in your hand.

"And no," the pimp says over his shoulder as he moves for shadows. "I don't. Tell me all about 'im, and I'll tell you a story too. If you're good."

'Shut up,' at the very least, answers the question of how much detail Toru should go into as to his own trials during the Tucker Ordeal. Well then. Granted, the only sign of offense that he actually shows is a moment of tension, maybe a curse caught before it can actually escape his lips, but other than that. … He still has some level of restraint.

And he follows Logan, despite being tempted to just say 'fuck it' and leave it at delivering the briefcase. After all, he doesn't have to put up with that kind of condescension … but at the same time he is ever so slowly starting to view Logan as a sort of father figure who can never be pleased but, nonetheless, whose approval he inexplicably seeks. This may explain some things.

Such as why he continues to explain, "'S not important, I think. Some other guy hired him to pick me up. Friend of Tucker's, I guess. Card or something?" He shrugs. "And that Mortimer guy seemed really interested in you, but Card was sayin' as how he's got some guys gunnin' for you." Tone goes more serious here; this being the meat of the matter, as it were. "Said I should head out if I don't wanna end up dead when they show up. He's a dick." Though that opinion was formed for unrelated reasons.

The dirtier underside of the brothel is just that - dirtier. The alleyway is as damp and desolate as an alleyway in the Rookery should be, and the door they move through apparently needs no paint job, eroded by age and rust at the hinges. The interior starts out much the same and gets nicer as they move upwards, or at least cleaner and gaudier. They pass by a woman leaning against the wall, who blinks guiltily towards the pimp and his goon, a haze of smoke slowly leaking from the cigarette clamped between her fingers. She earns no rebuke or acknowledgement as Logan chooses to listen to Satoru instead, though she's quick to drop the cigarette, stamp it out with one Cinderella hooker heel, and disappear around the corner.

"Good to know Tucker's making new friends. Turns him into a better asset," Logan says, leading around a corner where the floor turns to carpet and the lighting turns to indistinct hazy oranges once more. They upper levels of the brothel are unshy of what it is - no pretence at being a strip club as per the lower levels, as claustrophobic and luxurious as a bedroom, even in the hallways. "I'll have to drop him a visit. Make sure there's no hard feelings."

Logan's pace slows as he nears his office, letting Satoru fall into step beside him rather than behind. "So what do they think they're gunning for, then? This Card and Mortimer. Tucker make that good of an impression on them or something?"

As far as Satoru is concerned, nothing about the brothel is terribly — abnormal, by now. He's wandered through most of the passages he has access to, by now, and while they aren't necessarily memorized, they're certainly familiar. Probably not really an "appropriate" sort of familiarity for a twenty-year-old, but such is life.

"I—- It might not be a good idea," Toru eventually replies to the idea of a visit. Hesitantly. "There were guns." Pause. "Mortimer tried to shoot me with a harpoon." And, because that doesn't sound ridiculous enough, "And he had flash grenades.. Tucker and 'Card' were kinda pissed about him bein', uh. Crazy." He rubs the back of his head, mussing up his hair a bit in the process, and finally just shakes his head again.

As they approach the office, his voice lowers a bit, though he himself seems a bit uncertain as to why, exactly. But, "Anyways, I kinda get the impression he wants to, uh. Kill you." Let's just lay everything out on the table. "Said your ship's sinkin', stuff like that."

It's not new, or even very interesting. It is, however, relevant, Logan coming to stand in front of his door and resting his hand on the handle, although he doesn't open it. "My ship's sinking," he repeats, with some remove, and a breath of laughter follows it. "I lost a business partner recently, something relatively well known. It's blood in the water, but we aren't sinking."

His fingers tighten a little around the handle of the briefcase, contemplatively possessive as he stands there, other arm angled against the door handle as he thinks. "And you have no idea what it is I did to piss them off? Did you ask?"

Well, that's an embarassing sort of question. "…No," is, however, Toru's eventual, stupidly honest reply. He just won't admit that he didn't really even think to ask about reasons; he mostly wanted to get away from where he was to begin with. "He said— there was one thing he kind of." And there his words come to a staccato halt, punctuated by a quick look to the floor, and then to the door.

A gesture to the office door is made, indicating that perhaps this hint may be better imparted behind closed doors. "He knows stuff I don't see how he should know about."

Well at least he's honest. Judgmental silence stretches out for a few short moments, Logan's expression mostly unreadable, before he twists the door handle with the force and quickness with which he might break a wrist. Not his own. The door is pushed open and Satoru is gestured inside with an impatient head tilt.

"Then you'd better tell me all about it," he says, words brisk and frosted over with disapproval. No, indeed. The lights of the office-by-name-only are already on - candles burn, chiffon-covered lamps allow for a more practical source of illumination. Just as it always is - more lounge than official space, but then again, what rules of such things could possibly be enforced within an illegal brothel?

"Obviously," Toru replies, with no small amount of petulance. Really, now. "Look, man, the guy was bein' a creeptard and I kinda wanted to get outta there before he shot me or somethin' instead of makin' chit-chat, aight?" Accusatory glare. He strides into the office with a near flounce to his gait, stopping only to drop onto a cushy chair. Very haughty.

"Look, he said all this shit about how you're gonna wreck my soul and how— " He pauses, there; it's a guilty sort of silence, and in his haste to get his point across he's nonetheless found time to figure that maybe he'll get in trouble for even thinking of bringing this up. "…how you keep your employees in line with your ability. On account of you bein' Evolved. He… didn't say what it was."

The briefcase is tossed onto a divan for later inspection, Logan taking off his jacket and allowing that to drape across the back of a chair. The red silk of his shirt on its own needs the black pinstriped worsted wool to look a little less ostentatious, but. Yeah. He fishes his cigarette holder from his pocket, filter-end pinched between teeth and ducking his head as he lights up, a glance towards Toru that makes no effort to mask some irritation.

But he's listening, once the excuses end and the explanation begins, Logan placing a hand on his waist and looking down at Satoru, he almost smiles in amusement at the words wreck my soul. Is that what they're calling it these days?

"That's because he doesn't know," he says, bringing his cigarette up to breathe in a lungful of smoke, lets it out slowly. "Such assumptions. I am Evolved, though. Want to see?"

Toru had actually intended to go into more detail about the whole Cardinal situation, but… he is just a boy, and curiosity derails even the most well-intentioned of employees. "Well, uh," is his standard hesitant reply, before actually moving on to the substance. "I guess if you're cool with showing me." A shrug, though it's one of those falsely indifferent ones. Showing just how much he doesn't care either way, in order to hide that he… really does want to know.

Really, anything else he'd meant to say can certainly wait a few minutes, since otherwise it'd probably mean never finding out. On a whim, he does add, in jest, "'S long as it doesn't mean tearing my soul apart or whatever, huh?" A small laugh.

"I know nothing about souls," Logan says, moving to sit nearby. The cigarette goes back between his teeth, although this doesn't seem to hinder his ability to speak an awful lot, undoing the button of his shirt sleeve, rolling it back enough to expose his wrist, before he offers his arm out. "Try doing like you did to Tucker," he says, other hand extracting the cigarette from his mouth once more, an easy smile behind a haze of smoke that's quick to disperse. Behind it, his eyes quite abruptly seem greener, and it's not so much what Satoru is feeling—

It's about what he's not feeling. Less quick to anger, or panic, or all those fight or flight responses that are simply not there. Luckily enough, there's no cause for panic. Just John Logan, offering out his arm for a boning.

All of those emotions being so integral to what makes up Satoru, their absence is… appropriately enough, not particularly panicked at. It's a strange sort of relaxing feeling, though he may or may not actually be connecting it to something Logan is doing. Somewhere in the back of his mind he remembers Cardinal saying something about keeping the whores happy, but he doesn't really care. Nonetheless, the offer of an arm to bone is taken with some hesitation. "I.. ain't so sure I'm comfortable with that, boss."

But, he also knows that Logan will just insist further that he do it. Nonetheless, he apparently felt the need to make a token rebellion against the idea, but not too long after expressing his discomfort, he pulls the glove off his left hand - which was there just to prevent incidents like this in the first place - and moves to take hold of Logan's wrist. And concentrates. Which, as nothing happens, turns slowly to confusion. "…I kinda feel funny." Though he doesn't really seem to mind all that much.

Needless to say, Logan's skin remains skin, and he smiles beneath eyes glowing cat-green, flexing that hand, tendons standing out. "I suppress abilities," he states, simply, which might have been enough to skip the demonstration, but boys will be boys. And seeing is believing it, experiencing it is believing. "I make people unable to use 'em, and disinclined to do so in moments of stress, I suppose. Used to do some work for the Pancratium— the fighting ring. Never know when you need to find an off switch."

He extracts his arm from Satoru's grip, and only then do his eyes turn a duller green once more as he fixes his shirt sleeve. "It's no secret. Certainly nothing to do with souls. People see a business like this and try to justify it, try to justify why I might be successful. It's talk, and jealous talk, nothing more."

Most notably, though, Toru notices that once Logan pulls away, he feels normal again. … Which in this case isn't necessarily good. He felt strange before, but he almost liked it. Unfortunately, while there may have been a lapse before he got himself back into his default 'mad at the world' mood, a flash of panic over his fluctuating mood does take root. It's shoved away, but it was enough to usher in those familiar bad feelings. He almost grabs for Logan's arm again; stares at it for a moment as his employer speaks, but ultimately gives up.

"…So the other thing the guy went on about was.. I guess he knows some dudes with planes and shit. Or he has some. I'm not sure." He's being hesitant, again. It's a sad sort of quiet this time, though; no shame from having neglected to ask questions, simply a lack of any desire to finish telling this part of the story. Not because it's Logan; it just isn't something he likes thinking about. "…There was this prison.. thing. In Utah. Some guys flew in and made a mess of the place and broke out a lot of the prisoners. I guess he was one of those guys, I think that's why he thinks I should ship outta here, like I owe him some debt or something."

The cigarette is tapped against the ashtray on the coffee table just to his left, only glancing Toru's way at the word planes. Okay, then. His elbow balances against his knee, and in turn, his chin in his cupped palm. "Well that was nice of him," Logan notes, somewhat blandly. "So this guy tells you horror stories about some fanciful power I might have, talks about a man with planes. Did he happen to mention the sky was falling?"

"They got 'em over in Miller's Park," he gestures, vaguely. "Planes and helicopters and shit. I dunno if they keep 'em parked there, but.." Toru shrugs. "You hear about the dudes givin' out free food? I went over to check that out and there's all these airplanes. Card guy said that was all theirs. I think he was friends with one of the girls in the clink, he said he works with her sometimes. Said all those planes and shit was only some of what they got. I dunno if he plans on bringing the whole rig over to mess up this place.." Hand waved, idly. "I mean, a lot of 'em were old, but if they got guns and shit.." Leaning back, he rests on his palms, letting out a low sigh. "Anyway, I seen the planes. It was a giant clusterfuck in Moab, and that was a whole prison. I don't know what they're doing here."

"Well then they're mad," Logan says, with a visible sneer that shows a sliver of tooth, smoke unfurling still from his smoldering cigarette which goes ignored throughout Toru's explanation. "As far as we're all concerned, this is just a bad neighbourhood. It'd be like setting a house on fire just to remove the cockroach infestation."

A slight snort, hand moving to ash out the cigarette. "Good to know anyway, maybe they are mad. Perhaps the sky will fall. Surely he'd know you'd give me a heads up, or does he have such little faith in my ability to make friends?" That's accompanied with a hint of a smirk, attention back on Toru, and the shimmer of serotonin within the younger man, the familiar mood tug upwards, is almost an afterthought.

Friends… sort of sounds nice, in a lame sort of way that Toru would never admit to actually lowering himself to. He's above friends! At least outwardly. "Well, I mean, he did tell me I could tell you whatever I wanted." And rather than a morose sort of mumble, this comes with the the hint of a grin to it. Theoretically, discussing violence does usually lift his spirits. Nothing strange about that. "Not that he coulda made me not tell ya."

"He just… well, like I said, he figures I owe him somethin'. Not like I don't appreciate getting busted out of jail or nothin' but.. I didn't ask for it and his friends wouldn'a come if it'd just been me anyway." Perhaps unfortunately, the boost in mood also comes with an increasingly more excitable mood and faster talking. "Said stayin' with you'd be like puttin' my money on a gray, pretty much. Since they got planes and you got guys like me and hookers." It isn't until after he uses the word that he thinks to wonder if it's the right one to use.

"Well yes. I don't have an army," Logan says, impatiently, with a dismissive, loose wave of his hand. "Which means we're not going to war. I run a brothel, not a fucking militia." Despite the emphasis and the swearing, his voice remains— well, English. Aloof. One last drag of a cigarette before it's put out. "Unless there's anything else you care to mention— the thousand ships they're sending our way or the wooden horse parked outside— I'd like to roll in my six thousand quid on my own for a while."

"I think that was his point, boss. Pretty much said it won't be a war 'cause you'd lose." But, that was a pretty obvious dismissal, and thus he pushes himself up to his feet, grunts a bit as various muscles and bones re-acquaint themselves to his weight, and turns to exit a bit slowly, on that positive note.

…Though he does pause at the door, his slow retreat having served to give him a moment to work out the wording of his valediction. "If it makes any difference, I wasn't plannin' on leavin' on account've all that. I don't figure I'm a key player or nothin', but. Y'know." He shrugs, and— doesn't wait for a response. Out the door, closing it smoothly behind himself.

Satoru's back get an irritated glare. Apparently the dismissal wasn't made enough, but Logan manages not to throw anything at the young goon's feet to make him go quicker, at least. On the tail end of those first words, the next read more like pity, and so garner no reaction other than silent resentment as the door shuts.

Despite his claim as to what he's going to do with his time, John kicks up his feet to settle back against the couch in a pose of forced relaxation. To contemplate the purpose of the sky falling, or rather, of saying the sky is falling.

Or drinking wine until he doesn't anymore, that's always an option too.

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