Second Thoughts, Second Impressions


kain_icon.gif logan_icon.gif

Scene Title Second Thoughts, Second Impressions
Synopsis Logan comes to complain at Kain about everything.
Date October 8, 2009

Dorchester Towers: Kain's Penthouse

Right from the doorway the sheer size of this penthouse seems designed to impress. The walls and ceiling are painted in a soft eggshell white that seems to only enlarge the perception of the living space, with lightly-stained hardwood floors reflecting the daylight spilling through the partly closed blinds. Immediately across from the entrance is a raised living room with three shallow steps leading up to the carpeted landing it sits on. A plush white sofa covers one wall, with a long glass-topped table between it and a matching chaise lounge. The entire opposite wall to the side of the sofa is a gigantic window that affords a view of the nighttime skyline of New York. Sliding vertical blinds are drawn drawn closed, but twisted so they remain partly open, giving a slatted view of the New York skyline. Up against the window is a jet black leather sofa with a tall lamp with a ball-shaped shade.

Further into the penthouse, there is a large open kitchen that is in plain view of the sitting room, a black marble-topped island divides the kitchen from the main floor, and beyond the island more counterspace and brushed-metal faced kitchen appliances fill the walls. From here, a hallway can be seen that is lined with four doors; one leading to an office, two more to bedrooms, and another to a bathroom.

It's not an ideal time of evening to come calling unannounced. Normally, he'd pitch for a later hour, but Manhattan curfew means Logan is showing up at this particular door somewhere around dinner time. Considering the most sustenance anyone really witnesses him partaking is in the form of alcohol and smoke and hatred, perhaps he doesn't have much consideration for these hours. In any case, it's a dark dusk that's descended over New York by the time Kain Zarek is aware that there's someone here to see him.

He didn't have much in the way to choose from in terms of clothing, but it doesn't really show - either these things are bought recently, or he was relatively lucky. Fitted black slacks with subtle pinstripes, and a grey shirt with silver and black threaded patterning about the collar, the sleeves, along his shoulderblades only partially obscured by the satin-backed waistcoat that matches the slacks. His coat is draped over an arm, and his shoes are plain black leather with silver at the toes.

Rocking back on slightly raised heels at a lean, Logan casts an absent glance down the hallway as he waits. The black wool of his coat doesn't do much to hide the bandaging on his right hand, three fingers splinted to straightness, and a silver ring on the thumb. The only sign of injury, he otherwise seems healthy. If pissed off.

The frosted glass door that seperates the penthouse hallway from the apartment proper gives a soft click as an audible beep emits from a security box in the wall near the door. A hydraulic hiss swings the door inwards to the spacious rooftop apartment, with blinds pulled open to reveal the glittering skyline of New York City's upper east side. No real welcome is offered to the opening of the door, save for that unspoken invitation.

But framed by the wide spade of the doorway, Kain Zarek is already in view. Across the hardwood floor of the living room, seated on a white leather couch with only a few lights on in the apartment, Kain looks nothing like a man who should be living a playboy lifestyle in a building such as this. Hunched forward with a lamp on his glass table, Kain has a six-shot revolver out and open on the table, disassembled along with small bottles of oil and a rag. Pieces are being cleaned, and Kain looks nothing like the man Logan even knows. Gone are the sharp suits, silk ties and wingtip shoes. Instead they are replaced by a ratty old white tanktop and a pair of old drawstring sweatpants. Damp blonde hair is swept back away from Kain's face as he looks up towards the door, blue eyes catching some of that dim lamplight.

He still doesn't say anything.

Inside we go. Not that Logan is used to the comforts afforded to the wealthy in New York, not even a little, but he doesn't cast an admiring look around the time, moving at a brisk pace and finding a surface with which to drape his coat. He does, the end of it whipping through the air at a flourish as if it were a cape to be swept back, that hand coming to descend upon his waist as he angles a look towards Kain.

And hesitates, taking in some of the differences as if he'd only really just looked at him. The moment passes after a split second. This isn't a formal occasion, despite the finery of Logan's own attire, only hinting towards his more pimptastic roots and leaning more towards actual taste and wealth.

He could almost fit in. Almost. "My apartment burned down."

"Y'know what's funny?" Kain doesn't even answer Logan's immediate statement, jus treaches over to the small remote next to his gun and presses a button, a beep chirps from across the apartment and that door begins to hiss shut again, ending with a soft click. "No matter how many times Ah' take 'part this gun, Ah' ain't never seen nothin' wrong with it." Blue eyes track up to Logan, head tilted to the side as if to imply isn't that funny?

"Done gone killed mah own daddy with this here fine firearm," the stink of vodka is strong near the table, and Logan can see the open and empty bottle on the floor near Kain's feet. No glass around, no glass needed if he was drinking straight from the source. "But wouldn't ya know the second Ah' try'n turn the thing on m'self it just won't work?" This… this is a little awkward. The smile Kain offers, followed by the inappropriately enthusiastic laughter comes with a broad smile and a wave of his hand.

"Ah', jus' fuckin' with ya…" Kain notes in a tone that's indicative of just how much he's not fucking with Logan about that. "Ah' heard some crazy son'va bitch tried t'kill someone a few floors below me, figures you get the shit luck a'the draw and live below her, right?" Those dark brows come up, and Kain nods towards the dimly lit island in the kitchen.

"Go fix yerself a drink, y'all gots t'catch up t'me." Because obviously misery loves the British— or company. Something along those lines.

Logan stands silent and still for the most part, blinking in incomprehension and just a little bit annoyed when his theatrics don't have the impact they were meant to. He remains poised and frozen, hand planted on waist and the other bandaged limb lank at his side, before he actually begins to listen to Kain, his green eyed gaze going downwards towards the revolver.

When it steers back up, there's only sharp sobriety focused in on Kain's face, the corner of his mouth going up as if in shared mirth when the Southerner brays inappropriate laughter. His voice has lost its prior, huffy sharpness as he quietly observes; "Good to see I'm not interrupting anything important."

Kain is abandoned to liquor bottle and dismantled revolver, Logan making long strides towards the kitchen, invitation for a drink readily accepted. His cleanly accented voice cuts brisk over his shoulder as he continues. "I wasn't in the building at the time. Woke up the following morning and got to read all a-bloody-bout it over tea." There's the sound of a drink being prepared, the close of a cupboard, the clink of glass, foot steps halting and resuming.

Logan appears a few moments later carrying a low crystal glass in one hand, filled with a clear kind of liquor. In his other hand, index finger and thumb are curled around the neck of an expensive bottle of gin his uncovered. "If it's not one thing, it's another. The real kicker is why I wasn't in the building."

The click and snap of parts being reassembled comes with the revolver being put back into working order. It's that soft ticking-whirr of the chamber being experimentally spun across Kain's palm that is a good sign it's whole again. Snapping the gun closed, Kain lays it down with a click of the glass beneath its hefty weight, and eyes alight towards Logan. "You look like you got'cher self into a fight with the business end of a train," comes the casual jab, and Kain leans back on the couch, one leg crossing over the other, bare foot anxiously bobbing up and down.

"Ah' know nobody on the up'n above wanted to put some smarts back inta' ye head, so Ah' gotta' figure you done gone and pissed in somebody's Cheery-O's, ain't cha?" Considering the bottle of gin, Kain's stomach turns and he considers otherwise rather quickly. "Ah' guess the better question's gonna be, why ain't you dead?"

Thunk. That's the sound of the gin bottle being set heavy down on the table, Logan taking a seat and stealing a colder look towards Kain as he settles. "Now don't you start. I've got Muldoon's mistakes on Staten Island nipping at my heels and I had to meet Daniel Linderman in a hospital gown after he fixed my leg." There seems to be more annoyance over the issue of the gown as opposed to a leg near severed by sniper rifle, but he's moving on after a brisk sip of gin. "Then there's the fucking Triad."

One leg crossed over the other, Logan inspects what he can see of his nails above splints and bandaging. Bruised beneath the veneer of bone, he's quick to instead look at Kain. "They kept me alive because they can make a better profit out of money and their precious Refrain instead of my blood. Which, I have to say, the latter as a currency was getting old, so I suppose I can't complain."

Kain's brows furrow at mention of the Triad, bitter memories of Staten Island returning as he hunches forward and rests his forearms on his knees. "Ain't got much love lost for ol' Drippy and 'is dead sister. Danny got some right wingnut to pull a suicide mission to try and take 'em both out. Shame is he only got the girl…" Those blue eyes stare down at the glass table, and Kain considers the burning glow of the lamp light in the reflection, looking away and closing his eyes, but he can still see its burn on its retinas.

"So looks like all'a that backwash done gone come up and bit you in the ass, huh?" There's a sympathy, there, understanding. "Still doesn't explain why they didn't jus' go'n kill you to make a point t'Danny." Those eyes narrow, Kain's head quirks to the side. "So how's keepin' you alive makin' them a better profit margin?"

Sympathy is always something to be suspicious of, at least, in Logan's world. Back a little stiff, his chin angles up as he observes Kain, before that observation breaks away and down into his drink. "Well it isn't, not yet," Logan states, mouth twisting into something like a smile. "I haven't been back to Burlesque since. But they expect me to give 'em back the Refrain I took."

Because, you know. He had to have done something. Logan shrugs. "I lied and told 'em I only had half still on me, and they expect the rest— and the yacht— " He swings his glass a little in a gesture of don't ask. "— to be paid for in cash.

"And," Logan knocks back the rest of the gin in his glass, wincing a little at the strength of it. "I don't suppose killing me would be hitting Daniel where it hurts, to be honest." He shifts to refill his glass, a liberal lackadaisical splash of poison tasting liquor. "What I want to know, is what exactly is being done about them? And what am I meant to do about them?"

Furrowing his brows, Kain looks at Logan with a quirk of his head to the side. "You stole from the Triad an' you're surprised they went up and tried to beat your head into a different shape?" He laughs, a rough and tired laugh that comes with him slowly pushing himself to his feet with a tired grunt. "Sounds like you got what you deserve, or at least part've it. But… Ah' Ain't got any love fer them crazy bastards, m'self. They make bad business partners, all'a 'em."

Shifting his weight ot one foot, Kain looks down at Logan with a lopsided smile. "Danny's had his eyes on the ol' Slants for a while now. We got ourselves a plant in with the Triads who's been feedin' us information 'bout their shipping and movements. AIn't gonna be long before somebody goes and puts them where they belong. If you want to sleep a lil' easier at night," Kain rubs one hand over the gray and black stubble at his chin, "word Ah' hear is that the po-lice are gonna get themselves tipped off to a Refrain shipment goin' out next week. Ain't that a shame?"

"Crying shame."

Logan hasn't gotten to his feet, despite Kain, and instead, goes to reach for the gin bottle. Only his fingertips brush past the glass, and settle on the revolver. His hand clasps warm around it, and he settles back into his chair, fingers around the weapon as he turns it over his hands. "They burned down my brothel. They got what they deserved. I'm not giving them a thing." His fingers clasp around the barrel of the gun as he watches Kain.

Then, he shrugs. "The only place 've got to stay in for the time being is in bloody Chinatown. You can see why this might be something of a problem."

A dry snort escapes Kain as he shambles away from the table towards the kitchen, intent on getting something to either eat or drink. But he's given pause after the laughter, swaying enough that he has to balance himself with one hand on the stool next to the counterspace. "Ha, s'a good one. Ol' Drippy an' th' Ice Princess ain't got enough brain cells between th' both've 'em t'pull that off. Your ol' buddy Caliban burned down th' Dagger t'get you off'a the island…"

The only thing missing from that statement is an exasperated duh at the end.

And without missing a beat, Kain begins swaggering his way around the island again, looking from bottle to bottle, glass to glass. "S'like, the only reason that makes sense, Ah' fig'ger you knew, yeah?. You were gonna' get yer'self killed… ol' 'Banny was lookin' out fer yer Limey ass."

Kain's staggered swagger towards the kitchen isn't watched by Logan, who turns his attention to the shooter in his grip, angling and pointing it towards whatever target seems interesting in a somewhat boyish, restless fidget. And then, a chilly green stare is redirected in the other direction towards Kain in a predatory snap to attention, silent where he's seated as he listens with a look of pure disbelief on symmetrical features.

Slowly does it, Logan lowers his arm, and stands up from his seat, following Kain the partial distance towards the kitchen. "What are you talking about?" he says, voice empty, before anger hits like a crashing wave. "Just what the fuck are you on about?!"

The gun is empty in his hand and really only good for gesticulating, which he does. "No, I didn't— I talked to you afterwards! You mean to say I crawled to you people and you all were the reason— !" Aaahh everyone. He hates everyone. Logan turns his back to Kain with a disgusted wave of his broken hand, heatedly pacing the length of the room and back towards where the gin is set.

Standing behind the counter, clarity comes in a slow dawning of awe fuck as he offers a mildly sour smile and the plunk of a stopper to the bottle of rum opening. "Well… guess that little cat's outta' the bag now ain't it?" Pouring himself — messily — a glass of rum, Kain breathes in a slow breath and sighs slightly. "Look, for what it's worth, Danny seems t'think you'd make a better asset out here on' the mainland than pissing your life away in that rotten hellhole. Look at it this way, Logan, the way th' wind's blowin… there ain't gonna be much a Staten Island left, 'cept for police barricades an' a lotta' arrested or dead druggies soon. You wanna' be down there when that goes on?"

His smile turns to a grim one, shoulders rising and falling into a helpless shrug as he lifts his glass in a feigned toast. "Count'cherself as blessed, Logan. 'Cause where Ah'm standing right now, yer still better off — broken hand and burned down apartment — than you were six months ago. You jus' done gone an' hit a rough patch."

Smirking, Kain adds, "but if it makes ya' feel any better y'can sleep on'na couch."

For a while, Logan stands with his back to Kain, torso hugged svelte in the cut of his waistcoat and pull of folded arms, the satin of its back gleaming oily beneath the light. The wall is glared at balefully but eventually, the Cajun wins back attention, that last comment getting a look over one slender shoulder. Taking a breath that's supposed to be calming, a little decompress gesture going with it, Logan tosses the revolver back towards where Kain had seated himself, before moving to pick up the gin.

"The grass is greener on the other side," Logan says, with a gesture of the liquor bottle. He can't quite keep the impact of betrayal off his face, displaced hurt, even with that statement of agreement. "But fuck me, Zarek." Figure of speech. The other man can't be drunk enough, more's the pity. Exasperation hisses out in a sigh. Logan opens his mouth to speak, then shuts it again, a tight smile in place. "Fine. But for that, I'm having more than just a drink."

His conflict, ultimately, is not with the man in front of him. Logan takes a deep swig of gin, shudders it down.

"You know, Logan, you ain't have the prick Ah' figured you for when Ah' first met ya." Letting his head tilt to the side, rolling that glass of rum around in one hand, Kain's blue eyes settle on his reflection in the surface before looking back up again. "Ah' heard you had a job out in Vegas this weekend?" Both of Kain's brows rise slowly, "Ah' been meanin' t'head out there t'handle some personal affairs m'self, so you might've just earned yerself some company on that lil' trip."

Cracking a smile, Kain's dark brows raise and he leans forward on the counterspace and offers up his half drained glass in another toast. "To shitty jobs, second impressions…" And then, with a raspy laugh, Kain swings the glass around and adds,

"…an' t'givin' the Devil his due."

The back of the hand gripping tight the gin bottle is wiped over his mouth, before Logan is pacing closer towards where Kain is barricaded from him on the other side of the kitchen island. Close enough to place his broken hand hand on the other side, he cocks his head to the side as he regards the other man and his toast, and lifts the bottle of gin a little in his own.

"Keep it simple. To conviction, and faulty guns."

Clink. He taps the bottle against Kain's waiting glass, and takes another deep swig, though not quite breaking his gaze from the other man's. His voice rasps a little from the brutal liquor when he adds, "And Vegas, I suppose."

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License