i've got a new low,
WHO: Logan and his horrible child.
WHERE: The Bronx, near the Xavier Institute.
WHEN: Late Wednesday night, after this.
WARNINGS: Stabfest 2011
SUMMARY: Sometimes you just have to stupidly stalk someone whose GUTS YOU WANT TO REARRANGE
FORMAT: godmoding; in this thread everyone is a godmoder and no one can win
It was an easy route out of the city: go straight north, sticking to the East River; take 95 to New Jersey. That was the plan--up until a sign pointed out that he should take a right over the river if he wanted to go to the Bronx.
He told himself not to bother. There were cars behind him, no time to turn; and the sudden desire to stick his claws through Logan's throat would pass, if he let it.
But he swung his Porsche into the right lane at the last second. The driver behind him slammed on his brakes and horn at once, but the Porsche glided onto the bridge, unharmed. Daken flipped on the radio. Jazz, pop, celebrity gossip, classical (Brahms; he paused just long enough to identify it), benzo-calm NPR voice. Tonight, it said, we investigate: are imPorts held accountable for their actions?
"Let's hope so," Daken answered, tapping his GPS awake.
He parked a block over from the Xavier Institute, dropped his keys in his pocket, and headed up the street. He could have been a wayward college student, the way he was dressed, hat and all; but he expected Logan to see through that--and if he didn't, it would be so much easier to surprise him.
WHERE: The Bronx, near the Xavier Institute.
WHEN: Late Wednesday night, after this.
WARNINGS: Stabfest 2011
SUMMARY: Sometimes you just have to stupidly stalk someone whose GUTS YOU WANT TO REARRANGE
FORMAT: godmoding; in this thread everyone is a godmoder and no one can win
It was an easy route out of the city: go straight north, sticking to the East River; take 95 to New Jersey. That was the plan--up until a sign pointed out that he should take a right over the river if he wanted to go to the Bronx.
He told himself not to bother. There were cars behind him, no time to turn; and the sudden desire to stick his claws through Logan's throat would pass, if he let it.
But he swung his Porsche into the right lane at the last second. The driver behind him slammed on his brakes and horn at once, but the Porsche glided onto the bridge, unharmed. Daken flipped on the radio. Jazz, pop, celebrity gossip, classical (Brahms; he paused just long enough to identify it), benzo-calm NPR voice. Tonight, it said, we investigate: are imPorts held accountable for their actions?
"Let's hope so," Daken answered, tapping his GPS awake.
He parked a block over from the Xavier Institute, dropped his keys in his pocket, and headed up the street. He could have been a wayward college student, the way he was dressed, hat and all; but he expected Logan to see through that--and if he didn't, it would be so much easier to surprise him.