Participants:
| Scene Title | Proximity |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | 'Casey' invades Logan's space for sake of entertainment; he returns the favor in kind, albeit different degree. |
| Date | October 9, 2010 |
Ferry between Staten and Manhattan
Thin smoke flags off under the wind in the same direction as his scarf, making motion of Logan's otherwise still figure at the railings of the ferry. The cigarette burns brightly between his fingers, although he hasn't touched it to his mouth in a good minute and a half, the wind doing its part in slicing off the remnants of burned out ash, still smoldering as it's whisked off towards the slate grey river that stretches between Staten Island and Manhattan.
He's dressed for the evening, despite the daylight of the hour — which probably means he was dressed for yesterday evening, with cologne that's gone faded from wear. A deep purple, near black, makes up a velvet-of-silk jacket that is both creepy and designer at the same time, with black beneath it, black slacks, shoes brought to a polished sheen, and a thin strip of pashmena makes a scarf knotted loosely around his throat.
The population of the ferry is sparse at best, not much of a tourist attraction, for all that it will pass near enough to Lady Liberty for her to be admired. Logan is more studying cityscape, the oily patterns of the water below, oddly introspective enough that for once, it is not him noticing anyone today.
Just as well there's few people aboard this morning, decks and walkways rendered free for prowling by their absence. Restless at the enforced idleness of the ferry's slow progression, the inability to do anything but watch the skyline drift past, Hana wanders. She wanders, footsteps light despite the metal panels underneath, until her gaze snags on the outline of a familiar profile.
Interrupting John Logan's contemplation is at least something with which to pass the interminable ride.
"I wouldn't guess you'd find the view that enthralling," is the comment that comes just before 'Casey' intrudes upon Logan's periphery, folded arms casual against the rail. Her clothing is a coarse counterpoint to yesterday's elegance: a leather jacket which lost its label long ago, scuffed and worn from frequent use; black jeans faded enough to not be new, although still a ways from being as venerable as the jacket. Her hair is tied back in a simple tail, the better to keep it from blowing hither and yon as his unasked-for company looks past the railing as if to see whatever Logan studies.
A twitch of a glance at the woman's words has 'Casey' rather sharply in Logan's frame of view, his expression severe if only thanks to interruption, before surprise seems to soften its lines and angles. Irrational self-consciousness follows in that he'd probably never opt for the crushed velvet vampy look to impress ladies in old leather jackets and face-kicking boots, but discarded as easily as him flicking dead ash off his cigarette. "Good guess," he concedes, pinching cigarette filter between his lips as he takes a breath of it, turns his head to exhale white smoke upwind of her.
"Just thinking, actually. Hello again."
"Hmm. Hello," she echoes, for the form of a properly exchanged greeting; if the woman notices the parade of expressional shifts, and she probably does, ther'es no like reflection in her demeanor. Hana watches the bit of ash plop into the water below and drift forlornly towards the ferry's stern, momentarily returning her attention to Logan. One corner of her mouth twitches up in a dry, ephemeral smile. "The kind of thoughts worth paying for, as it were, or merely meandering like our ride?"
Folding his arms against the railing, Logan leans, shoulders curling in to stretch muscles along his spine before relaxing, subtle and self-indulgent. "Meandering by the time you came by," he admits, after a second. "I was thinking how boatrides like this reminded me a bit of the tours down the Thames, and how I never been on one. I'm the worst Londoner in the world. Remember the Pakistani cornerstore owner better than the Tower Bridge.
"Everything else, if I told you, I'd have to kill you." There's a speculative glance, then, a little wry along with the tip of a smile, before he works at finishing his cigarette while there's still some left.
A quiet chuckle meets his final statement. "You are," she allows with some amusement, lips curving in a more real smile, "free to try." But Hana doesn't press, which eliminates the pretext for murder (or its attempt). Rather, as he burns down the rest of his cancer stick and she companionably watches another boat drift by, the woman carries on the conversational thread that is open-access. "London, is it? Rootless as I am, England's one place I've never been." The lift of her shoulders is casually dismissive. "Always figured sightseeing was overrated, myself."
And cigarette burned down to filter goes tumbling into the river, Logan rubbing hands together without getting out of his slouch as the last dregs of smoke leave his lungs, swallowing against the tickle in his throat that might bring about a cough. There'd been a subtle rasp to a chuckle at her invitation, which had gone declined in silence.
"Attractions aren't as interesting as attractive people," he notes. "And really, you have to stay a while to make them worth it. But London it is. Not for some years. No one's rootless." A glance turns that into a question, a flicking, glancing study over features that could claim to be dusky in comparison, at least, to his own pallid tone, brightly icy eyes and salon-worthy highlights.
One dark brow arches at the implied query; after a moment, the woman's lips twist in a peculiarly self-deprecating smile. "Zeh mah sheyesh," she says, which may or may not be a reply. "It is true, everyone comes from somewhere. But there is a phrase also, to 'put down roots'?" A question that isn't really a question, given that Hana could look up the phrase faster than she can speak it. She says it anyway, letting meaning fill itself in around.
A pause ensues, silence as she adjusts her footing, gaze turning from Logan towards the tableau of gray and blue beside. "I was born in Israel," 'Casey' finally allows, in a reserved tone that doesn't force the commonality of shared foreign birth upon them. Doesn't explain that she also grew up there, spent more than half her life there, left the two most important figures in her life buried beneath that nation's soil. Her eyes slide sideways, back to him, and that twist of smile reappears. "Also some time ago," as if to play it down.
Being someone who only just masters the English langauge, Logan raises an eyebrow at what he only guesses to be Hebrew. Sets hands back down upon railing to lever himself up to stand straighter. "So what's your business in Manhattan?" he asks, turning on an angle to face her properly as opposed to the view. Hands come up, tug and fuss with scarf so as to better tuck it within the velvety hems of his jacket, pin it closed with brass-toned buttons. "In general, and the immediate future. Unless either of them will have me kicked over the edge, and then I can have a go at guessing instead."
'Casey' continues to lean against the railing, doing a fairly credible job of not bristling at the query; of not responding the way she would in other situations and with other people. It helps that she has a view. "In general?" she echoes, glancing sidelong towards Logan. "I get by, same as everyone else. However I have to." It isn't really much of an answer, but the dismissiveness of the words suggests details won't be forthcoming. She didn't say he couldn't guess, though.
The woman looks back out towards the water, shoulders dropping slightly in what might well have been a subtle, stifled sigh. "The immediate future?" She pauses, lips pressing together. "Perhaps not much business at all." Only a month to go, now; and the timeline's prognosis is not so good. Hana falls quiet for a few moments, thoughts gone down some introspective path; then she shakes her head, ponytail sliding sidewise over her spine, and turns around to set her back against the rail. "One day at a time," she concludes. "I couldn't well tell you, even if— " A slight smile. "— I wanted to. I do suspect most of my business is not your business."
"I imagine not, no," Logan concedes, and some subtle shift of posture and body language has him, somehow, at least an inch closer. "My guess is that no one comes to New York City except for two reasons. One, is to make something of the wreckage of the place, reap some benefits. There's a lot of ways you can make money out of disaster. New demands, new needs. New playground. I don't reckon that sounds like you, though." It probably, if anything, sounds a little like him.
He pushes his weight off the railing a little, and there's a slice of a smile, like he's considering cornering her, but not until he makes his second guess. "Then there's the other reason. Escaping into something, going somewhere no one'll find you. Getting by one day at a time, having a little fun getting your hands dirty to make ends meet, no one knowing your name or your story. Starting anew, hiding, where no one cares. Am I close?"
Not really scratching the surface. But that may as well be the point. As if to make his query literal, Logan has a hand on the railing just next to her, angling as to stand in front although not quite daring to go so far as to trap her completely, the other hand hooking a thumb into the pocket of his jacket.
She straightens as he sidles nearer, head canting in a way that makes the angle of her jaw sharply prominent; the glint of smile which echoes his has just a shade much of teeth in it. Making a lioness feel trapped is not often a wise choice. 'Casey' lifts her chin, dark eyes narrowing slightly as they meet Logan's pale blue. Her left hand drops to her side, fingers curling inward as if around something; her right hand lifts to let its index finger brush against the bit of scarf visible at the throat of Logan's jacket, faint pressure tangible on the collarbone beneath. If the pressure were greater, the gesture might be a ward; as it is, it's either ambivalent or coy. Given that coy is probably not in Hana's lexicon…
"Quite close," the woman says curtly. "Center Stage can attest it's not a smart place to be." But she hasn't thrown him overboard — yet.
"I'm not overly intelligent, I've been told." Despite this claim, facetiously delivered, Logan isn't imposing on her personal space any more than he already has, which is probably more than what two strangers would claim to be appropriate already, but— 'Casey' has her escape route. Inhaling, pashmina warm beneath the Israeli's fingertip, he lifts a hand to rest feather-light fingertips on the woman's wrist, and then angles a look up at her so that she can clearly see the way his eyes flare brilliant green around when a trickle of feel-good warms her system from low in her gut, rising up her torso.
He removes his hand, a half-smile to follow. His eyes do their thing of draining from emerald to a mojito mix of icy grey and green. "As for the immediate future, we could get a drink. Or a bottle of wine and choose our own venue."
Dark eyes widen at the flare of color, the unapologetic invocation of Evolved ability — and narrow again as the chemicals seeping into her system, albeit only briefly, make their effects known. He's fortunate in that; the thin blade now exposed in her left hand remains low, likely out of visibility beside the Israeli's hip given their proximity. "I can believe it," she murmurs, a hint of derision to her tone. But only a little, lacking the force Hana usually brings to such remarks.
In the pause which follows, her right hand presses forward, index finger curling, other three fingers splayed at the ridge of his shoulder, thumb tucked against the length of Logan's throat. Thirty seconds ago, it would have been an implicit warning, or threat; with the ebb of induced serotonin also fades the confrontational edge from 'Casey's' expression. She is thinking about it. If the company of a stranger is only a passing illusion to veil her perennial solitude with, it's also all Hana will let herself accept. But —
The trait she has in spades is stubborn pride. "It's not November yet, Logan."
He swallows, a shift of movement against the pad of her thumb. Logan is not unfamiliar to the concept of turned tables, having made enough enemies in his life to demonstrate what that's like. Likewise, he's gripped girls like this before — buried his thumb harsher than the warning stillness of Hana's hand. He doesn't see that same ferocity in her face, at least, and his pulse thrums beneath his skin, able to be felt. "November's fucking," he points out. "October can be whatever you want.
"So suit yourself." He withdraws, then, a doggish twitch away from her hand, although a sly kind of sliver of a smile indicates that his ego is still running quite smoothly. It's the kind of break away that has him leaving her by the railing, only summoned back if she chooses — as he'd implied, the ball bounced into her court.
She sees the smile, and that is the final nail, the one that raises hackles and brings her own ego resolutely to the fore. 'Casey' lets him walk away, a huff of exhaled breath scorning the ball, the court, and any temptation she might have to figuratively bounce it back. Another temptation arises, but as the ferry approaches its destination and people begin to collect on the deck, she ignores that one too. The knife disappears into its hidden sheath.
If Logan looked back, it would be to see the rigid line of her spine, stiffly unyielding, as Hana regards the weathered dock and pays his departure no discernable notice at all.