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Logan (hey_bub) wrote in silverage,

"Evening," he echoed. He wasn't sure he liked how the situation felt just now; it rankled some instinct of his, buried deep and possibly repressed. He wasn't afraid -- when one was indestructible with claws that could slice through anything, it was hard to be afraid of danger -- but he was cautious. A little wary.

"Been here long? In the city?" It seemed a harmless enough question to him, and maybe it would open the doors to slightly deeper, more invasive questions about this place. Maybe this guy had been around long enough to know why everyone was trapped, or at least have some theories. Logan was pretty much flying blind; all he had to go on was what he'd overheard the mechanic and the kid with the bike saying in the shop.

He took another sip of his drink, though he kept the other guy in his peripheral vision. Maybe it was paranoia; Logan liked to think it was just good sense.