When Fate Comes Knocking



Also featuring (NPC'd by Harlem)


Scene Title When Fate Comes Knocking
Synopsis The Flying Dragons look for Wendy, and find only Logan, who suddenly knows what he's going to be doing with his week. Hint: it's not cooperation.
Date October 17, 2009

Solstice: Wendy's Apartment

High class, but comforting, welcoming, usual suspect of rooms, and then this HUGE open area that has windows and light and filled with art supplies, pottery wheel, half made sculpture, canvas, painting etc etc. Master bedroom is teal colors, with black peacock feather motif/theme.

There's a whir as opaque curtains sweep nearly soundlessly along the electric railing, shutting out the gigantic windows from the street which is soon becoming a nighttime setting, inverting visibility from the lovely apartment. With the exchange of light, one would be looking in rather than out, and so Logan closes off the apartment from New York's view with a press of a button.

He has the place to himself, and has had the place to himself since being released from the clawed grasp of the FBI. Warrant, what warrant? Christ. Wendy's absence has been a passing observation - who knows what adventures rich girls get up to? He'll start wondering—

Tomorrow. The next day. Whatever suits.

The television is flicked on, wide screen images of news reports. Follow up on the Municipal Building, follow up on the battles in Chinatown, which would be half the reason that Logan has not gone back to Toru's apartment, as comfortable as it is and as much company as he'd find there. For now, loneliness is not such a bad idea, sprawled upon the comfortable lounge furniture with a glass of wine he's helped himself to as everything that is wrong with New York City passes by his eyes in the form of photographs and soundbites.

At the door, there comes a knocking. Perhaps it's one laden by Fate, the knuckles that rap against wood as withered as any hand that might turn those wheels behind the machinations of the universe. A small, elderly chinese man garbed in a high-collared coat buttoned down the front, a faint and inscrutable smile upon his face and brows lifted in a subtle arch waits on the other side. Alone, perhaps surprisingly, Kun Li-Pang seems to have seen no need to bring enforcers with him.

Or perhaps they merely have a shortage, after the massacre.

So much for loneliness. Logan squints at the door and stays guilty and still for a few long seconds - but the sound of the television, and the light of the room peeking in through the bottom of the door, indicates that perhaps— perhaps— absence wouldn't be a sustainable facade. That, and curiousity has him setting down his wine glass with a clink against the coffee table, surging to currently bare feet that pad across the carpeted floor towards the front door.

Speaking of Fate, it would have it that he is at least dressed decently, in comfortable pants and a fine, grey sweater that looks more casual than it costs. Splinted hand loose at his side, he unlocks and opens the door with the other— and short of the sorority sister types come looking for their BFF or perhaps the added complication of a boyfriend or maybe Wendy herself missing her keys, he is presented with an old Asian man.

Logan hesitates, darts a glance over the man's head and shoulders, and inquires, "Yes?"

Those slender brows raise all the more into sharper angles upon the door's opening, as the dark eyes of the ancient chinese man sweep slowly over the man that he's presented with. A description and a photograph was shared with the inner circle, at least, and it's that which causes Kun to inquire in quiet tones like the dry crackling of rice paper, "Mister Logan, I presume?"

A quizzical and guardedly pleasant demeanor veers sharply into something quietly hostile and frozen. Which should not be one's automatic reaction upon being recognised or visited, but. Subtle changes, really, and short of a 'no', or a slamming of the door, Logan stands still and silent for a tick of a second as he narrows a pale eyed gaze down at the elderly gentleman. "What do you want?"

…is possibly a stupid question, beyond opening the floodgates of conversation. He knows what the Flying Dragons want. Beneath a dull blanket of pain medication, twinges in fingers remind him daily.

"I was here to extend an invitation to Miss Hunter," Kun admits, his own narrow, dark eyes meeting pale without blinking, dark as cracked onyx and without a hint of the smile that lingers like a ghost on his lips, "However, I should speak to you as well. May I enter?" The smile tugs wider, still false, like the grin of a crocodile before it bites.

If it was anyone else, it's highly likely that someone would be bleeding by now. Logan's gaze wanders abrupt from the old man to give the opposite wall, in case it's interested, a cynical look, before he's smoothly stepping back and bringing the door with him, opening it wide to the generous apartment and the lone glass of shiraz on the table top. A bedazzled, fingersplinted hand goes up in a gesture.

"Why don't you?" is rhetorical, with some measure of affectation, and Logan leads that on with an inquiring, "Mister…?"

"Li-Pang." The old man, seeming to have shrunken upon himself a bit from the weight of years, walks slowly and sedately into the apartment, turning his head to look about with that same falsely serene smile upon his lips, "Kun Li-Pang. As you have surmised, I work for Master Ye."

The door clicks shut behind him, though Logan doesn't touch the locks. Walking around Li-Pang, he doesn't offer the man a seat, merely swoops on past with lazy strides and collecting up his wine glass as he goes, along with the TV remote. A burning car— there's always a burning car— continues to play out its fiery death on the screen, but muted with a press of a button.

"Master Ye? Master Ye," is mocking-wondering out loud, the wine swirled around in the wide glass in his hand. "I think I know a Master Ye. Back before he burned down my whorehouse," because it wouldn't do to break the masquerade regarding that lie, "he was rather taken with all the white girls he could ask for. How's he been keeping, then? Busy, I suspect."

"Quite." There's not even an ounce of sarcasm to the response, as if Kun were completely ignorant to the idea. "I take it that Miss Hunter is not in?" A turn back to the former pimp, both brows lifting up a little in a smooth arch upon weathered brow, "Then perhaps we should get down to business." Not one for the small talk; but then, from the looks of him, he's running out of years to dilly-dally around in.

"Miss Hunter is indisposed," Logan agrees, tone of voice somehow both casual and aggressive. He moves to lean a hip against one leather clad couch arm, his arm tucking around his midsection, splinted fingers obscured, with the other resting his elbow against it, wine glass raised now to take a small sip. "Perhaps we should, old man."

"I believe that you made an agreement to repay your debt to the Flying Dragons…?" A tilt of Kun's head, spindle-thin fingers clasping spidery before him as that false smile is turned fully unto Logan, "We would like to make arrangements for pick-up."

A modest sip is followed by a fair gulp of unapologetically strong tasting wine, almost coarser in some ways than his usual poison of gin if only in sheer sensory overload. Logan wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, and studies the older man, false smile and all. "When would be good for you?" he asks, in a sincere voice that is just as insincere as the grin he's getting. "And how? On a platter, with a bow? This is all rather timely, innit? Heartell says a whole truck's worth of the Blue Fairy was destroyed the other night."

"As you say." Kun's shallow chin dips in a slight nod, "For obvious reasons, we should not… ship into Chinatown right now. We will send a boat to meet yours between the mainland and Staten Island to complete the exchange, and if all goes well, your debt to the Flying Dragons will be forgotten."'

It takes restraint, it really does, to play the diplomat, when every other instinct ingrained in him wants to be otherwise. Logan drops his gaze into his emptied wine glass and observes the patterns of where it had marked up the curving sides, visibly reigning in a temper that's in near infamous with those that know his name. When he returns his attention back up, it's with a smile that could well be miles away from his eyes.

"Sounds like a plan. You go tell Master Ye that I look forward to doing business with him. Just like in the old days."

"Excellent." Kun's hands clasp fully, and he bows his head deeply, adding, "And I trust that you will inform Miss Hunter that we stopped by? Master Ye is… quite eager to speak with her." That smile lingers, thin as a knife but twice as deadly, before he turns to walk slowly back towards the door.

"I'll leave a message," isn't quite as free as sarcasm as Logan's prior words, teeth showing between syllables in a light sneer at the prospect of relaying back and forth between Wendy and the Flying Dragons, of all people. He remains where he is, poised against the arm of the couch, watching the old man depart.

The door is opened, and Kun steps out into the hall, pausing to turn back and note in that same dry, crisp tone, "Jin Yeoh sends his regards, Mister Logan, and his disappointment that you were interrupted." Then the old man draws the door the rest of the way closed, with a click.

Three, two, one—

The wine glass goes flying silent through the air, and breaks delicately against the closed door in an almost pretty sound tinkle of shards that barely impedes on the edges of Li-Pang's hearing. "'They won't find you here', bullocks," is spoken into the empty apartment, falsetto and everything in imitation of Wendy's words to him as Logan moves off pick up his cellphone and get his coat. So much for sanctuary.

God helps those that help themselves. It's questionable that God will ever help Logan, with or without that qualifier, but there is another phrase, also: one about making your own luck.

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