hana_icon.gif logan_icon.gif

Scene Title Prosaic
Synopsis Logan bumps into someone who isn't a stranger, recent past and farther future.
Date August 13, 2010

A Dive

Evening finds this small bar not far past opening, but crowded nonetheless due to the re-imposition of early curfew across the city. The atmosphere inside the establishment is clear of smoke, of course, but dimly lit out of ambiance considerations; the walls are dark wood and gray paint, the floor covered in thin carpet that probably sports a good number of stains on its worn surface, but between the dim light and its dark color they aren't visible. The entire space looks well-worn in an aged manner, as opposed to simply cheap; saying the bar has style would be an overstatement, but character is a fair descriptor, and more than merely tactful.

Seated at a table just shy of the bar, Hana Gitelman swirls amber liquid in its tumbler and looks towards the small band just in the process of setting up at the stage with idle disinterest. Dressed in a a soft green shirt and dark-blue jeans, lightweight brown jacket draped over the back of her chair and hair left loose to frame her angular features, she is recognizable as the 'Casey' who previously appeared at Center Stage despite any circumstantial differences.

Slumming it tonight is John Logan, who occasionally wears one thousand dollar shoes imported from Bordeaux, who occasionally buys his firearms to match a given outfit, who would wear a tie to a drive in breakfast. Simple fact that he grew up in the shady half of Brixton (which is basically all shade), that his roots in New York City begin in the cancerous heart of Staten Island, and that sometimes, keeping up appearances isn't everything. Well. It is, actually.

Which is why his shoes aren't violet and there's no tie in sight. He slots into the ambiance of the place like a fitted puzzle piece, in plain black boots that zip at the ankles, grey denim on his long legs, and a black shirt that doesn't really serve his shade of eyes well, just highlights their starkness in mismatched contrast. It opens a few buttons to white wife beater, and there's a shape in the back pocket of his jeans that relates to a folding knife.

Where he came from can only be inferred — judging by trajectory, probably the mens'. But without particular introduction or greeting, his hands perch down on an adjacent chair like birds. His silver thumb rings glimmers in low light.

Dark eyes angle up across the table towards the man who speaks. "Situational hazard," the woman, sans jewelry or makeup or any ornamentation save her eminently practical clothing, quips in dry response. She considers Logan for a long moment, distracted from the musical apparatus being positioned and checked, the resonance of single strings plucked to check amplifier function; then the corners of Hana's lips tug up in a faint smile, a nudge of the tumbler indicating the chair his hands rest upon. "By all means," 'Casey' continues, "sit and spare me the strangers.

"What brings you to this hole in the wall?"

Scrape, go the four legs of the chair against the ground, Logan easing himself to sit down, bringing in the stale scent of cigarette smoke to the table once situated, along with other masculine notes, a minimal splash of cologne from the morning, perspiration from the humid day, and for all that his casual(ish) clothes are toned down from his usual ostentation, he's well put together. "No one notices holes in the walls, and I was meeting with someone from Jersey," he says, shuffling his chair in, and giving a head shake towards the bartender to indicate no, no drink for him. "A cop. Trying to find a way around the Registration deal."

Bald honesty, accompanied with a smile that might put her in the frame of mind that he's fucking with her instead. Or daring her to believe him. (Little does he know.) "That, or maybe fate, 'cause here you are. Do you mind if I smoke?"

Hana brings her glass to her lips, knocking back the remainder of its contents in a single draw. The tumbler comes back down, landing on the table with a muted thunk. One brow arches at the description of his errand, then sinks again when Logan continues. The woman leans back in her chair, looking across the table with mingled amusement and a challenge of her own: go ahead, fish if you dare.

"They're your lungs," she remarks with a careless shrug. More importantly — "Fate, is it?" the woman echoes, folding her hands around the empty glass and turning it slowly between her fingers. "Hmm. Not sure I'd jump to that conclusion," she continues, playing along — or perhaps just leading on. "Care to enlighten me with your reasoning?"

A cigarette case is set on the table, dug out of a pocket, lighter set next to it. Leaning back enough for his chair to rock back on two legs, a knee up against the table underside to prevent slipping backwards, Logan laces his fingers back behind his head of blonde, thinning at the temples though it is. "My reasoning for believing in fate," he asks, with that same quasi-leading on tone, a game described in a tilt of a half-smile, "or finding the cracks in New Jersey's finest ethical values?" A relevant question should he wish to proceed. He doesn't light up yet either.

Abandoning her glass to sit idle on the table, Hana reaches across and plucks the lighter up from Logan's side of the table, deft fingers clicking the cap open and closed, open and closed, a slow pattern of metallic chinks. "Some would say," she begins, looking obliquely over towards her companion, "that rules exist to be broken." The lighter's top snaps shut, cutting off the punctate rhythm with abrupt finality. "But fate by definition is unbreakable. Quite a heavy burden to invoke, of an evening," the woman concludes. A flick of her thumb kicks the cap open again; its downward sweep crosses the striker, and the flickering flame is extended to Logan.

As if allowing the woman to lead a dance, Logan unlinks his hands and plucks out a cigarette from the case, snagging the filter between his teeth as he lets all four chair legs descend back down, leaning in to place the tip of the cigarette in offered fire. His fingertips guide it a fraction, and his cheeks suck in against the razor edge of high bones when he draws in an inhale, thick smoke stream out nostrils upon the initial flare up.

"That maybe so," he concedes once done, leaning back into his chair. "Perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself. Fate isn't meant to smack us in the face until, what're they saying, November eighth? I can accept coincidence too. What about you? A place like this."

With the cigarette lit, Hana snaps the lighter cap closed once more. She retains the trinket, however, fingers rubbing idly over its surface as she brings her hand back to rest on her side of the table. "So the gossips have it. A smack indeed, if they're right." Dark eyes narrow slightly, but her interest in the subject remains leashed — inasmuch as she doesn't ask what Logan saw and is now (presumably) dancing around. That she thinks it is clear enough.

"Mm… I'm just here," she says, as her empty tumbler is replaced in silent efficiency with a new one, "for the alcohol. To unwind, shall we say." Hana tips her head to consider the amber liquor, although her attention doesn't actually leave Logan. "Rather… prosaic of me, I suppose," she concludes, with a brief smile.

Still no drink for John, as if granting himself the freedom to ghost off, should he wish to — save for the fact "Casey" now has his lighter, which Logan eyes with the interest of a taunted cat, but his focus manages to square back on her, cigarette caught centred between sets of pearly teeth, tongue absently rolling it a little to taste the sweetly dry edge of it. Snags it back between fingers by the time it's his conversationally dictated turn to talk, smoke trailing from lit end, seeping from the corners of his mouth.

"I don't even know what that word means," he admits, with a self-deprecating kind of smile, brief, shoulders bunching then smoothing. "But I don't really mind. I suppose it's nothing you'd like to talk about — the reasons behind unwinding. Lose a fight?"

In the end, the lighter has served its purpose; in short order, 'Casey' returns it to its space beside the cigarette case. She picks up her drink instead, sipping at the alcoholic beverage. "Oh, no," she assures Logan; that's unthinkable. "Not that. Only —" Another sip, before Hana lifts the tumbler to regard at the light refracting in the liquid. "It's been a rough few days," she allows. "And you're right, it's not something I care to dwell on. That would defeat the purpose," the woman concludes, raising her glass slightly.

"Fair enough." Rather than collect up his belongings, Logan has his arms folded on table edge, touching the tip of his finger against the edge of the case and allowing it to spin with a flick of fingers. It's a fine and elegant little implement, and has received its fair share of scratches, having been thrown, lost, dropped variably. It might be easier, if she asked him what he saw, but knew full well when he went from bathroom to table that it would never be that easy, that he wouldn't be able to deal a clever line on the matter.

'Clever line'. Wittiness is subjective. "So if fate's unbreakable," he says, veering off into the subject matter prior to this one, forbidden territory, "what do you make of the visions?"

Hana watches the case spin for a moment, then settles back in her chair, tumbler still held comfortably in hand. Swirling the drink in her glass, Hana considers Logan sidelong. "Ah, the visions. Are they fate? Are they glimpses of events that might be?" Her gaze shifts to the alcohol in a way that suggests that particular quandry may also have driven the woman to drink on some other evening. "Or are they in fact unavoidable?" she continues, a touch more quietly. There's a pause, and then Hana downs this additional drink. "I guess we'll have to wait for November to find out.

"But it always seems that prophecies just drive people to fulfill them," is her final statement.

"I saw you." There. Logan's pale eyes wander the room rather than watch tamed apathy on Hana's hard features, or surprise, or suspicion, or whatever might cross there between serious brow and angular jaw. His own expression is reasonably relaxed, his posture not so perfect, and he takes the moment now to snag up his case and pocket it, to collect up his lighter. He taps deadened ash into the glass tray set on the table between them. "And I suppose you're right — I dunno if I would've followed you off the stage, that night, if I hadn't recognised you."

He shrugs, now tilting a look back towards her. "Dunno if I even would've joined you here. Maybe I wasn't s'posed to, yet, or maybe it's because, but that's a bit circular, innit. Not that me seeing a stranger-woman in the future is much of a variation to the theme, for me, but you know. It's not every day a thing like that happens."

She isn't surprised, having already reached that conclusion; if anything, she's a bit satisfied at having it confirmed. Her head tips to one side, considering Logan sidelong as he looks at her. The kind of look a cat might give an unfamiliar item which has planted itself in otherwise comfortably known surroundings: I'm deciding what to do with this. "No, it isn't," Hana agrees.

There's a beat of silence; she turns her head slightly, enough to look at him directly. "You may have gathered, I didn't see you," the woman offers. "What I did — " Her lips curve in a sardonic smile, a dark humor briefly shadowing her expression. "As you say, not exactly a variation on my theme." What that theme is, she leaves for his interpolation; given their first real meeting, Logan can likely fill in the blank with a close-order approximation. "Perhaps we were shown, in a sense, what we might expect to see."

"In a sense," Logan echoes, reservation before strict agreement and a subtle shrug following. He's not sure he agrees. The ratty little apartment, the clothing flung over the place enough to convince him it's not a flop house for the strict purposes of a one night stand. He flicks off more ember and ash than is strictly necessary, breaking away to reveal the still burning centre, bright orange. "So I suppose I decide what to do here. Make sure you don't get to know me very well between now and then, leave the light on for November eight."

Hana lifts her chin slightly, one brow arching as if to suggest incredulity; but she doesn't refute the phrasing of I decide. Not overtly. Fingernails tap against the side of the tumbler resting on the table, soft and nearly chiming sound all but buried as the band on the stage finally begins to play. Despite this, they aren't loud enough to dampen conversation — not where she and Logan are sitting. "Maybe so." 'Casey' smiles thinly. "Long time to leave a light on; you must have a lot of faith in 'fate', Logan." Notably, the tone of this statement is not a leading one; she isn't fishing for an accelerated timetable.

"Oh, no. Figured I'd set my calendar and remember to flip the switch," is said with a thin smile of his own and a flick of a wink, before Logan is bringing his cigarette back up to breathe in deeply, enough that when smoke comes out with the exhale, it's thick and white as a ghost, dispersing but a second later with an elegant wave of his hand. "Don't know why I keep trying to entangle myself with the likes of people like you. You know. Hard."

Which might be in opposition to soft as well as easy. "I've got some things riding in fate. I've been told futures before, and listening tends to be the ticket. What say you?"

Hana chuckles briefly, acknowledging Logan's point with a faint grin. Her eyes shift to the smoke, watching it disperse for a few moments, then look back to the man across the table. "Mm. I couldn't explain it either," she replies, lopsided smile leavening literal sincerity with a hint of dry amusement. "Oh, I listen," the woman allows. "But I refuse to have my life dictated to me." Even a little bit.

Quiet in her motion, not that it matters with live music playing over all, she rises to her feet. "Perhaps I'll see you on the eighth." Or perhaps not. "Regardless, I did promise a 'next time' at Center Stage, didn't I?" Hana smiles, close-lipped, then inclines her head to Logan.

His thumb clicks the lighter in his hand, letting flame spill out and upwards, like liquid in reversed gravity, sealed away swiftly with a capping movement that briefly warms metal, nearly burns his long fingers. For a second, he considers, impulsively, tossing the thing underhand her way like a token of some kind, but decides maybe it's a little decadent, a little assumptive for someone rising from the table before he does, for her cool sidestep of the passage of destiny.

Logan keeps it in his knuckled fist, his scars on the backs of his fingers like lace. "You did. Do take care, until then."

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