Logan was pissed. Pissed in such a way that no matter what he did, or how many people he killed, nothing would make it better. In fact, he'd already dumped the bodies of two people today.

This very aura, threatening and powerful... did not linger around Logan. He was cool and calm as ever, though on the inside, he was ready to snap. Ready to victimize anyone who crossed his path, no matter how big or small, how intimidating or innocent.

This night, he was lurking, and his senses were set completely on edge. They were sharp, and his eyes were like a hawk's, scanning the area for anyone and everyone to make their day miserable, and maybe even more than that.

He was well-dressed, and just oozing with that cool and calm aura he didn't feel on the inside. he had on a black, dressy sweater-type thing, that looked to be made of cotton, but felt somewhat like silk. It was too long for him, by a long shot, but showed parts of his skin on his sides by the slits. His pants were also black, and leather, like a copy of a certain father figure's. They were his size, though, and not Criss'.

He wore a leather trenchcoat, and in the shoulder holster was a gun that he now always kept by him. These expensive clothes, and the gun, were stolen from various victims, despite the fact Criss offered to buy him clothes. Logan had his way of getting things when he wanted them, and he preferred his victims without clothes on, anyway.

His boots were also black, to match his whole outfit. They were combat boots.

His hair was pulled back into a neat pony-tail, black and white stripes standing out boldly. On his hands were leather gloves, perhaps soft enough to be suede, covering sharp fingernails that were painted black.

His face looked paler than it should be, his eyes looked dead, in a creepy sort of lifeless way, yet alert at the same time. They were cold as ice, which was exactly their color. (All right, not exactly, but close.)

His lips were full of black lipstick, a gold hoop lip ring clinging to his bottom lip, a golden one to match in his eyebrow, and silver earrings in the cartilage and lobes of his ear to clash so finely.

Logan wandered, but not aimlessly. No, he never wandered aimlessly... he always had some sort of intent, or purpose. Anything he did had meaning or purpose behind it, no matter how odd the reason might seem.

His black brows knitted together, as he walked the near empty streets of an abandoned part of the city.

In contrast, Keye was in a good mood. He was smiling and humming a cheery song, and he didn't look tired at all, despite that it was nearly one AM. He strode past Logan in his delectably eastern clothing, and didn't even notice the boy.
He was pleased with himself; he'd tricked Lady Luck into playing a game of strategy against him, and he'd won.
He didn't see Logan. In that moment, he was safe and happy.
If only I could freeze time.

“You.” That word was spoken with such iciness, such authority, and such ill intent that perhaps even the devil himself would be intimidated. An invisible hand grappled onto Keye’s neck, and Logan turned sharply. Those invisible hands… well, they could easily crush a windpipe. Far too easily than anyone might’ve liked. And that was what Logan was aiming for, originally. Squeeze! Harder than he’d ever squeezed someone’s throat before with those hands. And it’s a good thing he didn’t crush a windpipe.

Keye opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came. There was no air to cause it.
It wasn't long before he dropped to his knees, his own hands clawing ineffectually at the invisible ones...and very, very shortly, he toppled forward, completely unconscious, his throat turning a rather ugly color with bruises.

I'm sure you've heard of the term 'being kicked when you're down'. Logan didn't kick Keye, though. His eyes flashed with something less than amusement. An ugly, horrible, malicious glare was fixed upon Keye. The kind of 'you'll have no mercy this time' sort of thing.

With one final, too brutal squeeze to his throat, the hands tensed, then relaxed, then formed into invisible jaws. And the jaws dug into tender flesh and muscle near his ribs, grinding together with bone. And still, they almost seemed to cut through the bone, causing at least a fracture of some sort.

While the invisible jaws did their work, Logan forced his knee into Keye's back, with all his weight into it.

Then he pulled out his gun from the shoulder holster, and fired off two bullets into Keye's arm.

And soon, he'd haul Keye's unconscious, limp body into one of the houses.

Crunch! as the jaws grinded further.

At least he could breathe again...although, at this point, I think he'd rather be dead.
The only sensations he was aware of while drifting on the thin border between waking and unconsciousness were a terrible grinding, tearing pressure and a lot of pain focused in his arm. There might have been something warm and wet starting to soak his body, too, but he couldn't be sure. He moaned, but only slightly.

Logan made no noise at all. He did this like he'd always done it, silent and unremorseful. He didn't care at all. He was like a mechanical killer, who did this thousands of times over, and knew exactly what to do.

And another bullet was fired off, just piercing Keye's side.

The jaws snapped and snapped, over and over, crushing things with ease. Then they formed back into those hands, and pulled on Keye's shirt, dragging him along by the back of his shirt on the pavement, and Logan turned again.

Keye was struggling for consciousness. He needed to wake up, he needed to get away...
But he was losing a lot of blood, and waking up was proving a little too difficult. He struggled a little while being dragged across the pavement (leaving a large, bloody streak), but eventually, he gave in and let himself be taken. It was too much. He was too badly hurt to fight very hard.

The bloody streak continued on for a while, and Logan walked casually, as if Keye weren't being pulled by an invisible force behind him, and nothing was wrong at all. It might've disgusted some people, but it was just how Logan worked.

Eventually they came to an abandoned house, that had to be too many years old to count.

And instead of dragging him on further, Logan opened the door after going up the old, rickety steps to the porch, and had the hands throw him into the house, so that he'd crash into a chair.

He woke.
And, in a moment that was nothing short of miraculous, he managed to stand, swaying...
If he could only get out the door, get somewhere that the boy couldn't see him to do anything...
He managed three steps before falling.

He walked in, and slammed the door shut. Not like it wouldn't have done that on its own, anyway.. he just helped it a little.

"Going somewhere?" He snarled. "You know, nobody's around to hear you scream."

He stepped forward, slowly, then placed a foot on Keye's back and pressed.

With the addition of Logan's foot, Keye could feel his broken ribs grating agains the floor and one another, the torn, tattered flesh around them pressing painfully...
He screamed.

And screamed.

And screamed.

He would probably lose his voice fairly soon.

Of course, as previously stated, nobody was around to hear. This place was all too creepily deserted, like a horror movie or some such.

"If you scream, it'll only make thins worse, puppet." He stressed the word 'worst' and pressed harder at the same time.

"Now, I should kill you."

Logan spoke at exactly the moment that Keye's voice gave out, allowing the words to ring out clear.
Don't kill me. Please don't kill me, I promised I wouldn't die...
He gave a little cry that only sounded vaguely like "No."

"Don't whine, Keye." Those words were spoken with sharpness and a hint of authority.

He bent down and slapped him across the face, just because he could.

Keye was crying now (well, what did you expect?), unable to get anything out of his mouth that sounded even a little bit like a word.
He tried to squirm out from underneath Logan's foot, but pain and bloodloss were weakening him too much for it to be effective.

"You're pathetic, you know that?" He asked, carelessly tossing his gun onto the table.

"But you won't die, you know. So quit your damn whining already." No, he wouldn't die, just be in pain for a very long while. He glared at Keye once more, mumbled, "stay put," and wandered into the other room.

Stay put. Like he had a choice.
He did roll over onto his back, though. His broken ribs...it was hard to breathe. Turning over would relieve some of the pressure, he hoped.

He returned out of the room (which had been the bathroom) with lots of bandages. They would serve as a tourniquet, for now, but really, Logan had a different idea in mind. The torniquet part was just a plus on Keye's end of the deal.

He had the invisible hand drag him to the living room, near one of the poles you generally see in old basements. Then he sat him up, by lifting him by the shirt with the hands into a sitting position.

Oh shit.
He knew where this was going, you see, and he didn't like it. He made one desperate lunge to get free, but I think I've already made it clear that he wasn't up to much. He was unsuccessful.
He sobbed brokenly. And I mean brokenly, little halting sounds, shaking...he looked like one of the gears in his head had come loose and was currently rattling around inside him.

Didn't Logan already tell him to stop whining? He made this process as painful as possible, grabbing bandages and wrapping parts around Keye, and parts around the pole... and he practically yanked as he was wrapping, making it almost so tight that Keye couldn't breathe. That would also make it so that it would be impossible for him to move.

This was bad, as Keye was already having trouble breathing due to the fact that his ribcage had been pretty well mangled. Unfortunately, he was still getting enough air to stay conscious. Damn.
It hurt, too, but Keye couldn't seem to work up the strength even to whimper.

I think it'd been far worse than just 'badly mangled', but that's just me.

"What do you say we play a little Russian Roulette, huh, KEye? You said you liked games, didn't you?"

Well, I wouldn't want to scare the audience.

"Fucking bitch!"
He wasn't talking about Logan...not that it matters; there is some doubt as to whether Logan would be able to understand his slurred speech.
See, Russian roulette had reminded him of Lady Luck.

He sauntered, nonplussed, into the other room, retrieving the gun he'd left on the table. "That a no? Aw, poor boy."

He loaded the gun, and whatever else he needed to do, and then returned to the living room.

"We could always skip the game, and go right to the shooting part. What do you think?"

He mustered his strength, closing his eyes to speak.
"Y...you said...I wouldn't...d...die..."
A sharp, painful gasp for breath. That had been...too much effort.

"And I wasn't lying." He smirked, faintly. "You're not dead yet, are you?"

Damnit. He had an inkling that the kid was trying to make him talk just to be cruel.
"...if you sh..."
Another gasp.
"Shoot me...I'll d...die..."

And he was right that he was trying to make him talk to be cruel. Also in the fact that it was boring if his play things didn't respond, and simply looked pitiful.

"Oh, I suppose so. Do you want to die? Who would miss you, huh?"

"People would miss me!"
That almost came out clearly, despite that it hurt (physically) more than anything he'd said before.
Way to play on his fears, Logan.

"Are you sure they would?" He aimed the gun at Keye's face, though he really wasn't going to shoot him. He had other things in mind, but teasing him in this way was more fun right now.

"Yes!"
No.
The second answer is what showed in the utter despair in his eyes.

Logan stepped closer, until the gun was to Keye's forehead. Being a killer (and the fact of what drove him so insane as to be that way), he knew that look. He knew that look oh too well, and he was going to take advantage of it, because it only made him feel angrier.

"No one would be around to even notice you're gone."

"Yes they would!"
Now, it is pointless to argue like this with a psychopath like Logan. However, Keye really wasn't arguing with Logan...he was arguing with himself, with his own insecurities.
"Th-there's...I live with somebody...I...he...he'd notice. He...he'll come find me! He'll be so mad...h..."
I might note that Keye was still bleeding unabated from his arm. He was teetering on the brink of complete collapse.
"...he'll fuck your shit up..."

"Oh, really now? Are you sure that he won't just be... say, walking into a trap? I could kill him, too, if you wanted. That is, if he actually did come to save you." He lowered the gun, and threw it carelessly to the floor. It clattered

"You're a waste of human flesh, you know? It's a wonder anyone would want to be around you. Two words: sex toy." That was what he said to most of his victims, regardless of whether it was true or not.

Logan frowned, something he didn’t usually do, and turned, thinking. “You’re lucky to still be alive and breathing, Keye.” He took a breath, looking over his shoulder. “And I don’t even know what I should do with you. Maybe dump your body in a river… you can swim, can’t you, Keye?”

"You could not! He's much stronger than you!"
But I wouldn't want him to come if this kid was going to hurt him...
...if he actually did come to save me.
He started to cry again, shaking his head wildly.
Not a river, anything but that.
He was hyperventilating from terror.

"Oh, really? Are you sure I couldn't handle that? Remember that man in the alley, Keye?" He had been rather large, and he still managed to take him down. But of course, there was always the problem of Alex having magic as well.

"Aw, whassamatter? Don't like that idea?"

He continued shaking his head (it made him dizzy, but that was better than the pain that came from speaking).
No, I don't like that idea at all.

"Mmmm. Well, maybe you'll like this one better." He purred and turned around. Then he crouched near Keye, running a gloved finger down his jawline.

"I'll be back, beautiful."

He turned his face away.
Silently, he said this over and over again to himself: Lex will come and save me...
He was hoping against all evidence and all logic that he would be briefly gifted with telepathy, that somehow, Alexander could hear him.
Parents, they say, have an intuition about when something has gone wrong with their child.