Cat's First Lessons

[hazlogs]

It is currently 19:05 Pacific Time on Thu Aug 15 2002.

Currently in Saint Claire, it's a sunny day. The temperature is 84 degrees
Fahrenheit (28 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from
variable directions at 5 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.85 and
falling, and the relative humidity is 35 percent. The dewpoint is 54
degrees Fahrenheit (12 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waxing Half Moon phase (49% full).

Red Mill Apartments #219

This one-bedroom apartment is small, sparcely furnished, and kept at a
level of cleanliness and order that borders on the obsessive. A
greenish-gray couch, obviously secondhand, holds court in the main room,
accompanied by a low coffee table and a nearly empty bookshelf. In the
kitchen nook, which is separated from the living room by a stomach-level
counter, everything is gleaming and put away. The bathroom's cramped, and
the bedroom's just big enough for a twin bed, an end table, and a dresser.

At odds with the strict cleanliness of the apartment is the obvious
presence of cockroaches; one or two can occasionally be seen scurrying
from Point A to Point B unmolested by traps, poisons, or sprays. Indeed, a
small plate with fresh canned cat food has been set in a corner near the
kitchen nook, apparantly just for the benefit of these insects.

There's a quiet moan, and a twitch of movement under the sheets. Eyelids
flutter, fingers curl reflexively. Then Cat bolts upright, torn out of a
feverish nightmare with a cry of horror.

The small bedroom's orderly and neat, clean but for the cockroach waving
antennae on top of the alarm clock. A woman's voice sings opera in the
other room, Puccini's _Madame Butterfly_. And moments after Cat's cry, his
host appears at the bedroom door, clad in black sweatpants and a dark red
t-shirt and bare feet. Salem's long hair is tied back, away from his
scarred face, and he regards the boy with an expression of wry concern.

Cat scoots backwards as a complete stranger enters the unfamiliar room.
His hand flies to his collarbone, feeling bare skin. Where was his shirt?
Where was he? Why didn't he have any clothes? Fear and confusion struggle
for dominance on the young boy's thin, pinched face; fear wins. Gathering
the sheets about him like some pathetic shield, Cat stammers out, "W-who
are you? Where am I? Wh-what...?"

"So, you _do_ speak English. I was worrying about that." Salem's voice is
calm and soothing, quite at odds with his spawn of the devil exterior. He
rests a hand against the doorjam. "My name is Salem. You're in my home
after my kin and I discovered you in wolf form, in hysterics, in the
middle of the road. You've been asleep for over twenty-four hours."

If that information was supposed to mollify the cub, it doesn't appear to
be working. "Wolf? Road? I-" Cat looks around frantically, and his voice
pitches higher in hysteria. "Why don't I have clothes? You're- you- I- let
me out! Let me out!" He starts crying, pulling the sheets about him even
tighter, so that he's robed somewhat. "Let me out!"

Salem grimaces, but has a tight reign on his temper. "There are some
clothes you can borrow over there," he says, nodding toward the dresser.
There's a black t-shirt folded there, along with a pair of cotton
drawstring pants, also black. Both are going to be far too large for the
boy, but will do for covering for now, and will let him be more mobile
than a sheet. "Put them on, and come into the living room, and I'll
explain." His tone is utter reasonableness -- helped, perhaps, by a bit of
a supernatural edge. "Do you like hot chocolate?"

Cat finds his fit halted, and he stops crying. He stares at Salem in
disbelief and fascination, and still fear, before mumbling..."Okay. C-can
you go s-so I can dress?"

Salem inclines his head, though there's a flicker of bemusement there, and
departs. There are various kitchen-y noises to be heard.

With slow movements, like something was going to leap out and bite him,
Cat stumbles over to the dresser and roots around for clothing, finding
the t-shirt and pants with little difficulty. The shirt's size was no
problem, really, but the pants were so big it was like swimming. The young
boy pulls the drawstrings out as far as they can go and ties them with a
clumsy knot, and then rolls the ends up several times so that he can walk.
Now dressed, the skinny kid eyes the doorway. The man was out -there-. In
here seemed so much safer.

More opera singing comes from the front room, the woman's voice soulful
and heartwrenched. The cockroach on the alarm clock seems to stare at the
boy, its expression as unreadable as an insect's can be. Salem continues
to move around in the kitchen area, presumably boiling hot water.

Cat looks around the room again, furtively, seeking dangers. Nothing seems
ready to attack him. Then his gaze falls on the cockroach on the alarm
clock, and he takes a step back, one arm up defensively. Finally
scrounging up the courage and curiosity to leave the room, a timid Cat
peers out from the doorway. "He...hel-lo?" is the nervous call.

The tall, frightening man who looks like a dog or bear tried to rip off
half his face actually _is_ boiling water, in a very ordinary tea kettle,
no less. There's a coffee mug with a packet of powdered hot chocolate all
ready on the counter, along with a basket of chocolate chip cookies. Salem
glances over, eyes the boy critically, then nods, giving him a thin smile.
"Good. Feeling better? And, by the way, I didn't catch your name."

Cat stays in the doorway, frightened blue eyes bright compared to the
paleness of his face. Only his head and hands and part of his leg are
visible, he's too scared to walk in. "I'm...I'm Ezra. Ezra Harper." It's a
schoolchild's answer, thoughtless and mechanical. The boy eyes the hot
chocolate and cookies with longing, and when his stomach rumbles it's
clearly audible to Salem. "I...I..." He gulps, and looks like he's about
to cry again. "Who are you, what am I doing here?" he whispers.

Salem leans on the short section of counter between the stove and the
kitchen sink. The stern lines of his face relent into something that looks
a lot like pity. And his voice is nothing but patience. "As I said, my
name is Salem. Jack Salem. You're here because my friend, who is a
policewoman, and I were driving, and a golden wolf ran into the road and
in front of our vehicle. His paw was tangled in barbed wire and lamed. He
was frightened, and tired, and hungry, and thought that he was being
chased. He healed his wounds faster than a wolf can, and after I removed
the barbed wire, he collapsed from exhaustion and turned into a boy. You."
He tells this litte fairy tale with complete seriousness, then asks, "Who
was chasing you, Ezra?"

Cat blinks, pulling back from the doorway slightly. "That was a -dream-,"
he insists nervously, like saying it would make it true. "Just a dream.
That I- oh god. Oh god. Oh god." The expression on his face changes into
horror, a memory...he throws himself back from the door and starts crying
in earnest, hiding his face in his hands. "Oh my god! He's dead! He's
dead! He's- oh- god-"

Salem doesn't say anything. He pushes off from the counter and strides the
short distance from kitchen nook to bedroom door, one hand coming out to
rest on the boy's shoulder.

Cat pulls away from Salem's touch, but doesn't run away. He stands there,
shaky, sobbing so hard it's a wonder he doesn't just fall to his knees.
Nothing he says is coherent, and only comes in bits and pieces. "Dead- my
fault- teeth, didn't mean- hated him- but now- Dead, dead, dead- He's
dead- it's all- over- my fault- They'll think- that- I killed- he's!"
Finally he gasps for air, hands falling away from his face. He doesn't
look all-there anymore, completely wrought with emotion. "He's dead! Don't
you understand? I'm free and he's DEAD!"

Salem grasps the hysterical boy by the upper arms, firmly, and leans down
to go eye to eye with the cub. "Ezra! Listen to me. _Listen_."

Like a switch had been flipped somewhere, Cat shuts up. He stares at Salem
numbly, mindless raving over, no struggles. He's still spaced out, eyes
looking at Salem but not quite focused on him. "Yes sir," he says softly,
automatically.

Salem stares steadily into the cub's vague blue eyes and speaks intently,
insistantly. "It's not your fault. You lost control. It happens. To the
worst of us, and to the _best_ of us. It's even happened to _me_." He
pauses a beat, then continues, more quietly but no less firmly. "You're a
Garou, Ezra. A shapechanger. Part man. Part wolf. You were born to fight,
to rage, to destroy evil, to save the world. That anger is your greatest
weapon, and it's been sleeping inside you. It _kept_ sleeping inside you
until now, and when it woke, it woke enraged. Stress, pain, fear... that
can do that to us. But it's not your fault."

Cat's lower lip trembles slightly, gaze flicking to lock with Salem's own.
"It is my fault. He hated me. He -hated- me. He didn't care if he left me
all alone. He just- he just- was -hanging- there with this -smile- on his
face!" Tears leak out from wide eyes, unbidden and unheeded. "They'll
think I killed him! I just wanted to brush my teeth! I had to run, I had
to get out, and then..." He gulps turns away from the Walker like his
scarred visage was too painful to look at. "It was a dream, about the
wolf. I know it was. It was just a dream. I- I just kept running. It was a
nightmare. Oh, god, he's dead, he's dead..."

Salem's face twists into a grimace at the description, at the word
'hanging'. As Ezra starts to turn away and deny, he tightens his grip on
the boy's arms and gives him a minor shake. "Listen to me. _It wasn't a
dream_."

Cat quiets again and doesn't resist Salem, just looks somewhere on the
ground, or near it. "It was. It had to be. I was sick, that's all,
running. I ran. Where am I? What day is it? If I missed school..." He
trails off again, then shakes his head emphatically, silently praying 'no
no no it can't be true'.

Salem's jaw clenches. For a moment, he seems to consider something, but
then he shakes his head slightly. He releases the boy and straightens up.
"We'll discuss that later. Right now, there's hot chocolate. And cookies.
My friend Lyra made them, and she's about your age." He takes a step back
and, as if on cue, the tea kettle whistles, signalling the boiling of
water. And Puccini's opera plays on in the background.

Cat stays rooted to the spot, eyes now focused on the Walker. "We? Why do
I have to stay here? Who are you? You're-" The thought that had been
drifting in his hazy head makes it to his tongue. "You're a child
molester, aren't you?" he blurts out before he can consider the fact that,
child molester or not, people didn't tend to be friendly if you called
them such.

Salem stares down at the boy in silence for a moment -- for a moment,
honestly astonished by the accusation. Then he snorts and turns away,
heading for the kitchen. "No. I've no interest in children. And certainly
not teenage boys."

Cat's somewhat mollified by the statement, however gruff. He takes one
timid step after Salem, then another, the smell of hot chocolate and sight
of cookies as powerful a lure as there could be. "I'm hungry," he
whispers, entering the kitchen slowly. The Walker no longer matters, just
food. "I haven't eaten in so long..."

Salem pours hot chocolate mix into the mug on the counter, then pours in
hot water. He stirs, and by the time Cat's managed to make it to one of
the counter stools, the hot sweet drink is ready. "Well," he says evenly.
"I haven't had dinner yet, either. Do you like hamburgers?"

Cat blinks, a thin hand reaching towards the mug. "But...it's not Friday.
It's...it's okay?" Questioning blue eyes lift out from the mysterious
chocolate to Salem's face, shocked by such heresy.

Salem looks quizzical, an eyebrow rising. "If you wish. Do you have
special dietary requirements, then?"

The blond boy shakes his head. "No...I...he...I'm not allowed meat unless
it's Friday," the lost cub explains in a very small voice. "Unless he's in
a good mood. Then I get pepperoni pizza."

Salem hazards a guess, his voice dry as deserts. "Your father?"

Cat nods, hands wrapping around the hot mug delightfully. "It smells
good."

Salem manages a thin twitch of a smile, though it doesn't quite touch his
eyes. "Thank you. Would you _like_ a hamburger? Or two, even?"

Cat blinks again, a small smile lighting in hollow features. "Two? Oh- yes
sir!" He looks down into his drink, then sticks one fingertip in to check
the temperature, before lifting the mug to his lips and downing half of it
in desperate gulps.

"Two it is, then." The Glass Walker must have had an inkling that Cat
might accept the offer of hamburgers, because the ground meat's already
defrosted and is being kept cool in the fridge. Four patties, already
shaped and set on a plate, covered with plastic wrap. He sets this on the
kitchen counter -- not the long eating counter that Cat's sitting at --
and starts getting out other cooking implements. Pan and no-stick spray
and spatula and such. "Do you have a vegetable preference?"

The mug gets set down slowly, and Cat wipes his mouth with the back of his
hand, greedy eyes watching Salem's every move. "I...no, um, not really.
I'll eat anything. I could eat roadkill." The boy stops and looks down
into the dark brown liquid, a strange feeling churning in his gut...like
he -had- eaten roadkill...

Salem watches the boy for a moment, but he doesn't comment on the roadkill
remark. For now, anyway, he's keeping things nice and simple and mundane.
Like frozen corn. Frozen corn is mundane. Frozen corn is safe. Safe as
hamburgers, which are soon cooking nicely.

Cat quickly finishes the rest of his drink noisily, afraid Salem might
change his mind and take it away. The mug comes to a rest on the counter
again, and the boy steals a glance at the basket of cookies. They looked
good...maybe he could reach out and take one, and the guy wouldn't
notice...

"Help yourself," Salem says, glancing up from dinner preparations. He's
noticed the cub eyeballing the cookies, which are hardly touched. Salem's
not much of a cookie man himself, alas.

Cat looks up, startled and immediately contrite. "N-no sir, they're yours,
I...she...um..." His glance goes to the cookies again. "Maybe just one?"

One side of Salem's mouth quirks upward. "Have as many as you like, but
save some for dinner."

A shaky hand reaches out and takes one of the cookies. They're misshapen,
a little crunchy, but otherwise, actually very good. Cat pops the entire
thing into his mouth and struggles to chew it. Every mannerism only gives
a little more insight into the eating habits the boy had had before.

Salem arches a brow, but again doesn't comment. The water boils for the
corn, and the hamburgers get turned over. Salem is no Iron Chef, but he
can get a burger cooked evenly. "How old are you, Ezra?"

It takes a moment before the boy can answer without choking, but he downs
the cookie like a starved man. "Fourteen?" is the high-pitched reply. A
slight pause as Cat takes a moment to think. "No, no fifteen. Sorry
sir...." He fidgets and looks down at the counter. "And...and you don't
have to call me Ezra. Everybody calls me Cat."

Salem gives the boy another of those solemn, measuring looks. "Is that
what you _prefer_ to be called?"

Cat looks up, blinking. "Um, well...." Nobody had ever asked him this
question before. He could change his whole world by saying... "I'll
response faster to Cat, I mean, everyone calls me that. Since...well, a
long time." He looks back into his empty mug. Well, so much for that. He
didn't hate the name anyway...most people left him alone when they found
out what it meant, and that suited him just fine.

"Names are important," the Walker notes, carefully turning over a
hamburger. He keeps the corn's heat on low. "Frankly, I'd rather call you
something you _want_ to be called, rather than something you're _used_ to
being called."

"Cat's okay," the boy says softly. He looks up with a wan smile. "And I
like cats."

Salem nods curtly. "'Cat' it is, then. Need a refill?" He gestures with
the spatula toward the empty mug.

Cat nods emphatically, holding the mug out with both hands. His gaze goes
to the cooking meat, hungrily.

The water's still hot in the kettle; Salem fetches another packet of cocoa
powder and replenishes the boy's cup. By the smell, the burgers are almost
done, as is the corn, and Salem starts getting out plates and buns -- the
latter being kept sealed in tupperware, probably because of the
cockroaches which seem at odds with the otherwise strict cleanliness of
the place.

Speak of the de...well, bug. A cockroach scuttles by on the floor, just as
Cat looks down. His eyes go -wide-. That was the largest cockroach he had
ever seen, and really close... He edges his seat a little further away.
"Um...Mister Salem sir, you have....bugs."

"Hmn?" Salem glances around, regards the roach for a moment, then nods.
"Ignore them. They have their own food." He says this with perfect deadpan
seriousness. "What would you like on your hamburger?"

The water's still hot in the kettle; Salem fetches another packet of cocoa
powder and replenishes the boy's cup. By the smell, the burgers are almost
done, as is the corn, and Salem starts getting out plates and buns -- the
latter being kept sealed in tupperware, probably because of the
cockroaches which seem at odds with the otherwise strict cleanliness of
the place.

Speak of the de...well, bug. A cockroach scuttles by on the floor, just as
Cat looks down. His eyes go -wide-. That was the largest cockroach he had
ever seen, and really close... He edges his seat a little further away.
"Um...Mister Salem sir, you have....bugs."

"Hmn?" Salem glances around, regards the roach for a moment, then nods.
"Ignore them. They have their own food." He says this with perfect deadpan
seriousness. "What would you like on your hamburger?"

Cat licks dry lips before answering, and it's obvious visions of food are
dancing their merry way through his imagination. "Oh, e-everything," he
says quickly, trying to glance around Salem at the cooking meat. He licks
the crumbs of the cookie off his fingers delicately, not wanting to miss
anything. "I'll eat anything, I-I'm not fussy."

Ketchup. Mustard. Salt. Pepper. Butter, in a butter dish. Salem washes off
a few leaves of lettuce as well and puts them on a little place, and all
of this gets set out on the dining counter. Puccini's opera continues to
play as the Walker sets two of the finished burgers, with buns, on a plate
with a generous helping of corn and sets this, with fork and napkin, in
front of the boy.

"I am, alas, out of tomatoes," Salem notes, while getting his own share of
dinner. His hamburgers go bun-less.

[Cat]
Fifteen years old, but he looks twelve. Dirt is caked underneath untrimmed
nails, palms and feet rough with calluses that have developed in the last
few weeks. His almost white-blond hair looks like it missed it's last
haircut appointment...the bangs dangle like a curly curtain before his
eyes, the general length of it long enough that for a moment, you might
mistake him from a girl. Locks curl softly around his ears and seems to
stick out at odd angles as if they were windblown in place. His eyes are a
brilliant blue-green shade, shocking in their color only because of how
pale he is. He's scrawny in height (5' 1.5") and pitifully thin.

	A black t-shirt that is far too large for him (the short sleeves
come to his elbows) covers his thin frame, the entire piece of clothing
sliding down the slump of his left shoulder. Black sweatpants tied tightly
around a skinny waist and folded up many, many times at the ankle finish
his charming mini-Goth ensemble.

"That's okay," Cat reassures Salem in a timid voice. He's still not quite
comfortable about this stranger, but Lord! Food! Oh, speaking of the Lord.
The blond boy bows his head and thin hands press together in prayer as he
tremblingly recites the Lord's Blessing, feverently emphasizing 'daily
bread'. Once he's done, his head whips up and hands clasp around a
hamburger tightly, ensuring it won't get away from him. Then Cat's useless
for conversation as he proceeds to eat like there's no tomorrow.

Salem arches a brow slightly at the prayer, but doesn't appear to be
especially surprised. He doesn't join Cat, of course, but does stand
quietly while the boy says his blessings. Then, as Cat begins to stuff his
face, Salem takes a stool opposite and starts his own dinner, much more
sedately.

After a few seconds, it occurs to Cat he's making an idiot out of himself,
eating so fast. It only crosses his mind because his father would have hit
him long before...and it takes a few more seconds for the boy to even
consider slowing down. Eventually he does, though, after he finishes
3/4ths of the burger with hardly a breath between bites. "'Sgood," he
mumbles to Salem. Gulp. "Thankyou, sir."

Salem's eye is attentive on the boy. There's no lust in it -- further
proof against the accusation of child molester -- but he's certainly
studying Cat, and if he's irritated or feeling any condemnation, he
doesn't show it. "You're welcome. When's the last time you ate?"

Cat's busy chewing, so the answer isn't immediate. Gulp. He picks up the
second burger as he thinks, a small frown coming to his face. That was the
-dream- he didn't -really- eat a rabbit. "I...guess at the library. L-last
night? Or...night before?" He meets Salem's gaze for a fleeting moment.
"Um...what day is it?"

Salem uses his knife and fork to cut pieces off his burger. "Thursday," he
says, watching Cat's reaction carefully. "The fifteenth."

The burger halts halfway to Cat's mouth. "O-of -July-?"

Both of Salem's eyebrows lift slightly. "Of August."

Cat manages to place the burger more or less on the plate, eyes wide in
shock and disbelief. "It -can't- be!" he protests shrilly. "It -can't-!
It's just July! I- I know it's July, I was at the library on the 21st
because my books were going to be late..."

Salem chews and swallows a mouthful of hamburger, then sets down his knife
and fork. "No matter how much you protest reality, Cat," he says, mildly
stern, "it persists. It doesn't go away. You are a werewolf, _I_ am a
werewolf, and it is the fifteenth of August, two-thousand and two."

Cat doesn't say anything, just stares at the remaining burger on his
plate. He's still hungry. The burger smells great. And this man is talking
complete nonsense. It -couldn't- be August. He said he'd been asleep for
24 hours, not 24 days...how long could a dream last? And they -were- just
dreams. They were. He shakes his head a bit, slowly.

There's a slight scrape as Salem pushes his stool back and stands up.
"Cat," he says quietly, firmly. "Look at me."

Obediently, the young boy looks up at Salem. "Yessir," he mumbles low
beneath his breath, out of habit.

Salem pulls off his t-shirt. That in itself might be considered a
worrisome action, but what follows is even more alarming. Cat gets only a
brief glance at the Glass Walker's athletic build, at some kind of an odd
mark -- is that a handprint? -- on his hairless chest. And then he grows.
Up. And up. And up. He takes his time, several seconds at least, enough
time for Cat to absorb the sounds of popping tendons and stretching
muscle, of bones expanding and re-aligning themselves. Enough time that he
can _see_ the frightening-looking man transform into an even more
frightening-looking beast that's only part man, nine feet of black fur and
claws, the wolfish head brushing the sealing, the lycanthropic mass
filling what has suddenly become a very, _very_ small space.

When Salem removes his shirt, Cat practically falls off his stool in his
haste to back away, a dreaded fear of what might come next welling in him.
He's lucky that that fear isn't realized, but rather replaced with a whole
new meaning. Blue eyes get wide and stay that way as the cub takes small
steps away from that- that- that THING. "You're not real!" he cries out
sharply, quickly closing his eyes and bringing his arms up to his face in
some weak defense. "You're not! I'm dreaming again!" He keeps backing
away, steps faster into a stumble, a fall as he trips over his own ankles
and falls on his side. He curls up in some way that the morphed Salem is
hidden from view, as his cries of denial become pleas, sobs. "Please, I
don't want to dream anymore...he'll be so angry, he'll be so angry..."

Salem twists back down into human form in barely the time it takes to
blink, and in barely more time than that, the Walker's propelled himself
around the counter and toward the sobbing cub. He goes down on one knee,
grasping the boy's upper arms and pulling him up, dragging him bodily out
of that fertal position if necessary. His words come with quick, sharp
intent, demanding to be heard, demanding to be listened to. "You're not
dreaming, and he's _dead_, Cat. _Dead_, and he can't be angry at you
anymore. You are free, and this is _real_. _Real_, dammit."

Cat's sobs stop abruptly as he's hauled back into looking into Salem's
face- his thankfully human face. He blinks sadly, unsure which to
disbelieve first, werewolves or that his father was dead, really and
truly. "Werewolves aren't -real-," he insists weakly, but making no move
to break away. "They can't be. It doesn't make sense! It doesn't. Please
let me go, I swear I...I w-won't tell about you..."

Salem doesn't let go, and he continues talking, relentlessly. "You've
dreamt of wolves. Long before your father died, you dreamt of them. Am I
right?"

A single tearful, reluctant nod.

Salem's good eye gleams, the dark brown tinged with gold. "Maybe you were
running. On four legs, on two, but running. Ahead of the pack, or with the
pack. Maybe you killed, in those dreams. Sliced things open with your
claws, tore them apart with your teeth. Tasted blood. Maybe you even
revelled in it, in the dreams. Am I close?"

Cat tries to bring his hands up to cover his face, but his arms are held
tight in the Walker's grip. He settles for closing his eyes tightly, tears
continuing to leak out down his cheeks. "He said I was sick! H-he said
they were the p-product of a sick mind, t-that I was crazy. I c-couldn't
help it, I couldn't help dreaming."

Salem's jaw clenches. "He was wrong. You're not sick, and you're not
crazy. You're Garou. It's been sleeping in you. It always sleeps, until
we're old enough. Then Luna sends dreams, and calls to the wolf in us,
until it comes out." He squeezes -- not hard enough to hurt, just enough
to put emphasis on his next words. "It came out. You became the wolf. You
_were_ the wolf. That's how Rhiannon and I found you."

Cat shakes his head, hair flying. "That was a dream. D-don't you see, a
dream! I thought I got hit by a car, but it was a dream, because if I
h-had I would be dead. You don't just walk away from being smashed by
a...a...a truck." He stops talking, although his lips keep working. His
head snaps up to stare at the Walker in horror. "You were in my dream! You
were in the truck!"

"We don't die so easily," Salem says. He releases the cub and stands up.
And there _is_ a handprint on his chest, strangely enough. It's the size
of a Crinos paw, seems to have seven fingers instead of five, and... and
it actually looks like it's _imprinted_ on his chest, like his flesh had
been clay and something -- something about the size of a Crinos with seven
fingers -- had laid its palm down and pressed.

The cub doesn't stand up, just continues gawking at Salem as he works his
latest puzzle out, to seemingly no avail. "The...truck...was real?" he
says softly, only just noticing the handprint shape on Salem's chest and
sliding that in line with all his other mind-bending questions. "I -was- a
wolf, and I got hit with a truck and lived?"

Salem nods. He folds his arms across his chest, which somewhat obscures
the handprint. "The truck was real. You were a wolf. You ran out into the
road, and Rhiannon wasn't able to brake in time. A normal wolf, or a
normal boy, would have died. But you're Garou. Your body regenerated the
damage. You lived."

Cat looks at Salem for a moment longer, placing his eyes with those of the
creature he'd seen earlier. Then he stares down at his hands, first the
left, then the right. Slowly, he shakes his head again. "That doesn't make
-sense-," he insists, the words themselves so weak that they scream yes,
yes I believe it but it goes against everything I ever knew.

Salem exhales a long breath. "There's a lot about the world that you don't
know, because it keeps hidden from mortal view. Much of it does not make
sense, not to the closed mind. Whether it makes sense or not, though, it's
real. _Completely_ real."

Thin arms pull sweatpant-enclosed legs up, hugging them tightly to his
chest. Cat rests his chin on his knees, staring off into space...well,
really at the cockroach crawling up the wall. He doesn't say anything,
just sits there thinking with half-lidded eyes.

Salem eyes Cat for a moment, then lets him sit and think for a bit while
he pads back into the kitchen nook to retrieve and re-don his shirt.

Cat bites his lip, breaking his reverie to watch the Walker move about the
apartment. "So...what am I supposed to do?"

Salem's stool was knocked over when he transformed. He rights it, then
sits down and gestures at the other plate. "For right now? Finish eating."

From one man's martial law to another. That thought never occurs to Cat as
he gets to his feet and goes back to his stool by the counter, the chair
squeaking as it scrapes the floor. Settled in, the boy stares down at his
second, untouched burger. He doesn't feel like eating, until his stomach
growls and reminds him that it is impervious to his emotional troubles.
The cub begins to eat, silent again.

Neatly, almost fussily, Salem eats a few more bites, alternating hamburger
and corn, and finally he speaks again. "Your father is dead. What about
your mother?"

Chew, chew, gulp. At the mention of his father, Cat just blinks. "He's
really dead, isn't he. Or he would have come and punished me. He's
really...dead?" The boy has trouble moving past that fact.

Salem regards the boy gravely across the counter. "You saw him, Cat. You
tell me."

Cat looks down at his partially eaten burger. "I...it might have been a
dream. Like the ones before. I." He sets the burger down on the plate,
hands in his lap, and just watches it. "I don't know where I am, when I
am...-what- I am. I'm Cat, right?" Blue eyes search Salem's, begging for
an answer. "Right?"

Salem's face remains stern, that brooding coldness far too suitable for
the scarred, hawkish features and satanic-looking beard. But there's
something in his good eye that's almost pitying, and his voice is gentle
enough. "You're Cat," he agrees. "And I'm Salem."

Then Cat -smiles-, a genuine smile, tinged with relief. "Okay," he says
softly, turning his smile onto his burger and now-cold corn. "Okay."

Salem doesn't smile, but he seems pleased. A hint of tension uncoils
itself, made visible by its departure. He returns to the mundane process
of body refueling. "For the time being, you'll be staying with me. You
have a new life ahead of you, one that I imagine you'll find more pleasant
than the previous one. You'll meet others like us."

The cub picks up the burger and begins tearing into it again. After he's
swallowed a few times, he looks back at the Walker. "Is...is it
lycanthropy? I m-mean, a disease?"

Salem shakes his head, firmly. "No. Not a disease. No one bit you. You
were born a Garou, as I was."

Cat blinks, chewing on another bite thoughtfully. "Are..." Swallow. "Are
there a lot? Of people like us?" Then he frowns slightly. "Do we all get
hit by cars?"

Salem is in the process of chewing up a forkful of corn as Cat asks this,
and he makes a muffled snorting sound, like a surprised chuckle. He shakes
his head and swallows, washing it down with a drink of water. "There
aren't many like us, no. We have some family who have the wolf blood but
can't transform, but even they are outnumbered by the normal, ordinary men
and women of the world." He clears his throat and takes another drink.
"And not all get hit by cars. That was... coincidence."

"Oh," is the thoughtful reply, before Cat is silenced by eating. But soon
he's finished the burger completely. With great purpose and oncentration,
he starts picking the kernels off one by one with the grubby forefingers
of each hand. Plink, plink, they go as they fall off the cob and onto the
plate.

Salem regards this process with some bemusement as he works methodically
on his own meal. "Usually," he says, "a spirit marker is laid on us at
birth. A kinfetch, we call it, and when a cub such as yourself is ready to
transform for the first time, the spirit alerts us. Occasionally, though,
the kinfetch is never bound to the cub, or it loses interest and dies.
They are, alas, rather stupid spirits sometimes."

Cat soon has a small mountain of kernels, and one by one, they pop into
his mouth. He smiles a little as he eats...when was the last time he felt
this wonderfully full? "Spirits?" he mumbles around food. His eyes are
doubtful, brows slightly arched. "Spirits?"

"Spirits," Salem confirms. "When you're finished, I'll show you."

The boy pauses to consider that...then begins popping kernels into his
mouth noticeably faster. "I'm afraid I'm going to wake up and it's going
to be just another really great dream," he confesses.

Salem's expression turns a bit wry. "That's... understandable."

He's done now, all he has to do is chew. Cat looks like a squirrel
stocking its winter stash in its cheeks, chewing and swallowing, eyes
still slightly wary as they flick to Salem from time to time. When his
mouth is empty, he volunteers softly, "I... do...I mean." He stops, then
shakes his head. "I'm s-sorry sir, I forgot. You asked about my mom. She's
dead." It's a flat, unemotional statement, a fact.

Salem nods once, acknowledging the answer. "Any other close family? Aunts?
Uncles? Siblings?"

Cat shakes his head. "I think Katherine- I mean, my mom. I think she had a
cousin. And I'm an only kid. My mom died when I was one." There's a soft
bump as a bare foot kicks the counter gently. "I think that's why he was
like that. 'Cause of her."

Salem's face twists into a thin grimace of disgust, but his only comment
on that is a grunt. "Hmnf. I see." He finishes off the last of his corn,
then stands up, taking the empty plate. Taking it to the sink, he remarks,
"My father wasn't particularly pleasant, either."

Cat blinks, watching the taller man with interest. "R-really?" he says
softly, a lock of hair dangling between his eyes. He brushes it away. "I
thought I was...well, I mean, I guess other people..." He turns away,
looking down at his empty plate.

Salem rinses off his plate before setting it in the sink. Then he turns,
arching a brow at Cat. "Hm?"

The pale boy looks up again, lips in a thin line. He points to Salem's
chest for one quick moment, as if the action of pointing was somehow
wrong. "Did you dad...do that to you?"

Salem's jaw clenches, and a muscle twitches under his good eye. "...No,"
he says, with a firmness that indicates that he doesn't want to go into
detail. And neither does he seem to want to say anything more about his
father. "Are you finished?" he asks, nodding toward the cub's plate.

Cat seems to be good at recognizing when not to keep talking. "Yes sir,"
he says softly, picking up the plate and holding it out to Salem. It
wobbles in midair, but he doesn't let go and drop it. "I can clean the
dishes though, sir."

Salem takes the plate and sets it in the sink. The cub's meekness seems to
mollify him, and when he speaks again, some of the tense edge is out of
his voice. "Later. After I show you some spirits, and tell you a story."

Cat nods, slipping off the stool and standing there patiently, hands
behind his back. He can't contain his excitement from reaching his eyes,
and from the nervous fidgeting as he shifts from foot to foot.

[Note -- while Cat was sleeping, Salem Dedicated the shirt and pants.  
They don't fit, but they won't tear if the kid shifts or vanish if he goes
Umbral.]

"Excellent," says the Glass Walker. On bare feet, he moves past Cat and
into the bathroom, once more shrugging out of the plain, dark t-shirt. He
pauses to glance back to see if the boy's following.

Cat follows, up until Salem starts taking his shirt off again. And in the
bathroom, no less. He pauses in the middle of the living room, glancing
around for exits, in case he needs them. A door, a door...maybe he should
run...

Another man might cast his gaze heavenwards, or swear. Salem simply looks
impatient. "Our very first law is that Garou shall not mate with Garou.
And I am completely and unequivically heterosexual."

"Ga...Garoo?" Cat echoes, taking another step towards the room. He's
looking Salem over now, trying to see if he has anything in his hands. A
belt, a bottle. Something that could be used to hurt him. "You...are...am
I going to be punished?" is the almost whispered question.

"Garou," says Salem. He's used the term before tonight, but he's said a
lot of things. And once he's hung the t-shirt on the bathroom door, his
hands are completely empty. "And no, you're not going to be punished. This
is simply the only mirror in the apartment."

One more step, and then a slow but steady walk into the bathroom. One
timid hand rests on the doorway as Cat looks inside, very wary of this
room. He glances into the mirror, wondering what's so special. His other
hand brushes his bangs and he frowns slightly, before looking back up at
Salem. Light eyes meet dark for an instant before his gaze falls to his
toes. "Sorry sir. I didn't mean to...um...I'm sorry."

Salem makes a curt, sharp, dismissive gesture with one hand. "Forget it."
He lays hands on Cat's shoulders and positions the boy in front of the
bathroom mirror, which stands above the sink as part of the medicine
cabinet. Just over a foot taller, the Philodox stands behind the cub.
"Forget your father and forget your fears. Look into the mirror. Look into
your eyes. _Your_ eyes. The path to the spirit world lies within yourself,
within your own gaze."

Cat blinks as he's shuffled about to a new position and forced to look at
his reflection. The first thing he does is frown slightly, noting how much
he looks like a girl...he tilts his head back up to stare at Salem from a
whole new angle. Just a moment. Then he looks back at his reflection,
takes a deep breath. "This is crazy," he whispers, before staring as hard
as he can into his own blue eyes.

Salem doesn't answer the remark. Silently, he stands behind the boy, hands
resting on the narrow shoulders. For a while, it _does_ seem crazy, but
then... then it's like one of those Magic Eye things; you stare and stare
until suddenly, there's a fish. Or a dog. Or a car. Or -- as is the case
now -- it's the world shimmering sideways, the bathroom changing into a
hollow version of itself, strewn with glittering webs, the moonlight
streaming in between the cracks in half-full twilight. There are spiders
everywhere, sharp-edged as glass, and cockroaches -- dozens of them, more
-- scurry to and fro, their carapaces shimmering. Only the bathroom mirror
seems unchanged. That, and the two Garou, cub and cliath, standing in the
Penumbra.

Cat jerks backward into Salem, gawking, staring, hyperventilating as they
swerve over into a completely new... world? Place? Whatever, it's weird.
His head whips from side to side as he tries to avoid touching a web,
cockroach, or spider. It's hard; despite his efforts, a cockroach
scrambles over one foot. "Wha-!?" is the boy's first word.

A roach the size of a cat perches on top of the spirit-mirror, waving its
antennae like the one on the alarm clock when Cat woke up. This bug,
though, has a bright green stripe down its back and seems to wink at the
two werewolves before scuttling away. Salem's rolls his shoulders, then
rubs at the back of his neck. "The Umbra," he says. "The spirit world.
Sister to the one you were born in. Congratulations, you've just stepped
sideways for the first time."

Disgust forms first on Cat's face, but as he watches the giant roach
scuttle away, it melts into fascination and awe. "This is so crazy," he
repeats, looking around again with appreciation, not shock. One timid hand
goes out to touch a glittery web.

Salem's smile is thin, but genuine nonetheless. The web is hard and sharp
to the touch, like the spiders climbing hurriedly up and down its strands.
One pauses to regard the cub almost suspiciously, as if anxious that the
boy's going to break the nice shiny web. "Careful," Salem says, offering a
note of caution. "Those can be very protective of their work."

The hand retracts instantly. "Sorry," Cat tells the spiders softly.
"It's...really pretty. Like a snowflake." He leans over a bit, careful not
to get too close to the spider, just wanting a closer look.
"Wow...you're..."

The Weaver spirit chitters unintelligably at the cub, then scuttles away
to join its fellows in their endless work. Meanwhile, Salem has taken a
seat crosslegged on the floor. "Ready for that story?" he asks.

Cat doesn't respond right away, watching the spider crawl away deeper into
its web. Once it's ignoring him he turns and nods to Salem, still stealing
a glance to each side for constant reassurance that it wasn't a dream. He
sits down in front of the Walker and hugs his legs to his chest.

Salem rests his elbows on his knees and laces his fingers together loosely
in front of him. "There are three forces at work in the universe," he
begins. "The Wyld, which is chaos and creation. The Weaver, which is order
and form. And the Wyrm, the destroyer. Together, we call them the Triat,
and in the beginning of existence, they were in balance. What Wyld
created, Weaver gave shape to, and when one or the other grew too
powerful, the Wyrm would restore the balance between them. In those days,
the world was formed, spirit and matter, Umbra and Realm, earth, moon, and
sun... which we refer to, respectively, as Gaia, Luna, and Helios."

The boy bites his lower lip, trying to remember all that. Things were just
blurring together, into a confusing jumble in his head, but he -had- to
remember. If only because this was the most realistic dream he ever had.
"O-only the earth and the moon and sun?" Cat echoes, scratching at his
wrist. "Does that mean there's nothing else in the universe?"

One corner of the Walker's mouth quirks upward. "Of course not. All the
planets, and all the stars... they all exist." He tilts his head slightly.
"And they're all reachable via the Umbra, though the journey is long and
dangerous. Still, here we wouldn't need all the machines and tools that we
would in the Realm."

Cat blinks, tilting his head a little to watch another cockroach, larger
than the actual creatures but not like the one from before, scurry on its
way behind Salem. Then he frowns in thought, looking back up at the
Walker. "So...so you mean we're werewolves and we can travel in -space-?"

Salem steeples his fingers. "Many things are possible. But we generally
concentrate on Gaia, the Earth Mother, our home, for reasons that I will
explain."

Cat still looks bowled over by the news that he's a Space Wolf, but he
nods, eager to hear the rest.

Salem clears his throat. "Anyway. As I said, in the beginning, the Triat
was in balance, but it wasn't to last. No one is completely certain what
went wrong. Some say that the Weaver became self-aware and then went
insane. That She looked upon all the forms, all the order that She had
made, and could not find any sense, any purpose, any _meaning_ in it." He
gestures at the nearest glittering web. "Some say, then, that She tried to
put all of creation into statis. Perhaps She was simply desparate to
discover some form that would give Her... an answer to a question She
didn't even know. In any case, the Wyrm, the balancer, became hard-pressed
to keep up with Her webs, which of course were threatening the Wyld. The
more the Wyrm destroyed of the Weaver's webs, the faster that She made
more. And then, finally, the two forces became locked in battle with each
other, and the Wyrm became ensnared in the Weaver's web."

Cat curls up a little tighter as the story progresses. "Did...did she
die?" is the timid question. "Um, I mean, the Weaver. Or did she kill the
Wyrm?"

Salem shakes his head. "None of the Triat can die. They're... too large.
Too powerful. No, what happened is that the Wyrm was trapped, and also
went insane. However, unlike the Weaver, who remained the same force of
order and form, the Wyrm... changed. It stopped being a force of balance
and turned into a force of mindless destruction and corruption."

Blue eyes blink wide. "Oh, -wow-, I- I mean-" He pauses, scratching at his
wrist again, nervously. His toes curl on the cold surface. "W-what does
this have to do with...anything?" Cat asks softly, quickly adding "B-but
it's a good story."

Salem's expression turns, if possible, more solemn. "Because when the Wyrm
turned to corruption, It turned Its rage upon creation. It attacked Gaia.
To protect Herself, Gaia -- the Earth, and yes, She is quite alive, quite
sentient -- turned to the creatures living on Her, Her children, to fight
the forces of evil that had infected her. But none of the creatures by
themselves, no animal, no human, was strong enough to fight the Wyrm's
forces effectively. Therefore, Gaia took the some of the best animals and,
with the help of Luna, combined their spirit, their souls, with the best
humans of that day, and created servants to watch, to heal, and to protect
Her. And above all these shapeshifters was the Wolf, the Garou, _us_, and
our task, our _purpose_, was to fight, like white blood cells fight
sickness. That is our purpose. That is why we were made."

For the first time in his short life, sarcasm finds itself in Cat's voice.
"I get hit by a car," he starts slowly, one hand brushing through his
unkempt hair. "And told I'm a -werewolf-, t-that can travel in -space-,
and I'm sitting in what's -got- to be the coolest bathroom ever, now I'm
out to save the world?" The question hangs in the air as he watches Salem
openly. His expression is that of disbelief and hope, torn between going
into hysterics or crying for joy.

Salem doesn't look like he's joking. He doesn't sound like he's joking,
either. Still, he seems to understand the basis for Cat's reaction, and he
doesn't seem the slightest bit upset by it. Dryly, he says, "In a
nutshell, yes."

Cat looks down at his feet, then at the spiderwebs off to the side. His
hand rests on the back of his neck as he watches the spiders flit to and
fro, spinning spinning spinning. Still staring, he says tremblingly, "I'm
not...very...brave. I don't think I can be a superhero."

Salem glances up suddenly, alertly looking off to his left. He peers in
that direction for a moment or two before turning back to the cub. "Let me
be the judge of that. You might be surprised what you find yourself
capable of. Also, though all of us are warriors, some of us have other
roles as well." He pushes to his feet, glances around again for a moment.
"In fact, if you'll join me back in the Realm, we can discover your
auspice. That's the moon-phase you were born under, and will determine
what sort of a role you have in our society."

"Oh...okay," Cat murmurs, breaking his gaze away from the hypnotic
spiders. His arms uncurl as he gets to his feet, eyes now on the ground as
bugs crawl almost everywhere. Surprisingly, he doesn't feel creeped out by
them, although in the back of his mind a voice tells him he should be.
"Th-this place is called the 'umbra'? Right? And the real world is the
Realm?"

"The material world is called the Realm, yes," Salem says.

A sudden thought strikes panic into Cat. "I can't get stuck here, can I?"
he asks quickly, worried.

Salem purses his lips. "Not really. The barrier between the two worlds,
which we call the Gauntlet, can be difficult to cross at times, and
especially in places where the Weaver is strongest, as in cities. But it's
rare for it to be so high that it can't be crossed."

That's some reassurance to the boy, as his fingers clasp and unclasp in
front of him. He can't help but sneak more glances at the spiders and
cockroaches, they were just too cool. "Okay, just m-making sure. I...I
don't think I'd like getting left here by myself."

Salem nods. "Understandable." He gestures toward the mirror. "Why don't
you go first, then? The process is the same."

Cat looks back at the mirror, then steps towards it. One hand reaches to
brush his reflection, and the frown returns- 'He'd be so angry if he could
see me now.' Then the realization that he can't see him, and never would
again, brings a strange sort of satisfaction to the boy. Taking a deep
breath and steeling himself for the same topsy-turvy sensation of moving,
he looks into his reflection with far more will than he had before.

It's easier than the first time. It's not entirely effortless; there's a
definite barrier there, and for a moment the cub might worry about getting
stuck between the worlds of spirit and matter. But then he's through,
having moved without moving, and back in the bathroom's mundane shadow.

Cat stares at his reflection in surprise. He did it! A slow triumphant
smile grows on his face, as he looks behind him for Salem.

Salem doesn't appear until almost a full minute later, and there's a
grimace on his face that suggests that he doesn't particularly enjoy
passing through the Gauntlet. He gives his head a slight shake as he
finally steps onto the cold tile and looks down at the cub with a wry
expression. "You have a better knack for that than I do," he notes.

By the time Salem emerges, Cat looks frantic. "I was worried you got
stuck!" he exclaims, before clamping one hand over his mouth. He'd been
too loud. Yelling was wrong. "I mean, um..." The observation throws the
cub for a loop, as he fidgets in place. "Th-thanks, sir."

Salem shows no sign of being upset by the yell. "I've been lucky. My
connection to the spirit isn't as strong as it might be. You, however..."
He cocks his head slightly, looking thoughtful. "When were you born?"

"June 3rd, 1987," Cat recites in his 'indoor' voice. He's backed against
the sink, slightly wary again now they were back in the...what was it?
Realm? The cub tilts his head, then brushes a lock of hair out of his eyes
furiously. "Is that...a problem? Am I too young, or something?"

Salem shakes his head. "No. It's the quickest way to determine what
auspice you are." He heads out of the bathroom, putting his shirt back on
as he does so. "I keep an almanac program on my palmtop." He pauses and
looks back. "And you're certainly not too young. My first change was at
fifteen, too."

Timidly Cat follows after Salem, walking as he walks and stopping when he
stops. "First change? Y-you mean, turning into a wolf?"

Salem fetches the palmtop off the middle shelf on the bookcase in the
front room and taps at it with the accompanying stylus. His manner
indicates less than perfect familiarity with the device, though he only
scowls frustratingly the once. "Mm-hmm." He taps some more. "Ninety
eighty-seven... June... the third..." He pauses, then quirks a half smile.
"Ah. Theurge. Good, that suits."

Cat just watches Salem with curiosity. A lot of curiosity. At what he's
holding in his hand. "That's a palm pilot?" he asks softly, tone almost
reverent. "I saw one of those in a magazine once. Oh, -wow-."

Salem doesn't grin, but there's a definite glint of amusement in his eye.
"Ah, I'll have to take you over to Jeremy's home sometime." He holds the
device out to the cub, offering it up for study. "Welcome to the Glass
Walkers, by the way. We're the Garou who are most comfortable in the city,
and with the Weaver... and, because of that, human things and technology.
You're a Theurge, which means that you get to focuss on the spirits.
You're apt to become far more familiar and knowledgable about the Umbra
than myself, eventually."

Cat comes closer, taking the tiny machine from Salem with glance to make
sure it's alright. "Glass Walkers? Theurge?" he echoes, half listening as
he gets to actually hold the palm pilot. He really grins now, a little kid
with a new toy. He doesn't attempt to change the screen or wortk with the
software, he just turns it over and sideways, examining it. "I like
machines," he murmurs with a shy smile up at the Walker. "He...he hated
stuff like that. I know how to use the old Macs at school pretty well,
though."

Salem's thin, pleased little smile would be the equivalent of a toothy
grin in some people. "You'll fit in with us perfectly." He waves a hand at
the device. "Feel free to experiment with that while I clear the kitchen."

The stunned look on Cat's face shines with gratitude. He takes a seat on
the floor, careful not to sit on any stray cockroaches, and begins to flip
through the calendar on the palmpilot. Each time he coaxes a response out
of it, another smile lights up on his face. "Wow," he says to himself,
before remembering his manners. The cub looks over his shoulder, up into
the kitchen. "Th-thanks, Mister!" he calls out.

"My name is Salem," the Walker calls back, without ire. "And you're
welcome."

[Handwaved: Cat plays with the palm pilot, Salem cleans up the kitchen.  
A few basic lessons in controlled shapeshifting and the Mother Tongue.  
At night, Cat sleeps on the couch, which pulls out into a bed.]