DANE, LOGAN JASPER

"sometimes you break a finger on the upper hand. i think you've got me confused with a better man."

FULL NAME. Logan Jasper Dane.

AGE. Thirty-nine. Born 1st November, 1973.

OCCUPATION. Session musician, part-time bouncer/security for some extra cash.

SEXUAL ORIENTATION. Heterosexual.

ASTROLOGICAL SIGN. Scorpio - water.

PERSONALITY TRAITS.
    taciturn, protective, observant/perceptive, unconventional, practical, restless, short-tempered, uncompromising, proud, reserved, surly, impish.

HOMETOWN. Logan was born in a small town in Upstate New York.  but he's lived in countless different places over the years. He first moved to NYC for college in the early 1990s; and sure, he never actually finished his degree, but he's considered it his base ever since. He's spent the majority of the last decade moving around where work - or impulse - took him, but in the last year or so he's settled down in an apartment in Tribeca.

FAMILY.  It's true that Logan doesn't spend a great deal of time with his family, but he'd take offence to the idea that he isn't close to them. His teenage daughter is the most important person in his life - and so is his ex-wife, in a nostalgic, reluctant kind of way he'd be loath to admit to. Both live in the City.
    He has two sisters, both married with children, who live near to his aging parents in the same small town they grew up in. He's on good terms with his extended family, but it's hit-or-miss whether he'll turn up at Thanksgiving.



OOC ALIAS. Velvet.

GENDER. Female.

OTHER CHARACTERS. Valentina Aguilar.

FACE CLAIM. Norman Reedus.

Tonight Cassidy was working a late shift at the hospital; Katie didn't care where her sister was as long as it wasn't in the house. As for her father's whereabouts, on the other hand - she had learned a long time ago that some questions were better left unanswered. Her peace of mind depended on it. After a long day at work and the bedlam she usually came home to, the few hours of quiet on evenings when the house was empty became a prized oasis.

Ever since she had come back from the city, she had felt this lurking sense of the uncanny; she moved around the house like it was someone else's. Being alone in her own bedroom made the hairs on the nape of her neck stand on end. The floral wallpaper hadn't changed since her mother was alive. She scribbled phone numbers and shopping lists in pages torn from a school exercise book dating back to sophomore biology. Relics of a past life, showing just how stagnant she'd become. With its large window and spartan furniture, the room felt too open, too airy - too exposed. Katie hadn't slept in her own bed for months.

The basement was better. After a year sleeping on somebody else's floor, a bare old mattress felt more natural than a bed. Katie had dragged down an electric heater and heaped up enough blankets and pillows to make the small, dank room seem almost cosy. She hung out by herself a lot, watching the same movies over and over and drifting in and out of broken sleep, the noises of the house above muffled by the concrete ceiling. She felt safe retreating underground, with no natural light to tell her whether it was morning or night, cocooned among the foundations of the house. Buried out of sight, out of mind in her own little foxhole. It suited her.

It was lucky she had taken a rare trip upstairs to raid the fridge, or the rap on the front door would have gone unheard. The sudden noise that signalled an invasion of her territory shot a sick chill through her bones every time, and for a moment she was tempted not to answer it. Visitors never meant anything good. Especially not when her father was out and unaccounted for.

It was late, and she was wearing the clothes she slept in: an oversized t-shirt and some faded running shorts it was a safe bet had never seen any running. She ran a hand through her tangled hair, dark circles shadowing under her eyes.

The image of solemn-faced policemen on her doorstep hung over her head like an omen. Without her bidding, her mind hummed an almost wordless prayer to the God she swore she didn't believe in: please, tonight, let my daddy be all right.

But when the door swung open, it was only Jesse and his roguish grin-- propping up a father who stumbled where he stood, with a loose expression and a stink she had become immune to, but no harm done.

"Don't be angry." Funny, she was usually the one making that plea.

On a primal level, unfamiliar men who were in Jesse's state — and God, these days, anyone she was unrelated to counted as 'unfamiliar' — sent her stomach roiling, but Katie was a practiced hand at silencing her instincts. Her expression was bland, flat, betraying neither gratitude nor surprise. She stepped to the side of the doorway to let Paul Mazur through, only to have him lean heavily against her, muttering some incoherent praise he would be following with curses in the morning. She wrapped an arm around him, but her slight frame couldn't support his weight, and he was sinking down on legs that didn't see fit to keep him upright any more.

It was a familiar routine.

She tried to hoist Paul up again. "Help me put him to bed," she said to Jesse; the wording was clearly a demand, but her voice rose at the end of the sentence as if it were a question. Force of habit. "Please."