Participants:
| Scene Title | Multiplicity |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Several warm bodies of various connections bump together one evening in Burlesque. There's matters of auras and cocaine to be addressed. |
| Date | September 12, 2009 |
A flashy little strip club, its name advertised in bright neon pink above the door in swooping cursive, with the figure of a woman outlined in the same seeming to kick a leg with each flash of the light. Two bouncers stand by the door, which is a reflective chrome and stays closed unless opened by the security duo, with a red carpeting extending out onto the pavement. They will check you for I.D. before permitting you entrance. You'll be greeted by a woman in full burlesque regalia, with exaggerated makeup, a corset that barely keeps everything in, fishnets and feathers. Provided you can pay the cover charge, she will show you to a table, offer to get your first drink of the evening, and leave you alone to enjoy what Burlesque has to offer.
The main room's focal point is the generous stage, a circular platform with Broadway lights around the edges, and a catwalk that extends further out into the scattered round tables where patrons can sit and drink. The lights that shine down on it are never particularly clear, often shards of pink, green, blue, which hide as much as they reveal. There is almost always a dancer on the stage, even as even more girls move around the room to give more intimate shows on tabletops. There's a long bar that crawls along one side of the room, with a couple of bartenders behind it, a counter of black glass with rows and rows of liquor on display on glass shelves. Leather booths are tucked away towards the back, offering some privacy for whatever purpose.
Despite the proposed theme of the club, impressions of burlesque only factor in with the permanent staff and particular shows of featured dancers. Otherwise, the tunes are standard for any kind of strip club, and the girls will wear what they like. There are private lounges for more expensive, personal shows, and a darkly lit, obscured staircase leading up to both dressing rooms and the manager's office.
It's well into the Saturday night evening. What crowd has gathered is more or less clustered between two points - the opulant stage and the sprawling, black glass bar. Bombastic music plays from hidden, shadowed speakers as an elaborately decked out, full figured woman struts along the curve of the stage, shards and ribbons of light playing along skin both bared and not. Everywhere it hits, there's glitter, either way. There are darker alcoves - doorways that lead into private rooms, staircases that lead into backstages areas and offices, and none of these are intended for anything less than legal.
For now, anyway. Logan has been behaving, working within the lines drawn out for him when the keys to this place were handed over. Rather than sequester himself upstairs, he's taken to mingling on the main floor - inasmuch as he has a drink in his hand and isn't yet talking to anyone, leaning against the far side of the bar to see what drifts through his door tonight.
Expectantly, too, rocking his glass of gin back and forth in an absent fidget as he waits, enjoying the scenery in the meantime. He's healthier than he ever was on Staten Island, and not a leopard spot in sight, varying sleek lines of chic black and greys of different textures, although the black, silky ascot tie tucked into his waistcoat is a nod to his Staten Island prime.
Someone's birthday in her little bohemian artists circle of friends - as opposed to those who have money in her other social circle. So wendy had asked what they wanted to do to celebrate. A round of soft drugs later and someone confessed that they wanted to go to that place, you know, Burlesque. So the troop of 6 giggling, already inebriated women had poured out of two taxi's chattering between themselves and spilled in through the doors of the adults club.
They'd been shown to a series of tables, that little black card was produced and a tab started. So far, they'd easily exceeded 300 dollars and just as much in green bills that found their way up to the stage and into the cups of whichever dancer passed by their table. It's a party going on and Wendy's coming out of the bathroom after having popped the seal so to speak. Red corset, leather pants, a myriad of black beads strung around her neck on fishing wire so that they look like they're hanging there. A big red rose fasten one side of her hair back in it's black curtain and she's got some sequined mules on. Twice she stops along the way, her hand brushing against someone, eye snarrowing but satisfied, she moves on to the bar near Logan but not noticing. "Can I get another round of everything at the tables please!"
Deckard is in a suit and inside of a strip club at the same time. Based upon historical precedent, this is a decent indication that he is up to no good. Grizzled hair freshly buzzed down level with the bristle of beard growth still recovering from the uneven fluctuation of his grooming habits lately, he'd look more like a bouncer than a patron if not for the fact that he also looks to be fifty and in dire need of a sandwich.
His boots fit in nicely, though. They're dark burnished alligator hide, ridged scales raised at a polish that glances red against atmospheric lighting and the sparkle sheen of the woman on stage, who. Is curvy. Or so Deckard just happens to note in passively — staring her way when his narrow jaw happens to catch in her direction while she's at a particular angle of shoulder to hip…
A waitress bumps past his shoulder, and then he's back, chill eyes blinking once before resuming their rake for the bar. There, a familiar cockney cock eater waits. Maybe even for him!
Surely, someone had checked his ID at the door. Surely, someone had collected his cover charge. Otherwise, Richard Cardinal wouldn't be in the club, would he? It's the little assumptions like that which assure that the shadowmorph never pays cover charges, is rarely checked for identification, and pretty much goes wherever the hell he wants to. Tonight, for whatever reason lies in his thoughts, that place would be Burlesque.
Tonight, rather than his usual scruffy street garb, he's dressed like money; a faux-silk casual-business suit (or is it faux?) in black, a black shirt beneath, a black tie, in general the colour scheme he's going for appears to be pretty god-damn dark. That's just how he rolls, apparently. At the moment, he's standing at the side of the bar waiting for his drink to be delivered, eyes hidden even indoors by sunglasses lingering on the glitter-dusted woman before someone else walks past. A certain scruffy man in alligator boots. A hand comes up to draw the shades down the bridge of his nose slightly, letting him look over them and follow Deckard's progress. Hm.
Leopard print is on somebody else- that is where it went. Delilah's skirt is decidedly a tasteful print, and the black blouse she wears overtop subdues it quite well. Dee has only been her perhaps once since the opening, owing it to simple business getting all over her schedules. A fake ID does wonders for her- has done so for a long, long time now. Delilah lucks out when it comes to looking older, anyway.
She makes her way inside, glad to have the warmth of the club over the chill of the outside world; a few steps later, the redhead is heading off towards the bar with the little clicks of black pumps following along. When she does get there, Delilah breezes past Wendy, incidentally settling on Logan's other side to lean over and get the second bartender's attention. "Can I get an Apricot Fizz?" Possibly just because she needs to say the word 'fizz' once in awhile.
And into the joint comes yet another to find escape within the entertainment and booze offered by Burlesque, though this one in the form of Miranda who /does/ pay her cover, and gets her hand stamped before steps lead her further into the place. Eyes glance around, taking in the crowd that lingers around the stage or tables, skimming over auras and plucking out the general feel of things before her steps lead her towards the bar.
The woman doesn't seem to takein who's at the bar, nothing beyond than a glance at the auras of people closest to her. Miranda waits till the bartender makes it to her before adding her own order to the list those he's making, "Whiskey sour, please."
A familiar voice turns his head, a blank look at first before recognition filters in, behind all the glamour of corsets and oversized roses. Logan raises an eyebrow to see Wendy leaning against the bar and buying— everything, apparently, for her friends. "You might need to narrow it down, my dear," he says, just under the sounds of fanfare music, turning now to face the bar, leaning against it with a hand braced on the edge. "Having a good time, are we?"
It won't be the first flock of hens to crowd a table in Burlesque. The clientele is wide and varied in comparison to the seedy sorts that Logan was used to catering to (or getting others to cater to) back in the Dagger. Speaking of seedy sorts, Logan does not immediately notice him— or them— while his attention catches on the woman in the corset, one that doesn't work here even! Though his eyes do tick over towards Miranda, more calculation than surprise or warmth displayed in both his expression and his aura, but his smile remains for Wendy.
"Heeeeey" Wendy offers a big wide grin to her savior of the NYPD jail cell. She rattles off a list of the drinks to teh bartender, repeating if necessary before turning back to Logan. The blips on her personal radar notwithstanding - she does reach out to brush a hand against Delilah with a wrinkle of her nose. "That ones interesting" whispered as an aside to the former pimp and not loud enough to be heard thanks to the sound of music.
"I just find you everywhere. Rapture, The jail cells at police plaza one, strip clubs. My my my, you get around" She offers him up a wink and a peer around toward Miranda and… the line that internally points right towards the woman. "Friend of yours?"
There are…a lot of good looking women in this place. The span of time since Deckard's actually been browsing is probably evident in the frequency with which he stops to glance or doubletake or turns his bristled head all the way over his shoulder after a flicker or flash of something interesting. Progress is slow accordingly, but he does eventually make his shouldery way up to the bar at Miranda's side, and he does eventually focus enough to level a look Loganwards down the length of it over Wendy's head.
For those with extrasensory perception — and there are several of them congregated within Burlesque on this fine evening — he presents a quandry. First and foremost, he has double the number of auras to be expected (one clings close and cold, worn and weathered down nearly to the bones of its raggedy being; the other rides warm through and over it, smudging often to fill cracks and wears with easy stability.) Second, he is evolved. And third, he is having a hard time concentrating on the reason he came in here in the first place for reasons that may or may not be readily apparent to anyone following the erratic track of blue eyes after bottoms and busts.
Again, it takes him a minute or two to recall himself, and several seconds more than that to order a whiskey when he realizes there's a bartender staring at him.
Those hazel eyes that just appeared over the edge of Cardinal's shades roll expressively as he notices, and recognizes, Deckard's sudden befuddlement and distraction. The tip of a finger slides over expensive plastic to push the sunglasses back up fully over his gaze, and as his drink's set down he lays claim to the glass with one hand and steps away fom the bar all in the same easy movement. Around the gathered people seeking beverages he moves, following behind the disreputable hooligan of a man, and then—
— notices that there's someone rather familiar down that end of the bar. He smiles, and it's impossible to see how much it doesn't reach his eyes. A sip of bourbon, and he continues to trail along towards Deckard, taking a position behind him and to one side without saying a word. Hm-hm hm, nice tits there, that one's got a nice a— hey, isn't that Delilah? Huh.
She's a bit hard to recognize when there is nobody else familiar enough with her- and she's not blathering up a storm, so that's right out. Delilah, surprisingly, is acting a lot more sober(if you'll pardon the joke) than usual. The redhead leans in just far enough so that she does end up sticking out her bottom more than what passes as casual- planned, perhaps. When the drink gets to her hands, she turns around and leans her spine against the rounded edge of the bar, sipping tentatively at the tangy drink in her hand. "Not bad." She proclaims to nobody in particular, eyes coasting now over the distraction of glitter and bodies across the way. "Last time I got one of these anywhere it tasted a whole damned lot like preservatives…"
Should Miranda notice Logan and his glance given towards her, she but offers a slight smile, one that teases upon her lips, as if finding some amusement at seeing him surrounded by females. She doesn't make her way to him, but the bar in general, finding an empty spot to claim and make her order. The T&A seems to gain her attention at times, an appreciative look given to the girls that work at the club, though the gaze never lingers overly long as some people's here tonight.
It's that odd aura that draws her attention, the way it plays against the distracted man's form to bring a furrow of her brows that doesn't quite relax as he comes to stand near her. Curiosity is there in her gaze, the whiskey sour delivered barely even noticed, though taken in hand as a ways to disguise her gaze as the glass is lifted to her lips for a sip.
"Well, I happen to the own the place," which is not quite true, but 'manage' doesn't sound as elegant. It also sounds like harder work, suggesting that perhaps there is more Logan could be doing than standing around and reaping the benefits of conversation and an endless tab. He takes a sip of citrus tainted gin, and everyone in the world continues to obscure Cardinal from Logan's view.
At least until he comes to sit by Deckard, though it's the older of the two whom Logan's gaze skims over to. Ah ha. A harsher smirk pulls at his mouth, unpleasant, lifting his chin in some greeting. Be right with you. "Handsy, aren't you," he says, with a brief glance back to Wendy. "Who else?"
"Got a friend who calls me a touch slut" Who else.. she licks her lips. "One of your waitresses, but I haven't been able to touch her yet. There was someone in here earlier who was an empath. God, they're like cockroaches, they're everywhere. I hate touching them, cause you just get emotional" Wendy takes a moment to close her eyes and focus, search out those strings that play out in her like some 360 degree circle all around her.
"Six I think.. total in here.. right now, maybe seven or eight couple at the bar, they're closer and stronger. Someone keeps playing in and out of range. Get more in here, I might have to leave. Listen Wednesday, evening. I'll show up. but I don't want to keep you from your job. Lest there's other women who need rescuing." She takes her own drink from the tray being assembled and turns to start slinking her way back to her friends and the table adjacent to Miranda.
It gets worse. Watch it long enough and the more fluid of the two auras coarsing up the wiry limbs and slouched shoulders that comprise Deckard's person takes on subtle differences in feel. Consistency. Texture. The overruling presence is once of burdened calm and ironic, world-weary wisdom, but different voices pitch in where they will — some less pleasant than others. But tangibly, structurally, Flint is fine and stable enough to look disconcerted when he catches himself squinting speculatively at Delilah's boobies down the bar and mirroring Cardinal, only belatedly recognizes the face that goes with them.
Fortunately this is about the same time a squat glass is pushed in under the vacant cage of his hand against the bar, "Deckard," given as the name to start a new tab under. No aliases today.
That done, he finally notices Miranda looking at him and looooks back with one brow canted a few degrees lower than the other, eyes only just on a southerly dive when a glance of light off a familiar pair of sunglasses has him turning to hood both brows at Cardinal instead. Three, four, five seconds spent staring and then he's looking for other people who might be here — spying on him or. Cockblocking. Whatever this is, he is already secure in his unease with it.
Although Cardinal isn't looking directly at Deckard, he knows when the man's turned to regard him. Perhaps it's the feel of no-longer x-ray eyes burning into the side of his head. A little smirk twitches to his lips, and he murmurs, "Evenin' old man. Takin' a night off to relax?"
A sip of bourbon, then he turns to look at him, one brow emerging in an appearance over the edge of his shades as he admits, "S'pose I can't blame you. You might be one've the only people in this city who've a suckier job than I do."
Does Delilah belong here because of all the accidental attention? Maybe. She seems to be enjoying the atmosphere, regardless. It may not be the perfect picture of burlesque as per an art, but there are the types of ladies she tries to look up to all over the place. She hasn't tried to see if any familiar faces are around; it is likely that she does not even want to check. Dee remains alone for now, at least stride or two away from anyone she might know, just so she can watch the primary employees without being distracted. Too much so, in any case. Handsome people are distracting no matter if they're on the stage or at the bar, right?
When the gaze of Deckard finally seems to find Miranda and her study of his aura, the young woman there but answers that quirked brow with a smile, a half toast of her glass in his direction. Nothing said, not when he has another approaching him, drawing his attention towards them, Cardinal the next to be studied beneath the disguise of anther sip from her glass. She steps to the side, turning till her back is to the bar's edge, her gaze to leave that of those nearby to sweep the bar, to watch the dancers on the stage.
"I'll see you Wednesday," Logan agrees, head angling so that he might be able to watch her walk away in, well, leather pants. Not that there isn't a decent amount of woman flesh around to take a gander at, included but not limited to Delilah right next to him. Knocking back the rest of his gin and discarding the empty glass onto the bar, Logan pushes away from it and gives the redhead a green-eyed glance up and down. "Nice skirt." He'd think so. A smile and a wink, two things he used to get by with for so very long, before the erstwhile pimp is swiveling on his heel to push away.
Sauntering strides take him towards where Deckard is being talked to, studied, and otherwise given potentially unwanted attention, and that includes Logan. A chilly, sweeping look is passed over Cardinal— looks like he lived after all, more's the pity— but that's about all the outward reaction the shadow morph gets. Should Miranda take note, however, a spike of suspicion ribbons through the slate blank aura, perpetually overcast, that is Logan's soul on display.
"Gentlemen. I know at least one of you belongs here."
"I'm not — " What? Taking a night off? Relaxed? Actually here? Any potential argument sounds mildly ridiculous rattling around in the space between Deckard's overlarge ears, and he's left to set his narrow jaw at a surly jut. Where for once Cardinal has the advantage of sunglasses indoors and he does not, irritation tinged a few shades starker than the norm by adjacent paranoia rings cold in his too blue eyes. And then, to make everything even better, Logan meanders over in the space of the few seconds he was busy using to think up a reason for being here.
Feeling a little cornered between the two of them, with or without good reason, Flint follows Miranda's example and turns his back to the bar, untouched whiskey in hand while he looks hard between them and scuffs a hand up over the top of his head. But hey! At least he isn't shooting.
Smile. Always smile, because otherwise they might know what you're feeling. A lesson that Cardinal was taught long ago by a con man that he knew as a youth is put into place now, as he smiles to Logan's chilly look and brings the glass to his lips. "Logan," he greets in a casual tone, "You've moved up in the world, I see. And found a fashion sense somewhere in the process…"
Smile, because with those shades on, nobody can see the murderous hate in his eyes.
Blissfully unwares of where and what Logan is heading to, Delilah smiles back over her drink when he passes by and compliments her skirt in the process. Any girl likes compliments! And it seemed truthful enough. After another moment of standing at the bar with her drink, she wanders over when a small patch of seats clears up, sitting down there at one stool along the end to enjoy the time she has there.
Even if Miranda's attention seems upon the dancers, how could she not notice Logan's approach? The man is enough to draw her gaze from T&A to him, his aura picked lightly by the woman. Whatever she sees there, leads her to once more give the two men nearest her, her attention again. While she might not be trying to eavesdrop, she can't exactly help it either, though she pretends ignorance or uncaring in what's being said between the trio of men. Yet, so much is read by the woman there, picking up those tell-tale signs in the shift of body language, and those within the auras worn by the men. Innntteeresting. Very much so. There's a subtle shift of one of her own brows upwards over one hazel eye as she listens.
"I did," Logan says, words clipped. He doesn't have sunglasses to hide his eyes behind and there's no real effort made not to veil any contempt or even any wariness as he addresses Cardinal, back straight and chin up. He pushes his hands into the pockets of his black jacket, and shrugs his shoulder. "It's always in the last place you look. You look much better than when I saw you last too."
If British insincerity could be its own emotion, Miranda would be able to read it plainly in his aura. Without particular care for whether or not Deckard might attempt discretion as to why he's at a strip club at all, besides the quivering obviously put on display, Logan swivels a look towards him. "I haven't kept you waiting, have I?" There's prompt in his voice, a little needling, his mood made just a little more caustic thanks to unexpected company.
"No," says Deckard after a beat that stretches for about as long as he can hold his breath, tension cutting cords out into the line of his neck once his hand has fallen back to his side. And here he is, still stuck between them, jaw locked and brow hooded over the flat line of his mouth while his glare flickers deftly between the pair of them. "Nope," is elaborated after it seems like the initial, 'no' might not have been enough to — do whatever, and he's lifting his brows at Cardinal in a way that bears some rangy resemblance to a nobody here but us chickens sentiment.
It is unconvincing.
"I have an excellent health plan," Cardinal ripostes without missing a beat, that smile not fading one bit even as he brings up the glass of bourbon and ice to his lips. Taking a healthy swallow, he gestures casually before asking as if it were completely normal conversation, "And however is Satoru? Well, I hope, he did have such a terrible tendency to leap to conclusions and actions. I'd hate to hear he'd died in that little… fire business, awhile back."
A shrug to Deckard's look, one shoulder lifting in a shrug. No foxes here, nope. Just chickens.
"Satoru is alive and well," Logan says, rolling his eyes up from Deckard to ceiling, down to Cardinal. "From what I heard, no one died in the fire. No one important, anyway." Swaying his weight back off his heels, his cast a look back towards Deckard. There's not a trace of patience in his voice. "Look, if you want to talk, lose the hangers on, would you? I'll get myself a drink while you and your friend finish up, here. Enjoy the girls, boys."
One last cool glance cutting towards Cardinal, and the erstwhile pimp makes his way towards where Miranda is situated at the bar. The smile that he gives her doesn't quite match the moody aura as he butterflies from one group to the next, lifting a hand to flag down the bartender.
Christ. Exasperation lines in clear around fuzzily feigned innocence while Cardinal and Logan shake floppy white gloves at each other and the latter moves off to make nice with Miranda (who Flint had just taken to eyeing sideways as a potential out.) But she is now Occupied, and he's forced to turn the full of his attention solidly onto the shadow man.
"Are you two like, gay together now? It's totally cool if you are I just — would hate to elbow in — "
"No," Cardinal says dismissively, turning back to the bar and setting down his drink for a refill, "I have taste."
Such words exchanged, and Miranda just stands calmly by, listening ot some degree, her gaze to flick over the trio of men before darting away. Nope, this chicken isn't watching with some interest at all! The drink is finished off, the last sip downed as Logan approaches her. The glass is casually set down on the bar just behind her, hazel eyes to peer up at Logan, smile to be returned with one of her own. "Good evening." A playful tease enters her voice as she greets the man, as if she knows well enough that 'good' wouldn't be used to describe it in his current mood.
Another gin is poured out in front of him by the slightly harassed bartender, Logan leaning against it as he squares his attention on Miranda. It only takes a few seconds to figure out if she was listening in - in one form or another. "For some," he allows, and those disruptions of irritation and tension smooth out into the usual hazy depthlessness that is customary for his aura. "I wasn't meant to expect you tonight, was I? How's our Mr. Jack?"
"Taste?" Deckard turns more slowly after him, one elbow braced up against the bar while the other traces his untouched whiskey through a ring of pre-existing condensation, "I'm surprised you can taste anything past all the pork you've been eating." Now he drinks. If only to have something up in the space between his face and any fists that might be interested in visiting it.
"Why don't you go visit your new friend and take care of business, old man… or go tip some strippers," Cardinal replies, his tone rather dry if amused, before he steps back and away from the bar. One hand drops to Deckard's shoulder in a companionable clasp, before he meanders along in the direction of the bathroom. Perhaps he's had too much to drink.
A lick of her lips is made as Miranda laughs quietly at Logan, gaze to slide from him to the two other men briefly. But, soon, it returns, to allow her to shake her head, "No, you weren't. Figured to stop in. Wanted to do something tonight." A pause, and the smile fades to some degree at the last, "Haven't seen him since he left that afternoon. Haven't heard from him either." There's a certain alertness to auras about her, as if waiting to move out of the way should things start between any of them. "You?" She does return the question towards Logan as he waits his drink.
"I'm sure you've ways to check in if you put your mind to it," Logan says, somewhat breezily, his hand spidering over the gin set out with a chin up of gratitude to the bartender. "He can't have gotten awfully far - the boy knows where his loyalties lie, I suspect. As for me— oh, the usual." A baleful glance is cut towards where Cardinal and Deckard are speaking, then back to Miranda. "As ever, the woman are far more interesting than the men. Cheers," and he takes a generous sip of the stinging alcohol.
A glance after the clasp culminates in a panged knit of brows that might be construed as helplessly apologetic when Cardinal meanders off, but that's all there is. No return clasp or sorry bro — Deckard just tips his long face forward and drags in a breath that's only somewhat successful in forcing some of the tension shored up in his back and shoulders to ease off.
Beyond the immediately obvious read, nothing changes. He's wound up like like a couch spring under a fat guy, all restless, furious energy that's bled off slow into the grip he has on his glass and the muzzy lap of the secondary aura smoothing out a mangy bristle in the first.
An aura without a body slips through the club, then, and perhaps curiously to the eyes of those who might notice it, soon joins with Deckard— yet a third presence, this one lingering in the man's shadow. Apparently, the scruffy fellow is a multiplicity in himself.
"Perhaps I don't wish to check in, hmm?" Miranda comments back to Logan after touching her glass, asking for a refill from the bartender. "Not exactly something I will be doing again, I think. Not like that." A shrug, and she glances away, to the stage, thoughtful before she turns back, laughing as she catches the look he shoots towards the other two men, "Any colder, and your dancers are going to be shivering up there, but I guess the guys will like how the cold makes them react, hmm?" But, then there's a blink, and she finds herself staring at Deckard like someone's who's not sure what the hell she's seeing.
Logan shrugs. You live and you learn, and he takes another sip of gin, smoothing away any lingering droplets of poison-tasting alcohol from his lip with the side of his thumb. "Well let's just say that…" And he trails off, when she boggles on over at Deckard. Logan knows a flicker of relief when it seems Richard Cardinal has taken off, before he raises an eyebrow at his female companion. "That's Flint Deckard. I know he doesn't quite match the decor— ever— but… are you alright?"
Two more deep breaths and Deckard's almost civil enough that the bartender isn't checking and rechecking the name on the tab. The full of his whiskey glass downed like a shot, and the two original auras are finally starting to blend into something that more closely resembles one, edge stirred to edge until the borders are too murky to easily distinguish. There's no accounting for what that third one is doing back there. Behaving itself, one hopes.
Late to realize he's being ogled again, Deckard sizes Miranda up a little more critically upon noting her stare, then Logan's after it. Did he spill? Will they stop looking at him long enough to check? His brow furrows, but before he can worry on it too much, there's a fresh glass bumping at his knuckles past the empty one.
Miranda blinks. Then blinks again. Likely will glance to her drink that's been delivered, then look back over to Deckard to see if what she saw is still there. Yep. Brief wondering if her drink got spiked with something or not, but that's pushed aside quick enough. Lips part to speak, but then close again, her brows to furrow in concentration for a moment as she continues to stare at the scruffy man, even when he meets her gaze. She finally answers Logan, but her words are spoken low after she leans in closer to him to whisper a hasty comment to him, still unable to quite take her eyes off Deckard. Maybe she likes scruffy men?
Logan, being not a scruffy man, could potentially be elbowed out of the competition if that is in fact what she is whispering. Blinking rapidly and without much comprehension, he can't help but glance to her drink as well, before suspiciously, his eyes quite suddenly flare a brighter green than before, much like when he had touched Mortimer. Calmly, and without particular fanfare, auras disappear all around her as Miranda's ability is gently capped, as if she never had it at all.
"I've got you. Now, you haven't been trying the fruity cocktails, have you? Those go straight through you," Logan says, hesitates, and adds, "So I've heard."
Maybe she likes scruffy men. The possibility has not actually occurred to Deckard, who has all the self-confidence of a retarded chinese crested with bad breath, but it seems likely enough that they're talking about him at the very least, so. Fresh whiskey in hand, he glances once over his shoulder to ensure that Cardinal is indeed off having a piddle and sets to making his way over, suit, boots and all.
Not quite able to summon up enough social skills between the three of him to introduce himself to Miranda, he hovers at Logan's shoulder and eyes her uneasily instead.
One moment Miranda is staring at Deckard, the next, she twitches, jerking slightly away from Logan as her surprised stare is turned towards him. "Don't. Do. That." The words come lightly, hissed out even as she reaches for his arm, gripping it for a moment, her look holding his own with some sort of hidden plea in their depths. Soon, she shakes her head, curls to fall over her shoulder as she murmurs, "That was my first fucking drink all night, and unless your bartender is slipping me something…" Slowly, she drops her hand away from his head, catching sight of Deckard from over Logan's shoulder, and she falls quiet, giving the man a quiet smile. At least she's polite!
Logan's head tilts to the side as she goes ahead and grips his arm, hisses those words at him. Incidentally, he doesn't stop, his expression drawing into something a little chillier at her demand, the brightness of his eyes doing approximately nothing to make up for it. "Say please," is his reply, which could stand to sound more coy than it is. Those twin points of verdant green swivel on over towards where Deckard is now lurking nearby, looking him up and down. "Deckard, Miranda. Miranda, Deckard. You both make unfortunate love interest choices, you can bond when I've left."
Whatever kind of introduction Deckard was expecting, it wasn't quite that. There's a touch of crestfallen puzzlement in a fall at the outer edges of his brows (Why is it unfortunate 8<a?) that staves off whatever he was building himself up to say for a few awkward seconds longer. Eyes clear blue to Logans insidious green, he winds up clipping his teeth short around a wasted breath and blinking away exasperation back on the rise. The abundance of bouncy bouncy in this place seems to be escaping his attention entirely now that he's had time to drink and focus. There's no distraction to the directness of the stare he's filtering flatly between them now. "Nice to meet you. Do you have the stuff?"
"Logan." Miranda speaks his name again, as whatever he's doing - and she's certain it's him - doesn't stop. When he speaks, she narrows her gaze upon the man, "No. I won't. I didn't ask you to do a damn thing." There's more she might say, but Deckard is there, and she's being introduced to the odd man, her hand to fist at her side, "A pleasure.." Yet, to the last, she seems confused, glancing to Logan since she figures whatever 'stuff' is being discussed is something he's got. Leaning in briefly, she does say something quietly to Logan before she pulls away again.
Though he's lounging his lanky form back against the bar with plenty of relaxation, there is a little tension that can be detected in the still lines of his posture, the angles of his expression. "Yeah, I have it. What are you giving for it?" Logan asks of Deckard, voice brisk, before he turns his attention back to Miranda. Though she has the sense to keep their exchanges quiet, he sees no reason, and states, clearly and severely; "And who gave you permission to go about reading people? Reading me, too, I'll bet. You want it to stop, you can walk thirty feet in a different direction, sweetheart."
There is tension. Intentionally ignorant as he can be about these things, Deckard is still looking slowly back and forth between them, one face to the other and back again as if he suspects he's missing something. Something that is most likely Logan's fault. Except, see. He's still holding the keys that are the subject of the current conversation, so rather than reach over and bounce the side of his head off the bar, Deckard knits his brows at Miranda to make sure she isn't about to literally explode or anything at his hand before he answers with a simple, "I think cash money is the traditional offering."
His anger but sparks Miranda's, and to his words, she says as she pulls away, "If you knew anything, then you'd know it's not something I /can/ turn off unlike some who have to make a conscious decision to use what they have. I see what I see." A glance is spared to Deckard, briefly, a near pitying look given the man now as it seems what she overhears is likely something drug related. Slipping away from the counter, she says to Logan, "If it doesn't return… " Well, she does have connections as he so casually mentioned earlier, and a boss who would likely take great offense to her being without her talent.
The lingering threat doesn't get much reaction from Logan. It will return. It has to. All the same, his eyes stay bright and her ability stays dead for the time it takes her to move out of range, which feels more considerable than it is in the close confines of an adult club. Ignoring Deckard for the meantime, Logan watches her leave with an expression that's difficult to read, almost analytical— thinking looks like it causes him some pain— before he veers his attention back to the older man. "I've already got money." A switch flicks over, and Logan's smile sparks back up. "So I want something more interesting. I'd like your time."
Deckard watches Miranda go with an air that can't be bothered to more than vague suspicion, narrow jack slackened out of its earlier lock when Logan's words finally sink in through his iron plated skull and he turns enough to look him over as if he's not sure he heard right. "You get a second job filling out mall questionnaires?"
And now, Deckard will never know if Miranda truly likes scuffy men or not. Anger can be easily read in the line of her body as she slips away from the bar through the crowd towards the door. She only pauses briefly to make sure her ability does return as promised. After one long look at Logan, the woman leaves the bar, no doubt making a few mental notes to herself for future work relations with certain men.
Eyes fade into dim paleness once more, Logan's smile staying where it is and no where near his eyes. "No. I'd like more than a 'moment', as it were." His hand ducks into the inner of his jacket, and from some mysterious pocket, he extracts something. In the shifting lights of the strip club, there's a flash of opaque plastic, but it's quickly hidden in his palm, and his hand comes to press against the bar, trapping the satchel beneath it. "I've got something coming up. I need men who know how to take care of themselves and probably shoot straight. Do that for me and you get this."
Deckard's eyes track the package's progress with a fleet kind of unwavering focus. Too attentive and too rapt. He has to steel himself before he can look back to Logan without being 100% transparent about wanting to flip him over the bar to get to the satchel that way. And even then we're talking…70…75% transparent while he tilts his chin up aaand then more slowly down. "You realize if this is a ploy to trick me into shooting kids or little girls or kittens I'm just going to shoot you instead."
Seventy-five percent transparency is all it takes for Logan's smile to switch to a smirk, which— on his face, is not a big change. He lifts a shoulder in a shrug, his other hand coming up to fidget with and fix his own ascot tie. "Fair. No kids, girls, or kittens. Just drug pushers. Cross my heart. You could probably see it as a good deed, if you wanted to." The Englishman's hand doesn't move, nor does he shy away from the focused tension the flaunting of stuff has gained.
"As long as we understand each other. I'd hate to think I didn't leave enough of an impression during our last heart to heart." Deckard's eyes widen with exaggerated sincerity, almost polite except for all the ways in which it isn't when he reaches his left hand out and makes graspy motions. Drugs plz.
The look fixed on Deckard frosts over, Logan's brow crinkling. Why'd you have to go there! There are approximately two chilly seconds that go by before he lets go of an indignant sounding huff of breath, and his hand moves swiftly from bar to graspy hand to clap his palm onto Deckard's. Rather than immediately pull away, his fingers abruptly encircle the older man's hand, and the spike of euphoria, low and invasive, is a hot shimmer that simmers in Deckard's system. Logan's eyes flare green once more. "Pleasure doing business with you. Enjoy the cocaine."
Frost evokes a half-smile that is not particularly Deckardish in its level security for having Gone There, coolly confident without being all that chilly in return. And it all seems justified enough when the give of the bag is warm in hand, and hhhhhhnooo. His immediate instinct is to tug stiffly back when Logan locks on, coyote to snare with tail curled down and ears laid back flat against the catch alone. Predictably though, it's what follows through that really gets him — bafflement expelled in the slow sink of a breath that lets the bone and tendon locked into Logan's grip go just a little lax.
The corner of Logan's mouth upturns in a half-smile right back, his hand squeezing warmly around Deckard's, that little crinkle-crinkle of plastic between their palms barely audible. There's an analytical twitch of Logan's head to the side, as if listening to something no one else can hear, which doesn't stop him from saying, his voice pitched somewhere husky; "Talk to you later." And with that, he lets go, picks up his drink, and goes to insinuate himself around Deckard and move on away, taking euphoria with him.
It's so overt on top of being entirely unanticipated — Deckard's effectively been shut up and unsettled such that he doesn't think to glance after the brush of Logan's departure until he's already been standing there looking bothered for longer than they actually talked. Thank god there's no one around to see him flounder a second look back over his shoulder a minute or two later. Right?
…Right?