logan_icon.gif magnes_icon.gif

Scene Title Victims
Synopsis On one end of a rifle, Magnes comes to talk to Logan about Refrain. The log title becomes the inevitable point of conversation.
Date September 30, 2009

Burlesque: Outside

After a day of reassuring superiors, answering all sorts of questions, and a ton of paperwork, Magnes finally got the chance to review the video and photos. One man's face is one he'll never forget, and that face is John Logan. Roughly an hour ago, he paid some kid to buy a phone, give him the number, then wait outside of Burlesque for a man that fits Logan's description. Once Logan walks out, he'll be asked if he's John Logan and handed the phone, and the ringing will start almost immediately.

The Gravitokinetic is in his usual vigilante gear, long sleeved black cotton shirt, black denim jeans, black sneakers, gloves, his mask, and his voice distortion collar. Oh, and the weapons. His most notable weapon right now is one he'd practiced with earlier in the day, to be sure he remembered the few lessons he got from Carrie a woman he can no longer remember. So now he's laying flat on the edge of a dark building, watching Burlesque, waiting for his plans to fall into place.

It's well into the evening when a silhouette that cookie-cut matches right into Logan's comes strolling out the front doors of the strip joint. The place glows neon and shadows, although perhaps without that aura of dystopic desperation that his brothel had sparkled with. An elegant white shirt is tucked into slate grey slacks, the former marked with decoration in the form of smoke pattern gold stitching across the shoulders, the sleeves, the open collar. From what Magnes will recall of him, nothing much has changed.

The shrill ring of the phone, once Logan has quizzically clasped his hand around it, birdcalls out and lights up its screen of bright blue, fading into the plastic keypad. He watches, first, the kid run off with all the narrowed suspicion in the world. There's a metaphorical hook that glimmers silver in murky water.

Logan glances down at the phone, presses the button that looks about right, and brings it to the ear that still works. "Yes?"

A deep voice that could care less about Logan's favorite scary movie suddenly speaks up in a rather confident tone. "Hello John Logan. I have a rifle aimed at your head. I'd like you to know that you're only one lead, if you move I'll shoot you and move on to the next. Are we understood?" he asks, sights lined up as he looks over Logan's shirt. "And it's getting a bit cold, you should wear a jacket."

There's a pause of silence, and naturally, Logan's gaze starts to dart along the edges of nearby buildings, as if perhaps a sniper of any kind would be visible. If Magnes can read expressions from this distance, Logan's is a neutral kind of icy blank. "It's warm inside," he states, giving up on attempting to find the source of the call, though he stays still even as he hooks a spare thumb in the pocket of his slacks. "No need to be so forceful. What can I do for you?"

"I hate your face, I hate your voice, I hate that some portion of the air that I breathe could possibly be recycled from your own. Forgive a little forcefulness." Magnes deadpans, finger hovering over the trigger as he tries to keep it together so he can ask questions. "What's your connection to Refrain? I have video and photos of you, if anything conflicts with what I saw, I shoot you. If I learn that you're lying, I shoot you later without warning."

Hate tells Logan very little, even if this distorted voice over the phone were not lying. The thing about pointed guns, though, is it gives you the luxury of truth-telling. Of course, Logan also can't see a gun. Which doesn't mean he moves from his spot, either. His voice rattles calm down the line, although there's little of the usual lazy drawl, words stilted and almost polite. "Who doesn't have a connection with Refrain? It's a drug. I don't take it, but I'm like you, it seems - I'm just interested in it. You want to go point guns at the Triads, friend, they'll tell you more than what I could."

"Meaning you're not a supplier, which I'll be sure to confirm later. Next question. What's your connection to Flint Deckard?" Magnes asks this question primarily out of curiosity, but one has to keep track of ones persons of interest. "And do you feel guilty, for anything you've done to anyone, especially those women? Don't think I don't know about the kidnappings, those people you hurt, the little Christian girl."

"I see. That's what this is about." Logan's words take on an edge of purring, low and husky. "No, I wouldn't dream of assuming you don't." A pause, before he clears his throat, chin tilting up. "In case you hadn't noticed, I'm out've that sort of thing. It only brings trouble, doesn't it? As for Flint Deckard— "

A beat of consideration, before continuing with— "I'm rather sure we'd both prefer each other dead in a ditch somewhere, if you want honesty. But as long as there's something to be gained, murder's messy, you know what I mean? And I'm sure you do.

"Who are you, anyway?"

"Concerned citizen, former victim. Have you ever been a victim, John Logan? I imagine you have, but you don't quite feel the empathy you wished for your victimizers to feel for you, do you?" Magnes' tone starts to almost verbally lace with violent intent, but he's still keeping a bit of a calm. "This is about Refrain, but this is also about you. You don't feel empathy, you can't change, can you? All you care about is the money, right? Are you afraid to die, John Logan?"

Eyes narrow at some invisible, non-existent representation of the man on the other end of the phone some several inches from Logan. "I don't even care about money," he states, his voice sharp and edged, now, some nerve hit that has him putting aside the veneer of politeness. "And I don't want to die." Which could be the same as fear, response ambiguous at best. "And if you want to know all about me, then you can ask me sometime when you don't, apparently, have a sniper aimed at my head. I'll even buy you a fucking drink, and you can go and give my love to Abigail."

"John Logan, you're the lowest form of life, the perfect example of what's wrong with this world. No soul, no empathy, just a monster that feigns manhood. Oh, and John Logan?" Magnes suddenly aims his rifle down at the man's thigh, firing two steadily aimed bullets when he's sure Logan isn't moving. "Never utter even a syllable of Abigail's name again. Good night, and enjoy a fraction of what she felt." And with that, he's hung up.

The last few words go wasted, and that's not even due to Logan's lack of soul. The cellphone falls with a clatter that doesn't even touch the echoing sound of bullets set loose from the rifle, twin thunder. Flesh, blood, these things glitter and speckle the pavement the brick wall jutting up from it behind Logan, bullets passed through and making marks in brick that explode with dust.

And Logan crumples down, the mess that used to be a leg buckling and sending the erstwhile pimp crashing to the pavement. Shock renders him silent save for a ragged intake of breath, which is released in a wordless howl. The sound of footsteps vibrate through cement, and there's the distant sound of voices, security men, asking if he's okay— and he's only semi-conscious of the fact that he responds with, what the fuck do you think?

Before the world is quickly whiting out. Blood flows quick and pain drives hot spikes through his nerves. Skin smarts pale and damp with shock, Logan slumping back from his initial curl against the sidewalk.

There is something very familiar about all of this.

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