Be Nicer

[hazlogs]

It is currently 10:13 Pacific Time on Sun Aug 11 2002.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 54
degrees Fahrenheit (12 degrees Celsius). The wind is calm today. The
barometric pressure reading is 30.13 and rising, and the relative humidity
is 97 percent. The dewpoint is 53 degrees Fahrenheit (11 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waxing No Moon phase (19% full).

Osprey Circle Fountain

Situated in the center of the grassy mound is a white marble fountain. The
smooth stone of the fountain sparkles and sends off bright shafts of light
whenever a stray beam bounces of its shiny surface. Perched at the top of
the fountain is a soaring osprey. Directly below the osprey, gentle jets
of water spurt up into the air, making it seem like the spray is
propelling the osprey upwards toward the sky. White marble, about a foot
wide, rings the center of the fountain, allowing the formation of a watery
basin. Iron benches sit slightly back from the fountain.

The asphalt roadway of Osprey Circle rings the grassy mound.

A cloudy, cool day is perfect for a jog, and that's precisely what
Rhiannon is out doing. Her final mile brings her around the fountain and
around to the Courthouse, where her truck awaits.

Salem's tall, athletic figure becomes visible as the kinfolk arrives at
the fountain. It's a little further north than his usual patrol, but it's
unmistakeably him. The Walker is, currently, sitting on one of the iron
benches, sipping at a cup of coffee. There's a book lying closed on the
bench nearby, but he's not reading it.

Rhiannon hadn't been expecting to see anyone--particularly Salem--this
morning, however, she's not going to let opportunity get by. She alters
her course just so, and slows to a walk as she approaches the bench. Her
expression is bland and largely unreadable as she waves a hello.

Salem's eyes are hidden behind dark glasses, but his mind's clearly a
thousand miles away; he doesn't notice Rhiannon's approach until she's
almost on top of him. Then he stirs, setting the cup down and sitting up.
"Ms. MacKenzie," he says, greeting her politely. "Good morning."

"Morning," Rhiannon replies. She props one foot against the bench and
stretches out first her left leg, and then her right. As soon as that's
done, she puts her hands on her hips and regards Salem critically.
Something like annoyance slips into her voice as she says, "I hear you and
Lyra had an interesting talk the other day."

Salem stiffens. A flicker of something that's either guilt or irritation
-- or both -- passes across his scarred face, and then it's gone. His
expression turns bland. "Yes?" He picks up his coffee again and sips it.

Rhiannon suspects Salem's not going to share a lot, so she procedes to
fill in the blanks on her own. "You know, the next time you want to push
someone away, you don't need to shove so hard." There's a good deal of
censure in her voice, and her eyes have narrowed considerably.

Salem's jaw clenches, and the tone that creeps into his voice is
definitely irritation now. "No one was pushing. She asked me a question,
and I answered it."

Rhiannon makes a half-choked sound of disbelief. "Oh, yeah, you answered
all right."

Salem's neutral expression cracks into a faint scowl. "If you have
something to say, please do so," he says, rather stiffly.

Rhiannon straightens up, and steps a little closer. Her voice is much
lower, now. "She came to my apartment. Crying, and blaming herself, for
ruining whatever...friendship, or understanding, you two had."

Salem grimaces. He's a stubborn bastard, though, and remains seated,
unyielding. The coffee's still held in his hand, balanced on his knee.
"She's fine, now."

"Mmm, fine, yeah." Rhiannon's tone speaks for just how much she believes
that statement. "So that makes everything okay? She respects your opinion,
and thinks pretty highly of you even though you basically told her that
her relations are all worthless. You didn't have to answer her, you chose
to."

The Glass Walker's reply sounds like he's gritting his teeth. "She.
Asked." Salem shifts his weight as though about to get up from the bench,
but apparantly thinks better of it. He inhales a breath, calming himself,
and adds, in a cooller tone, "I wouldn't have answered if I didn't think
she could handle it."

Rhiannon sighs, and rubs the bridge of her nose. "Well you seem to have
left out a crucial factor. She looks up to you. For guidance, and for
support, apparently."

"Hmnh." Salem takes another sip of his coffee, frowning. He doesn't seem
to have any further reply for that.

Rhiannon continues, her voice a mix of both motherly advice and sharp
demand. "She's, what, fifteen? If she hadn't been so damned worried about
what you thought of her, I wouldn't be here, but for fuck's sake. How
about watching what you say."

Salem scowls. There's a slight pause in his reply, as though he's
withdrawing the first retort that comes to mind in favor of something more
measured and less knee-jerk. It's still a little grudging. "Yes, fine. I
made a mistake. I misjudged her."

That, at the least, seems to re-assure Rhiannon. She nods, accepting the
concession, and then leans over a little further. She's almost addressing
the bench, and not Salem, as she says, "The next time someone makes her
cry, I'm going to make them cry. Bueno?" It's a calm, almost benign
statement, but for the hardness of her eyes.

Salem turns his head to look at her; the kinfolk's face is mirrored darkly
in his sunglasses. "I don't appreciate threats," he says, icily quiet.

Rhiannon doesn't budge. "I don't appreciate seeing young women cry," she
murmurs, still looking at the bench.

Salem's mouth twitches, pulling into a brief, sharp grimace, lips thinned.
"Touche," he says coolly, and gets to his feet, taking up the book as he
does so. The cover, revealed, shows a bearded man in safari gear crouched
on all fours side-by-side with a lion. Both are roaring. The author's name
is written above the picture, the title below -- Saul Bellow, _Henderson
the Rain King_. "You have my word that I'll treat her with kid gloves from
now on."

Rhiannon stands up, and looks Salem over. "You don't need to treat her
like she's fragile, but don't go for the jugular either, eh? When she's
twenty years old and kickin' your ass, feel free to use both barrels." A
little grim amusement creeps into her words.

Salem snorts, perhaps at the thought of Lyra kicking his ass. "Noted. Is
there anything else you'd like to bring up with me?"

Rhiannon stretches her arms in preperation for the last bit of jogging
back to her car. "Unless you want to know about the trial. But, that can
wait, maybe until we see Rina."

Salem nods curtly. "Hmn. Better to wait for Rina, yes. And John too. Both
should be at the meeting tomorrow night, I imagine."

Rhiannon hmmms an agreement, then turns to go with a last sharp nod.

Salem watches her leave, then turns and departs the Circle himself,
heading in the opposite direction.