Team Spirit


kelly_icon.gif logan_icon.gif

Scene Title Team Spirit
Synopsis In the lobby of the Corinthian, two Lindergoons find one another and discover they're on roughly the same team.
Date May 25, 2010

The Corinthian: Lobby

In 1899, William Stokes resolved to build the "grandest hotel in Manhattan": an eighteen-story steel-frame structure with a Parisian-style mansard roof with round turrets and an exterior inspired by neoclassical architecture. When the Linderman Group bought the property in 2007, it preserved the building's outward appearance, which includes grand, arched windows looking out over the Upper West Side with a view of Central Park and the Hudson River beyond.

Past the metal detectors erected just inside the Corinthian's doors, the hotel lobby is a vast and expansive place. It's wide enough for a person to lose themselves in, longer than it is wide, and the vaulted ceiling reaches up a full three stories before budding the glinting, glimmering crystal chandeliers which provide a lion's share of illumination.

The gleam of yellow-tinged light softens the austerity implied by white walls into something warmer, elegantly welcoming. Gold tones pick out a vining pattern across the large, matte-white tiles of the floor, merging with a thicker border of autumn shades around the edge of the room. Rows of corinthian-style columns outline the central stretch of the lobby, base and capital shaded in honey-brown to accent the white of the column's length; tall, narrowly cylindrical pots sit at the base of each pillar, miniature palms heavy with verdant greenery.

At the far end of the column-edged path is a broad flight of shallow stairs, brown and gold edged by white; these lead up to the second floor, its promenades with wrought-iron railings, and the many other spaces to be found within the Corinthian.

Though it's a hell of a lot warmer outside than it was a week ago, some people still don't feel much like emerging into temperatures that hover below zero. And having come from Vegas, where it's nice and warm, Kelly is one of those. She downstairs, dressed to stay in, though she is wearing a jacket. Given that she's one of Linderman's people, it's likely just worn to hide a pistol. But who knows for sure?

She pauses in the middle of the lobby, glancing towards the doors and giving the faintest of grimaces. Nope, she's not fond of all the cold stuff outside. Not. One. Bit. The jacket is adjusted a bit, as she heads towards the counter to have a few brief words with one of the employees there, before she, oddly enough, heads over to one of the mini-palm trees, hovering by it like someone who's lost or up to no good.

It was almost twice as cold a week ago. But it is true: it's still awful to be outside. Thus, a lot of people are staying in — the Corinthian is still a partial shelter, for the destitute refugees of the snowocalypse and those in Linderman's favour alike. It's the latter that follows, next, with an item that could be nicked from the former — a soccer ball rebounds off a pillar somewhere on the second floor, cuts an obtuse angle sideways, and goes skittering with lazy determination down the broad, shallow stairs that spill into the lobby.

It smacks against the white tiles of the floor, around when someone is coming to claim it — less apologetic in demeanor, more exasperated. Outfitted in a pinstripe two-piece suit, elegant patent leather shoes and a lavender button-down shirt opened at the collar with his tie missing somewhere, Logan makes his way down the stairs in the soccer ball's wake, casting a thin smile at the desk employee.

The sound of the ball hitting the floor has Kelly turning quickly, jacket flaring out enough to offering a single short glimpse of a pistol before it settles back into place. Seeing the ball her eyes narrow slightly, and she looks around for its owner until she spots Logan. Clearly she isn't a fan of soccer from that look.

Taking a minute, Kelly studies him intently, clearly sizing him up. Or maybe checking him out. Either one is possible. When she's satisfied with her scrutiny of him, she speaks up, voice just loud enough to carry, even in a room of this size. "I'd make a comment about soccer being an outdoor sport, but it's odd enough that you're chasing after a soccer ball in a suit," she muses.

With his hands tucked into satin-lined pockets, Logan uses his feet to reclaim the football — never mind the suit, the shoes are probably far too expensive to be kicking with, let alone shaped in any useful manner, the Italian taper of the toe more hindrance than help. When Kelly's voice carries towards him, Logan's lifting an automatically defensive gaze up towards her, all pale eyed and superior, which then diverts into sweeping a look up and down in a more blatant kind of inspection than she gave him.

In that, she is seeing him with her eyes when he does it, and this doesn't add up to be an issue for him. "You can do anything in a suit," Logan counters, side of his foot knocking the ball closer, though to his credit, not at her — just in the same enough direction that he can meander closer. His accent is an upper class of English, or urged in that direction from its natural South London slur. "If you get rid've the tie, anyway. And nothing's an outdoor sport in this weather."

Kelly's gaze drops to the ball when it's nudged closer, and if it gets close enough that she can reach it without moving, she will. Otherwise, she remains put and just watches ball and man. "Mmm. Perhaps. But just because you can doesn't mean you should." A pause, then her lips curve as the irony of that statement coming from her, of all people, hits her.

"Why a suit in this weather anyway? They say it's warmer, but I doubt that most places are open for business anyway. Certainly not places where you have to wear a suit to work," she asks, her head tilting a fraction of an inch.

Logan halts at a comfortable conversation distance, heel coming to plant on the patch-patterned ball and letting it rock just subtly. "Just because you shouldn't, doesn't mean I won't. And I work here." One shoulder goes up in expression of an unspoken caveat — he doesn't work here here. A flick of an ankle has the ball rolling up onto the top of one oil-slick shoe. "I work for Mr. Linderman, more or less — my business is shut down for the winter and so I take it to the Corinthian 'til the sky sorts itself out, and I haven't gotten changed yet." His arms go out in a sort of gesture to indicate himself. "Why fix what's not broken?

"And what are you doing standing next to a palm tree?" On the subject of behavioural critique.

Hearing that he shares an employer with Kelly causes one dark brow to arch, but that's the only visible sign of surprise that she gives. "Well, well. I suppose it shouldn't come as a surprise that there are so many of us here, considering that he owns the hotel," she says in a desert dry voice. "We're co-workers." A faint curving of her lips. "Of a sort." After all, she doesn't know what he does for Linderman. Yet. "And what's wrong with standing next to a palm tree? It's there, isn't it?"

"Oh, brilliant."

Tap, goes the side of his foot against the ball, where it lightly ricochets towards her at a casual roll, as opposed to whatever force of kick had initially sent it missiling enough to hit the staircase and lead him down here. The lobby probably being a better spot for such shenanigans than the hallways of the hotel anyway, just with more chance of being yelled at, no matter the cut of Logan's suit.

If you look rich enough, you can get away with things, like smoking in the Chambery. But there are limits. "We're on the same team. That means we can play," he notes, smile knife-like and facetious and never quite reaching his eyes.

Kelly lifts a foot and rests it lightly atop then ball when it rolls into reach. She laughs softly and shakes her head. "You don't particular want to play with me," she says, a statement rather than a question, despite the inflection in the tone. "Did my questioning you about the suit and soccer combination really irritate you that much?"

The ball is lightly nudged back in his direction, while her hands slide into her pockets. Assuming she doesn't keep something small and deadly there, it's gotta be a good sign that she's moving her hands from her gun, right? She won't be shooting his soccer ball anyway. "Either way, I'll play nice with Linderman's people. Not that I really give a damn what anyone else does so long as they don't get in the way."

There's a quizzical narrowing of his eyes at her statement-not-query, but occupies himself more with blocking the rolling ball — a gentle nudge will send it skittering, on this floor. "To tell you the truth, I'm just not a very good team player — you haven't irritated me at all, love." Again, heel pins the ball to the tile, Logan gives her a twice over — an assessment of a different nature, this time. "A lot of pretty girls blow through Daniel's doors. As it were. You don't need to be a hardarse to try and differentiate yourself, though. Unless you desire to blend in better. This is New York.

"My name's Logan, by the way. I manage a strip club, most of the time. What's yours?" Name, not strip club, presumably. As if forgetting the apprehended football beneath one foot, Logan sets about extracting a silver cigarette case from the depths of a pocket, mostly fidgeting it around in his fingers for now.

Again there's that faint smile that seems to denote amusement. "I'm not trying to be anything, love," she says, shaking her head. "There's little point in pretending to be anything. It'll just blow up in your face someday. I prefer to avoid being the center of explosions. Though, for the record, I wasn't hired because I was pretty. I was hired because I'm effective."

Her gaze flicks to his cigarette case, which prompts her to dig out her own, slightly crushed back, and slide one smoke free, though it doesn't get lit right away. "I'm Kelly though. Fresh in from Vegas, as I'm sure you'll hear if you talk to she who does 'assorted things' for Mr. Linderman, AKA Nicole. She seems to enjoy having information and spreading it in the right ears."

Hooking the edge of his thumbnail into the sliver of the cigarette case's opening, he listens, clearly picking up on what threads of information might be relevant to whatever pathcrossing they may have in the future. When she's done, the corner of his mouth hooks up in a smile, and he goes to place the filter-tipped cigarette between teeth, lighter following it to touch flame to tip. "This city could use more effective people, I'll give you that," he says, cigarette weaving a little through speaking.

The lighter's offered out when he's done with it— thrown underhand if accepted, kept if not— case slid away. "As it happens, I was hired for both reasons. Negotiating, officially. But you know how that can be, I'm sure. Not everyone wants to. But I'm very charming."

The offer's accepted, and the cigarette lit before the lighter is casually tossed back to him. Kelly enjoys her first hit of smoke, then nods. "I'm not much of a charmer myself. Never had a reason to be, and there are plenty of people are." She shrugs and finds a nearby spot where she can lean against something and not fall over. Miniature palms aren't the best things for that, after all.

"You said the city needs more effective people though. Were you meaning in general, or in Linderman's employ?" she asks curiously.

"Particularly bad? Has there been some bad then? I do like to know what sort of situation I'm getting myself into," Kelly says, enjoying her smoke as well. "And at times, yes, I suppose there is a point. But all the time?" She shrugs. "When you pretend too much, the line between fact and fiction blurs. I can't afford to have that line blurred. So unless I'm working, what you see is what you get."

"I don't imagine your clients get a lot of face time anyway," is said through a smirk and smoke, before Logan breathes the rest of it out in an exhale. Letting the soccer ball stand on its own, he paces vaguely closer. "The situation, let's see. We had some trouble with the Flying Dragons some months ago — old grudges and territorial disputes alike, and they were in charge of all the Refrain going out in the city. Dunno if you've heard of it yet — it's not hit Vegas. Designer drug for Evolved."

Folding a long arm against his midsection, Logan rests an elbow in the crook of the other, cigarette aloft and fidgeted with. "They were abolished not so long ago. We played appropriate pattycakes for an allegiance with some opposition — Ghost Shadows. They're all the same Chinese Triad wankers to me, but, there it is. Heat from the law, us and them scattered the Dragons, their leaders dead, so on and so forth, and things are sort've— happy. Goodness knows how long that'll last."

There's a flicker over Kelly's face when he says that things are happy. It barely lasts for a second, but it looks as though she's disappointed. "So no real trouble now other than the Ice Age occuring outside then?" she murmurs, shaking her head. "And no, my clients don't get much face time…usually. There are exceptions to every rule though. A fact which I despise. I hate surprises."

"I love surprises. Look at us, we're never going to get along," is now laid thick with sarcasm — sometimes Americans don't parse it, Logan doesn't know — and a flash of a smile, though it sobers soon. "Just the Ice Age, yeah, but it'll melt. I suppose if something does come up, you'll be among the first to know. Do feel obliged to keep me informed — I promise it'll stop me from getting in your way, more often than not."

"We're on the same side. Of course I'll keep you informed," Kelly agrees smoothly. If it's a lie, it's a good one. "And you can enjoy surprises all you like, doesn't mean we can't get along. Surprises for me just tend to have a nasty habit of resulting in unpleasant experiences. I've yet to have a good surprise."

Cigarette clenched in teeth, Logan shifts to engage with the football once more as she speaks — tapping it up onto tapered toe, bouncing it high enough to catch without need to unsettle his carefully tucked lavender shirt with any needless bending over. Tucking it beneath an arm, against his hip, he removes the cigarette from his mouth to add, "I'll be sure to show you one if it doesn't get me shot. Or kneed."

A wink follows, and then something strange — it's a chemical experience, and not necessarily an unnatural thing either apart from the fact that it bears no particularly connection to how Kelly feels on an emotional or intellectual level. A low warmth, a flutter of pleasant giddiness, dwindling away as fast as it welled into being.

"Tell Nicky hi also, would you?" he adds as he rocks a step backwards.

Kelly arches a brow at the offer of a surprise, then that brow furrows at the reaction she has to the wink. Or what she sees as a reaction to the wink. Where are write-ups of co-workers when you need 'em? "Ahh…I won't knee you. Or shoot you," she says after a moment and a shake of her head. "Not unless Linderman asks me to anyway," she adds with another of those faint half-smiles. An attempt at teasing maybe.

"I can't promise I'll see Nicole either. I only met her once. And we didn't exactly become best buds or anything. I've no idea where she lives, just that she's Linderman's flunky," she explains with a shrug.

"You know, I've no idea where she lives either. Regardless, if you run into her before I do, perhaps you'll both chat about me. Perhaps it will be all good things." And with a shimmer of a wave that sends dead ash smearing down his wrist, though this only gets a flick of irritation, Logan turns on a heel and heads back from whence he came — possibly to continue kicking a football around the Corinthian catacombs, possibly he might even have somewhere to be.

"Perhaps," is all Kelly says in response to his words, watching him for a minute as he wanders off, before she too goes about her day. Which, for now, seems to consist of enjoying the presence of the palm. Weirdo.

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