Participants:
| Scene Title | Inevitable Fucking Victory |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Logan has a few ideas on how to increase profits. Also: a way to hook Sasha in without him balking at it. |
| Date | June 5, 2010 |
Long Island City: Outside Coco's Boxing Gym
On Staten Island— or the one that Logan remembers— the night would still be young. As it happens, they'll be pushing curfew at this rate, by the time Logan spills out into an alleyway just outside the gym. He comes out far less scathed than others who have been escorted into the backrooms of Coco's — in fact, not a scratch on him, which is saying something for his luck. The night is cold enough to stun you, but not to kill you — it's a healthy crispness in the air that he breathes in. Practically a balmy evening in comparison.
With deft movements, Logan lights up. Quick fag before ducking into a heated car and finding a bar still willing to run at this hour— he knows a couple— and he's already texted Ina that she need not bring a mop and bucket to clean him off the fight club floor.
Smoke unfurls in the air when he breathes it out, cherishing the distinct burn of it through nasal passages and throat alike, before the heels of his boots make sharp, rhythmic echoes down the alleyway as he moves to push off. There is a satisfied saunter to his step, for god knows what.
As far as ambushes go, Sasha could probably stand to be a little subtler than leaning against the wall at the mouth of the alley with his hands tucked into his pockets and a heavy sweater pulled over his frame in place of a jacket. Lions have drab, tawny fur that allows them to blend in with the tall savannah grasses, leopards have spots for similar reasons involving dappled light and shadow, and if the Russian really wanted to, he could find a form of urban camouflage that's equally effective, but he's also a little bit drunk.
The element of surprise isn't as important to him as answers. As the Englishman approaches, he shoves off the wall and aims to block his path, silhouette lit a pale shade of gold by the street lamps at his back. Even if Logan were to mistake his shape for someone else's, the predatory purposefulness with which he moves is distinctly Skoll.
And Logan's foot steps slow at the sight of the lanky figure ahead, the hand not gripping a cigarette quick to wander for the hem of his jacket where the pistol is hiding somewhere beneath the dense fabric. Fortunately, it only takes a few seconds of looking to recognise who's blocking his path, all in the mannerisms, the length of limbs and the slight suggestion of ginger when a shard of light manages to catch along Sasha's jaw. Logan's arm relaxes, but he can't help sneak a look towards the blocked path behind him.
He could probably climb over the wooden fence that blocks it, but maybe not faster than the Russian, and he's not sure what's on the other side. The half-smile on his face doesn't quite betray these thoughts. He stops. "Good show in there," he commends, tapping ash off his cigarette, dying embers falling like retreating flares from a fairy's fireworks display.
Logan and Sasha have a history involving fences. The one in Mexico had been built from metal rather than wood and had gaps to hook his fingers in. It's possible he could scale this one before Sasha catches up with him, especially considering the Russian's condition, but the comparison drawn between him and a wild animal goes beyond the physical resemblance. Any sudden movements have the potential to set him off. Turning to run would almost certainly provoke his prey drive.
When Logan stops, Sasha responds by slowing, apparently satisfied that his quarry isn't going anywhere — yet — and reaches up to rub the heel of his hand along his bruised jaw. In this light, it's difficult for Logan to see the extent of his injuries. Mentally visualizing them based on his memory of the fight is a little easier. His slurred speech has more to do with the alcohol in his system, including a swollen tongue and what feels like a loose tooth at the back of his mouth. "Was he telling the truth?" he demands, voice hard, abrasive.
"Yes." Which is sooo unlike the story he'd spun for the Triad men, as much as Logan is not certain it went as believed as their faith in his name, connections and the organisation he works for. His admission here is simple and shameless — thick also with a tone of of course, you twat, halved smile waxing full. His pale eyes glow bright for a second — no warm and fuzzy feelings blooming in Sasha's gut, nothing he can feel when his ability is promptly dampened, casting a snake-shade of glow in the irises currently flicking a gaze over him.
For injury or threat or both. "Got a problem with it?"
Someone like Huruma would better be able to assess which is more damaged: Sasha's face or Sasha's pride. Logan, unfortunately, has no immediate access to the other man's emotional state apart from the unique composition of chemicals coursing through his system, which may or may not be responsible for the aggression he's showing him, split lip curled back around bloodstained teeth that are naturally a touch uneven.
He has a problem with it, although it's not one he can articulate. Makes a rough sound instead, part snarl and part surrender. If he's prepared to fight it, it's not with his fists, and when his eyes flash silver, it has nothing to do with a supernatural ability — just the way lamplight floods in to fill his irises as he tilts his head exactly the right way. "I did not need the help."
There's a sniff from Logan's side of the conversation — the climb of temperature will have this affect on a lot of New Yorkers, an edge of a cold that has little to do with the illness that plagued them both several weeks ago. A brisk inhale of smoke, hand dropping back down once more and the billowy white cloud of nicotine exhaled almost impatiently. "No," he agrees, with a quick kind of a shrug. "But there's a thing called bettering your odds — the lady I took out tonight had a pretty penny riding on you."
Always one for being in tune with power cues and body language, it is not to Logan's advantage to come closer — he loses any illusion of equal height by doing so. Still, this is what he does, as if proximity might have him read Sasha's chemical make up a little better.
If that is something he can even do. It's hard to tell, especially when the light from his eyes vanishes upon a couple of blinks. "Besides, I didn't think you'd be one to care whether a fight is fair," he notes, glancing down as he again looses dead ash from the end of his burning cigarette.
"It has nothing to do with fairness," Sasha says, but does not elaborate. He has difficulty multitasking, and the majority of his focus is on tracking Logan's progress, ears tuned to the cadence of his footsteps, eyes sharp and bright as his gaze follows his path. The point of light at the end of his cigarette is distracting. So is the mention of a woman. Even after Magnes located Logan for him, he failed to make the connection between the Englishman and the shapely brunette beside him, and not because he mistakenly assumed she was alone.
He simply didn't notice her.
More irritated at himself for missing such an important detail than he is at Logan for rigging the fight in his favour, he blows out a snort through his nostrils the same way Logan might expel smoke. The result is a fine, silvery mist that looks much the same but smells more like what he's been drinking than it does packed tobacco or burnt paper. "How much?"
Logan's long, straight nose wrinkles a little, gaze crawling up the damp brickwork just to his left. "Three 'undred," he says, once his memory spits out the correct number, a vague gesture of a hand in accompaniment. "'bout as high rolling as this little circus gets, I'd say, and the girl's got some cash to throw around, I'm sure. More, now." The tip of his tongue touches against the corner of his own mouth, dry from too much smoking and too much alcohol content in liquid intake for the evening.
Not nearly as drunk as the man in front of him, of course, buzz long since worn off. "If it's not fairness, what's it all about, then? Money, or it should be. Winning." A hint of a k-sound at the end of that word.
On the subject of bets, here's a safe one to make: lately, Sasha hasn't checked how many rubles go into one U.S. dollar. Any calculations he might be trying to process are likely outdated in light of the city's economy coming to a virtual standstill over the last few weeks, and although the East coast is well on its way to making a recovery from the storm, its full impact is something that won't be determined for a long, long time.
Not that this particularly matters to him. Three hundred dollars is three hundred dollars no matter what way you cut it. The idea that someone might put this much money down on a single fight causes disdain to make a silent sneer of his mouth. To be fair, there's some jealousy in it, too. More envy than righteous indignation. "Excessive."
A chuckle doesn't get too much in the way of vocalisation — more a different pattern to Logan's breathing and a hitch in the steady stream of smoke from nostrils. He pauses for a moment, regarding the other man, before pitching his cigarette to one side where it will no doubt die in icy, dirty slush. Another step forward— hand goes up, splayed, to show that he means no harm— and then another, out from the cloud of nicotine smoke he was cultivating.
Logan's head tilts, now sharp study in eyes gone like ice in colour in the low light. He's looking at the damage done to Sasha's face, showfully. "We should do this more often," he proposes. "Save's you some healing time and cuts a shortcut t'wards your inevitable fucking victory. Don't tell me it doesn't appeal to you. Having an edge.
"Especially if we go and work out the numbers between bets and collected winnings and cut a deal," he adds almost jovially, neck straightening once more and an eyebrow raising.
Inevitable fucking victory. Sasha likes the way that sounds. Having an edge, too, is a phrase that his bruised ego can take some solace in, however slight. "I should not win all the time," is a grudging admission that leaves an unpleasant taste in his mouth. More so than the residual traces of blood. Most of what was caked to his beard earlier has since been wiped off with a warm towel, leaving his scruffy face clean if heavily bruised and in need of a few stitches. "The Ghost Shadows will become suspicious, and you have already been caught once."
There's a question on the tip of his tongue, something about the man in the mask and how he knew Logan was the one responsible for the negation, but Sasha decides it's best left for another time. "What deal are you thinking of?"
"The Ghost Shadows know when to mind their own business," is probably too flippant in regards to the Triad, but Logan shrugs it away all the same. "I'd be as black and blue as you, mate, if I'd been caught caught." Drifting to the side to lean a shoulder against alley wall, he roams a look up and down the Russian as he thinks. "I want sixty percent of what we make, seeing as if we do get caught caught, it'll be my fingers they wind up breaking. I'm risking my money, too."
Rolls around until it's his back he has leaning, hands in pockets. "We pick our matches. Target the ones without flashy powers, but I can be subtle, you know." A beat, and then an abrupt change of tone as Logan asks, "Why do you do this, anyway?"
"It feels good." There are more poetic answers than this, eloquent and verbose with a clear lines of logic running straight through them. Sasha rolls his shoulders as though this might help him explain, but the only thing he achieves is tweaking a muscle in his back. "Having something to do."
It had been the same at the Corinthian when the ballroom had been packed with refugees, many of them in need of medical attention. Sasha's talents do not extend far beyond doctoring and fighting, and more often than not, these two things are in direct opposition of each other. "A sixty-forty split is fair," he decides after a short pause in which he forces his mouth back into a more neutral expression.
Little sad, really, but Logan probably cannot offer him anything much better than participating in and cheating fight club brawls. There's a sweeping look given, up and down, one of new assessment and a moment of doubt, before he puts on a quick smile of his own. Getting what you pitch is never a bad thing, strictly speaking. "I know it is," he says, pushing off the wall again in a flaring second of restless energy. "So I suppose I'll see you next week."
He doesn't breeze on by Sasha, however, either letting the Russian move out of the way or address anything anything else that needs it.
Moving out of the way is a little like surrendering territory, and there's a moment or two where Sasha doesn't look as though he's prepared to make that concession on top of the others Logan has already convinced him to. He eyes him, silent and brooding, then steps aside to make room for the Englishman in the alley's mouth. Ina is waiting for him in the car, and although he's far from a gentleman except when he's pretending to be someone he's not — ask Abigail — he understands that Logan has other places he needs to be.
It might be different if he had something more to gain through physical intimidation, but a promise of a fat forty percent of their earnings is enough for one evening. "You should go," he suggests. "The boy in the mask is not the only one who thinks you cheated."
"Oh, I can take care of myself." Still, Logan is going, footsteps making their sharp echoes through the alleyway once more as he tucks hands into pockets and moves on past Sasha, tossing a last comment on his way by; "But sweet of you to care." And out of the shadows of passageway and into the angled lamplight above, spilling cheerful illumination over blonde curls and the expanse of black wool covering his back. It won't be the first time he's freely shown Sasha his back, but probably one of the only times he doesn't glance before he does.