Participants:
| Scene Title | Go Green, Not Blue |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Logan and Wendy both want the same thing. But they're not getting it, so Logan offers up a substitute that's a little more green than blue and leaves no evidence. Eliot pops up at the end, to check in on his customers. |
| Date | August 21, 2009 |
The pulsing beat of bass throbs through the walls of Rapture, a high-class nightclub in the heart of Harlem. Rows of expensive cars line up out front of the exclusive club and a crowd of would-be patrons wait outside, cherry-picked by the bouncers to have only the cream of the crop on the interior, while leaving just enough eye-candy outside to entice other patrons. The club serves as a respite for the trendy and the influential from the grind of daily life.
On the inside, Rapture is as much a spectacle as it is a structure. Multiple dance floors in tiered balconies overlooking an enormous central dance floor ringed by plush leather-upholstered booths. Pale blue light shines on the wrap-around bar that curved around the back of the establishment, and the entire building is filled floor-to-floor and shoulder-to-shoulder with the pulsing, flowing sea of people dancing to the rythmic beats of electronic dance music piped through the expansive sound-system.
It's inevitable that Friday night will see a draw of young and beautiful things through the exclusive doors of Rapture, and Logan currently has his back turned to them. Perched upon one of the balconies that overlook the dance floor, he watches as a man younger than he is shows him a handful of glass vials. Only when the light reflects over the gathered items in the stranger's hand does the distinctive blue become noticeable, Logan removing a designer pair of sunglasses that have no business being worn at 10 PM in a night club so as to peer at them.
"They aren't as pretty as promised," the erstwhile pimp notes, just loud enough to be heard over the sound of the base beat techno. "If you're expecting to make a profit out of food colouring, then you can find someone else."
The young man scowls and curls his fingers over the vials. "You suggesting I'm trying to cheat you?"
"I'm suggesting you're not selling me Refrain."
"This is Refrain, man. The Blue fucking Fairy. You're not interested, I'll find someone that is."
Logan doesn't get a chance to respond, the young dealer pushing past him and headed downstairs. Placing his glasses into a jacket pocket, the strip club manager breathes out a sigh and turns to rest his forearms against the balcony railing, watching the writhing mass of bodies down below. Long night.
Her face wasn't plastered all over the news as much as Peyton's was. More due to the fact that frankly, Wendy wasn't as famous, Wendy was significantly older and that she hadn't been in the Video that had circled. SO that meant that she finally escaped her parents from the Hilton, and dodged out the door and probably wasn't dealing with the media like Peyton likely had to. But then Wendy had parents and publicists to deal with that stuff.
She needed some refrain, and didn't feel like scouring Chinatown. She wanted some place familiar. Favouring her left side, dressed in slinky and black but with fashionable flats, the artist wends her way through the pulsing crowd, looking for someone who might be a dealer.
That is until Logan comes into her range. There's a lift of her head, dark eyes scanning up top till eventually, they land on the strip club owner with a slight cock of her head.
Aloof to the pounding music and the flashing lights, Logan is a still figure in the sea of movement as he surveys what isn't quite his territory but may as well be, if one were to ask him. The smooth lines of a black suit, the flash of colour of a blue satin shirt beneath that, and then the affectation of a black and white silken ascot tie wrapped about his throat, all mark him as perhaps slightly different, displaced, outside. Unfamiliar, predominantly, unlike Wendy's presence as she prowls around the territory, looking for that same familiarity.
She really only gets Logan's attention when the dealer gets there first. "Hey, don't I know you?" The dealer spreads his arms out, his leather jacket tight around the shoulders, the collar of a black shirt spilling out onto his lapels in a way only Logan wouldn't think was gratuitous. The dealer approaches the woman, well within Logan's sight, who takes his weight off the railing and starts to move on over, interest communicated in green eyes.
"Haven't seen your face around these parts for a while. You looking for a certain something, princess?" the dealer asks when he's within a talking range, voice beneath the music and loud enough only for her ears, save for snatches of words picked up by passers by. Logan can't hear it yet, but he can guess.
"You must be thinking of someone else" She's got 10 syringes at home, but going there is out of the question. Her parents are retrofitting security into it. That and getting the hour at most, to take it. Well that wouldn't be possible. "I want some Refrain. You dealing? Or do I gotta go somewhere else and find some" She's got the money, and she holds it up to prove that she's willing to buy. A myriad of bracelets hide the scratches and fingerless fishnet gloves do the rest for hiding her hands and the flesh colored tape that covers the gauze.
"If you're looking, then maybe I'm thinking of just the right person," the dealer schmoozes, and sees nothing wrong in extracting one vial from his pocket, flashing it enough for her to see, settling it in the middle of his palm. It looks as familiar as such things would be to Wendy, but it seems to lack the bright glow that's come to characterize Refrain. It's bluish quality is dull, contained within the glass rather than emitting its quality onto his skin. "And I got plenty more where this came from. Thirty bucks a pop."
"You're selling shit" Wendy looks from the Vial to the Dealer. "Pawning off what, lemme guess, watered down shit from a glow stick? Or is it watered down refrain. No deal" There's a shake of Wendy's head as she leans to the right so that she can skim around him and find someone selling the real shit. She's not had any in nearly.. two weeks. She really want some. She needs some after the shit she went through. "Fucking Triad will have your head buddy if you don't be careful" Are her parting words.
Second blow of the night. "Fucking mutants," is muttered beneath the sounds of techno and crowd, as the dealer lets a scowl write across his face before he's disappearing into the crowd to find someone a little more gullible than his first two prospects for the evening. There's always going to be someone willing to buy the papers for the Brooklyn Bridge, after all.
Which isn't to say he didn't perform some useful function for the evening. "What a wanker." This assessment comes from Logan as he moves at a saunter over towards Wendy, his hands planted in the pockets of his expensive jacket and a smile playing out across his features. "He was trying to play the same game with me not a moment ago too."
"Someone without half a brain will fall for it. Likely be found dead on the street from putting colored rat poison in their veins" If he was trying to sell it to Logan, then, obviously, Logan's not a pusher. He's a buyer too. Ever so gently, carefully, not subtly but with a motion that could come off as hitting on him, Wendy's hand touches John Logan's very well tailored sleeve. He was a torch, burning bright to her senses.
He was different. He was something she'd never touched before. Her fingers with their fishnet don't linger long before she pulls her hand away. "Anyone else dealing here? Or do I have to go somewhere else?"
The touch is allowed, and at least visibly, unnoticed. Taken more like an accepted invitation of some kind. "He's probably gone and cut it with something. Dead clients aren't good for business, but then again, neither is fucking bilge water," Logan says, almost cheerfully, pale green eyes looking more grey and icy beneath all the washed out lights and the deep shadows of the club.
Something about being marked as buyers, being marked as Evolveds, should probably make Logan edgier than it does. Maybe both of them. "I've only just gotten here myself - there'll be someone about, of that I'm sure. In the mean time, maybe I should buy us drinks and dilute the disappointment."
"I'll let you buy me a drink, if you tell me what it is that you can do" Even time in a shipping container at the hands of Humanis First hasn't quite washed away or scared away that part of her, of her character. Hands to herself once again, an affectation of casualness is assumed. He's right, there will be others. She wishes it was Ling, but, if no one shows, maybe she'll chance going back to her apartment and getting blotto on Refrain there. Or find something else to take the edge off.
"Me?" Logan says, a hand coming up and curling inwards to his chest. Moi? "It's one of those that work better if I show you, I wouldn't wonder. Come, I'll explain on the way to the bar. What's your poison for the evening?" A hand goes out in a gesture towards where the bar lines a wall, a bright spot in all the vagueness of all the other corners in the room.
If he shows her. That's piqued her curiosity, that's for sure. Shell go along, if only out of curiosity and a chance to kill some time until she see's a familiar dealer or even maybe Ling herself. "You" she confirms with a wicked little grin, the corners of her mouth turned up just so. "Midori, for now. What'll you be having" And she offers her hand up to him. "Wendy" No last name. If he's paid attention to the news, he knows more about her than she does of him.
His hand smoothly clasps around her's. "Logan." Last name, but then, that's standard. If there's any recognition for who she is, it certainly doesn't show on his face. One might have to wonder whether or not a man like him would ever pay attention to the news - apart from, perhaps, keeping up with the trials and tribulations of old acquaintances. Leading the way towards the bar, he braces his hands against it, leaning to order her drink as well as his - gin on the rocks. "The poor man's cocktail. Cheers," he says, handing over her drink and raising his, once a few bank bills are slid to the bartender.
"Sometimes though, that's the best kind" Wendy points out as she turns towards Logan then towards the rest of the club. Someone passes, left to right that's Evolved, but she doesn't reach out to touch them. The small of her back in line with the counter, hips swaying side to side a fraction in tune with the music that pulses through the room. "I touch you, and it's like.. I don't know how to describe it. I've never touched someone like you before"
"Is that right?" It's Logan's turn to be curious, severe gaze falling on her face as he comes to lean against the bar beside her. A sip of the brutal tasting liquor is taken, tongue trailing along his bottom lip before he gives her almost a chin up. "I can make you feel anything Refrain could hope to make you feel, and every other seasonal designer drug that gets passed under tables at clubs like that one. Or so I understand - I've never had a night with the Blue Fairy, myself." To coin a phrase.
"You should try a night with the blue fairy. Good memories come to the front of your mind. You could weep with the joy you feel, just laying there and wrapped in it like a cocoon of .. unadulterated bliss. You can do that? Give me that?" The midori glass is tilted towards her, a fraction of the green liquid disappearing. "Touch?"
The low balled glass filled with crystal-like shards of glass gleaming diamond-like in the clear, smooth shot of gin twinkle as he lifts it towards her, in a loose-wristed gesture. "That's just something one would have to find out on their own." And like she disappeared the green liqueur, Logan knocks back the rest of the gin, ice cubes sliding back into his teeth and throat working around the bitter, citrus-tinged liquid. He dries his mouth clean with his sleeve before setting the glass back down.
"Touch," he confirms, in the end. "And what is it you do?"
"I could find you across the room, and when I touch you, it's like.. Strange, the sensation. Evolved detection, with a dash of power identification" her hips wheedle back and forth against the bar, looking out of the room. "Three more in here, two somewhere over there" she gesture to the left. "One straight ahead" She shrugs her straight shoulders. "An imperfect art as you can see"
Logan glances towards her indications, curiously, but unlike her, he can't exactly tell an Evolved face in the crowd. "Must make it easier. Watch all the fireflies head towards the light you're looking for," he notes, when his pale-eyed gaze returns back to her. "You said it brings memories. Only the good ones, never the bad ones? Do use this stuff a lot, then?"
There's a look on the womans face that indicates she never thought of that. Her own ability lending to her an ability to hunt down a dealer. "Two to five percent of bad. Only had a bad trip once. But the rest have made up for it and at least a bad trip doesn't land you in the hospital or dead" At least to her knowledge. "As for using it" She looks over to Logan. "I use it enough"
Enough. Logan's smile is easy, the kind that occurs when you're tricked yourself into feeling in your element, which isn't necessarily a lie - so many people in places like this have vapid smiles far removed from their eyes. "Well," he says, with a look over his shoulder towards the rest of the club. "Unless you can see anyone who might make our night, perhaps I should entice you to have another drink with me. Or, if you'd prefer…"
His hand slides out with all the subtlety of her former maneuver to touch his sleeve, but more overt when his fingers find her wrist and wrap warmly around it. Gently, as well, no need to grab or twist or break, or other actions that come familiar to him. It's not the subtle spike of serotonin, but the more insidious simmer of endorphins. Refrain does it too. Who does it better is impossible to decide.
"Another poison," he concludes.
Logic dictates that after the ordeal she's gone through, Wendy should be smart, shut up, head home and get back on the Narcotics Anonymous wagon. BUt Wendy's never been smart when it comes to her weakness that is chasing the high, needing it. The inky black hair of hers shifts and slithers over her shoulder as she glances at his hand oh so gently taking her thin, bird boned wrist. taupe first aid tape peeking from beneath the fishnet gloves.
And then she closes her eyes as the first traces of that rush come, curling around from who knows where and then unfurling in her chest. Making her heart beat a little faster, her head drift to the side a fraction. "Ohh.. you're good. But I dunno if your good as the blue fairy Logan." Too bad Rapture doesn't have any private rooms. Not of the sort she's thinking.
"Now now, this is just a taste," Logan says, moving to take his weight off the bar, to steer around her and rest his free hand against it on her other side in an intimate lean, though space is maintained between them with the exception of his hand around her wrist. "I might not be able to make you dance down memory lane, but I can certainly have you dream good dreams." His irises are bright, twin crescents of radiant green by now, as the simulation of drug circles wider and wider through her system, bringing to a boil. "You don't even have to pay. I just have to like you."
His hand detaches its grip on her wrist, allowing the start of the high to slide back down once skin contact is broken, eyes fading back into glassy pale.
"Of course, I like favours." His hand dips into the interior of his jacket, extracting a card. His name, his business, his contact details are held up for the taking. "I'm interested in Refrain. Perhaps you should give me a call sometime and hook me up."
Wendy and Logan are by the bar, The latter caging in the former against the bar but not in so bad a way. She shifts against the bar cocking her head and look over at him, eye to eye. "The memories are just the icing on the cake" But he's moving, at least he's still touching her wrist, cascading her higher. Her lower lip drops, tip of her tongue pressed to the edge of her front teeth as she breaths in deep. It's not refrain, it's not the same as refrain, but it's pretty fucking close and for right now, she likes pretty damn close. "Beautiful eyes you have there" as Euphoria takes hold. Like someone just did shoot her full of whatever makes her warm and fuzzy.
But then it stops, blood simmering instead of boiling and she pants softly, aware that Logan's speaking and glances towards the card. "I have a supplier, I occasionally sell some to friends. I could be persuaded to .. supply you"
But then it stops, blood simmering instead of boiling and she pants softly, barely aware of the'
Eliot sidles out from the side-door leading down to his office. He's in slacks and a white button up with the sleeves rolled up, untucked. He looks relaxed and walks around like he owns the place. Because, well, he does.
"Supply me, or point me in their direction," Logan agrees, now easing back a step, with his card hovering between them, pinched between his fingers. "And if you need a little more persuading, then you know how to find me." Call it market research, and a little shopping for buyers at the same time. And though his eyes don't flash warning green this time, there's a second, chemical-deep nudge to push her towards a better mood. The glossy business card is rotated once around in his fingers, before angled for her to take.
Artists fingers closed around it, forefinger and middle closing on it, edges brushing the fishnet before she takes it and slips it under the neckline of her dress, eased into the side of her Bra. "Supply. First. Maybe then, I'll point you in their direction" Her mood is improved, in due part to the bump from him and the rush that she got from his ability. "Take care Logan. Watch out for any rat poison"
Eliot catches sight of Wendy and, having heard the news, starts to make his way over to her. He navigates the crowd in the club with expertise. "Wendy!" He calls out as he nears her, sharp eyes glancing at Logan momentarily before moving back to the girl. "I'm glad you're okay.
The card taken and departing words spoken, Logan's look towards Eliot as he approaches, vague recognition coming in the form of distant associates, before turning back to Wendy. "You too, my dear. I'll be on the look out," he finishes, before smoothing down his jacket, before he glances at Eliot, a look up and down as the Englishman adds, in a tone that's equal parts coy and incredulous, "Don't mind me or anything."
"I'll see you around Logan" A brief wry twist to her smile at the one mans parting words to the other. "Eliot. I'm fine. Perfectly fine. A few stitches, nothing I won't get over in time" The shift in mood when she came thanks to Logan and she's puttylike, relaxed. Flying high without the dangerous chemicals. Logan is an unnatural high, but much more natural than anything once can shoot up. "Logan, Eliot, Eliot, Logan" Her hand comes down to rest on Eliot's hip, fingers tightening a fraction.
Eliot doesn't seem to mind Logan. He lifts a brow and nods at the other man, leaning on the bar near Wendy. "You sure? Fuckers." He takes her hand and squeezes it gently, smiling reassuringly. "Drinks are on the house for you tonight."
Transaction and conversation complete, Logan only spares an expectant look towards Eliot, but then when whatever he was expecting doesn't come, he only flashes a twitch of a smile towards Wendy before he's heading away, disappearing into the crowd with a chameleon light quality, of all the lights and movement of the club overtaking his dark choices of dress. Rapture is a dry night for what he was looking for, so it's likely off to Chinatown if he's willing to risk it, or his own personal kingdom for the evening.
'What do you think Eliot. They were going to use me like a bloodhound" There's a wince at the squeeze of hand. "I just came looking for something, didn't find it. Don't know that i'll be around long enough to warrant abusing that offer. How's business?" Logan disappears into the crowd and Wendy looks back over to Eliot, a tilt of her head. Her black dress short, legs up to Canada. There's hints of her ordeal here and there. The scratches and cuts at her wrist hidden under bangles and bracelets, No teetering heels as a concession to her lacerated feet. Comfortable fashionable flats.
"Business is fine. And I think that's damn right inhuman," Eliot opines. "Should get the chair just for thinking up a use like that for a girl like you."
"I'm sure they wouldn't be the first" Wendy points out. "You should look up Peyton. She could use your brand of … company" More referring to his ability than anything else. "She took it hard" Total lie. Peyton was the one keeping Wendy from spazzing out the entire time.
"I will." Eliot waves a hand and gets a drink slid to him. He takes a slow gulp, and says, softly, "Do you need anything, Wendy?"
"Don't got any refrain on you do you, that I can buy off you?" Logan's touch has been good but it just doesn't quite get rid of that itch. "I wanna go get numb and I got a craving" Her hand slides off his hip. "Some ass was trying to pass of some fake shit earlier. Probably dishwater with blue dye"
Eliot shakes his head. "Don't take the stuff myself," he says apologetically. "Not my brand of intoxication." He takes another drink and leans over to kiss her forehead.
Damnit. She looks up at the kiss to the forehead, raised brows at the oddly paternal display of affection. "Looks like I'll have to hit up my apartment then, since there's no one here selling the real stuff" Yes Eliot, a person manages to slip in now and then and deal. Her hand lingers again at his hip hip as she shifts sides at the bar, transferring weight from one foot to the other. She could head to Chinatown. The euphoria from both Logan and the proximity to Eliot can be a bit overwhelming though.
Eliot wriggles his nose at her and smiles, leaning against the bar and her a little more. "You sure you gonna be okay? You still seem rattled." Except coming from a self-proclaimed 'empath', that 'seem' is more like 'are'.
"You'd be rattled too if you were stuck in a shipping container and had to decimate you laboutins to unscrew an air conditioner so you could get out through the hole and then run barefoot through shipyards in Brooklyn" Wendy points out "And then your parents hover like you're five year olds and you can't even go get a much needed high." Odds are her parents are finding that note that said she went out, she'd be back later and making plans to find some way to force her to the Hamptons. "Why, you think you can do something about my rattledness?"
"I think you need to relax," Eliot says with a small smile. "And that you could possibly use someone to talk to that isn't going to try to lock you in a room to keep you safe and provincial."
"I don't need to talk. I'm not Peyton. If I needed to talk, I'd be hunting up Dr. Sheridan and laying on her couch. I need refrain, or something besides what Logan did so that I can just be and be out of my mind and not worry. Not that I'm sure you couldn't do that for me. I just.." She's hankering for it. Logan's dulled the need. "So unless you have some really good weed.."
"I don't know if the weed I have qualifies as really good," Eliot says with a brief grin. Then again, considering the amount of money the man has, his notion of 'bad' or 'cheap' weed is probably several levels higher than most people's.
"It'll do. Lead on. Bring a bottle of Scotch, if i'm a grown woman and gonna get yelled at by my parents, then i'm going to make sure I'm getting yelled at for a reason" There's that grin again, surfacing in the thumping music that permeates the room.