Cat Meets Other Peeps

[hazlogs]

It is currently 21:02 Pacific Time on Sat Aug 17 2002.

Currently the moon is in the waxing Gibbous Moon phase (63% full).

Currently in Saint Claire, it's a sunny day. The temperature is 68 degrees
Fahrenheit (20 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the
southwest at 10 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.01 and rising,
and the relative humidity is 52 percent. The dewpoint is 50 degrees
Fahrenheit (10 degrees Celsius.)

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.


Salem's return is announced by the rattle of locks beind unlocked and the
door opening.

"I understand," Cat mumbles back, although it's clear he doesn't. Just
another automatic response from a person who isn't quite all there. At the
locks opening, door swinging open, he twists around and stares at it mutely.

There's a duffle bag on the couch, with clothes half-sticking out of it, and
the remnants of some fast food on the coffee table. A hooded sweatshirt
tossed on over his sweatsuit, Quentin's currently kneeling down beside where
Cat's half-curled near the door of the bedroom-- as the locks rattle a bit,
he glances up and bites his lower lip, calling out weakly, "Ah.. hey."

Salem enters with a light, brisk step, his mood what one might actually call
cheerful, as cheerful as one might imagine Jack Salem being, anyway. This
vanishes abruptly as he spots the two cubs, and his eyes narrow faintly as
his mouth twitches into a frown. "Hello, Cat," he says, closing the door
behind him and locking it -- latch, bolt, and chain. "Quentin." The way he
says the Galliard cub's name includes him in the greeting, but there's an
edge of commanding inquiry in his eye, too.

Cat's lower lip trembles as he watches Salem stride in, both hands clutching
at the new clothes gathered in his arms. He scrambles to his feet, catching
the shirt's sleeve as it tumbles out of his grasp. "Hello Mister Salem sir,"
he says quickly, forcing a smile onto what, if more closely examined, would
appear to be a tear-streaked face. "Quentin brought me clothes."

"Salem-rhya.." A glance up as the other cub rises, and Quentin rises in his
wake with the slightly guilty expression of one who's just accidentally
kicked an abused dog and had it run whimpering to the heels of his owner. He
clears his throat a bit, a quick nod over, "Yeah. I, uh, brought him some
McDonald's, too. I thought he might be hungry."

Salem's gaze goes from Quentin to Cat and back again, his frown lingering.
"Mm-hm," he says, dubiously. He crosses over toward the bookshelf to rid
himself of the burden of keys and wallet. "Nothing untoward happen, then?"
His eye drops back on Quentin again.

Cat's gaze goes from Quentin to Salem, and he takes a step back into the
bedroom. He hadn't lived his life without learning when a punishment could
be brewing, and how he could escape. Rather selfishly, he slips into the
bedroom and closes the door behind him. To put on the clothes, of course.

There's a sharp knock on the door, in shave-and-a-haircut style.

The knock gives Quentin a short reprieve as Salem goes to the door to answer
it. He squints through the peephole, then undoes the locks to let the
kinswoman in. "Evening, Rhiannon."

Rhiannon gives Salem an odd look--almost one of relief--then a simple,
"Hello. Thought I'd stop by and check in on the new guy."

A moment's hesitation as Quentin watches after Cat, as he vanishes into the
bedroom, and then as the door closes fully he slumps back against the wall
behind him. His expression both guilty and apologetic as he looks back over
and admits quietly, "Ah.. I've been kinda on edge, and I sort of.. yelled at
him. I tried to apologize, but.." A wan smile, "Hey Rhiannon."

A look of irritation flashes across Salem's face as he glances back at
Quentin, but he controls it. "Ah." Then, to Rhiannon, he says, "Awake.
Somewhat delicate, but I gather he's been abused. His parents are dead, the
father recently. The boy's name is Ezra Harper, but he prefers 'Cat'." He
pauses a beat. "And he's currently hiding in the bedroom."

Cat bumps against the bed as the door closes, then sits on the edge taking a
few steadying breaths. "I'm such a baby," he says to himself. "He -is- dead.
He...he is. He is." Somehow it's not reassuring, repeating it. Slowly he
shrugs off his black oversized shirt and starts the process of putting on
the white one, a hand-me-down of Jeremy's.

Rhiannon waves to Quentin, and receives the news of abuse with a grimace. "I
can run the name, and see what I find." She chews on her lip and absently
comments, "Ezra, not your typical 80s name. Do we know where he's from?"

"I was just trying to get him to stop cringing every time I looked at him,"
Quentin mumbles under his breath, both arms folding across his chest as he
presses back against the wall in a defensive manner under the irritated
glance. He clears his throat then at Rhiannon's question, and offers
quietly, "He's from Helena."

Salem shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over the back of the couch
before sinking down onto the aged piece of furniture himself, with a tired
grunt. He glances over at the young Galliard, his dourness relenting
somewhat. "He's been running a long time. Didn't believe me that it was
August."

Rhiannon hmms thoughtfully. "Helena. Okay, we'll see what the records show
on Monday. Hopefully nothing too bad." She glances at the bedroom door,
looking a touch guilty. "Too bad I had to hit him with my car. I can think
of better ways to find lost cubs."

It takes a while to button the shirt up. His fingers barely make it out of
the sleeves, and the top button is missing, but all-in-all, it's not a bad
fit. Cat starts shrugging the black sweatpants off, then reaches for the
slacks. What were they saying out there? He blinks, then goes back to
dressing. Curiosity killed the cat. It was his dad's favorite saying.

A hand brushes back through the dark strands of Quentin's hair to neaten
them a bit, as he offers helpfully, "His old man used to abuse him, yeah. He
was only allowed meat once a week, he used to break parts of him on a
regular basis, I've gathered.." A hint of a dark tone to his voice, as he
hesitates only a moment before saying more quietly, "I'm glad the bastard's
dead."

Salem folds his arms across his chest. His nod to Rhiannon's remark is cut
off short by Quentin's words. His expression sours, but he doesn't look
surprised. Not in the least. "Cat says that he didn't like machines. And
disapproved of the boy's dreams. _Wolf_ dreams." He leans his head back
against the couch cushions. "Kinfetch or no, the boy's a Glass Walker. And a
Theurge by birth."

Rhiannon sighs at Quentin's words, and crosses her arms. "I guess I can't
disagree with that, but, careful of saying that to him. If he...liked...his
old man, you have to ease him in to the idea that he wasn't a model father."
She nods to Salem, and asks, "Safe to assume we're not going to get any
arguments over claiming him?"

Salem shakes his head. "I doubt it. I don't see signs of any other tribe's
breeding, and he thinks Weaver webs are, quote, 'pretty'." One corner of the
Philo's mouth twists upward in a faint half-grin. Then he sobers. "But I
gather that he didn't particularly like his father. Feared him, yes. But he
seems quite glad to be free of the brute."

Quentin shakes his head curtly at Rhiannon's words. "He hated him, I think,"
he says with a glance towards the bedroom door, "At least from listening to
him talk.. I can't blame him, either. The guy sounds like a real bastard."

"Makes that aspect of things a little easier, then." Rhiannon rubs her chin.
"I'd guess you'll keep him here for a while, right?"

Salem nods once. "For the moment, yes." He unfolds his arms and drags his
fingers back through his hair, pushing it away from his face.

Quentin slips away from the wall, stepping over in the direction of the
door. "Well.. uh.." A glance to the bedroom door, and back to Salem, "..I
should get out of the way, I suppose."

Rhiannon glances at Quentin, and frowns. "Way of what?"

Salem's gaze turns toward Quentin, his head tilted slightly as though to
favor his good eye. "Thank you for bringing over clothing for him, Quentin,"
he says. His irritation earlier seems to have evaporated, and the
sentiment's genuine.

"Hey, it took me like two weeks to get clothes," Quentin says with a slight
shrug of one shoulder and a slight smile at the thanks from Salem, "I
remember how much it sucked.. which, uh, reminds me. Any chance that someone
could, um, dedicate some of -my- clothes to me so I can wear something
'sides this old sweatsuit?"

Rhiannon says "While I'm here, thought I'd pass along a small tidbit."
Rhiannon shifts a little, and finally settles herself on one arm of the
couch, stretching her much-abused feet a little. "Seagrave's officially
turning state's. I know because I got to handle security for it on Friday.
The official announcement will be made on Monday. FBI's going to drag his
butt to Salt Lake, and have a field day.""

"That shouldn't be a problem," Salem tells the cub. "If you can't get
someone to Dedicate, bring the outfit here, and I'll do it." Then he shifts
his attention toward Rhiannon with a frown. "Hmnh."

"Thanks." A quick smile, a nod over towards Rhiannon, and Quentin steps over
to pause just before the door-- glancing back towards the bedroom door with
a guilty expression and asking more tenatively, "Can you explain, uh, that I
didn't mean to scare him? I was just.. a bit frustrated, is all."

"There's no shame in that, lobito," Rhiannon reassures Quentin. "You just
have to take a lot of deep breaths, and stay very calm. No matter what he
does or says." Her voice darkens somewhat as she murmurs, "I've dealt with
my fair share of abuse cases. They're never easy."

Salem grunts agreement with the kin, then promises to Quentin, "I'll tell
him."

Quentin smiles wanly back to the pair, shaking his head just a little.
"Thanks," he murmurs, reaching over to open the door, "I appreciate it.. I'm
going to go for a walk, calm down a bit. If you need anything more, just
call Jer's place."

"Give Jeremy my regards," says the Philodox to the departing cub.

Salem, after Quentin's left, rubs a hand over his eyes and mutters a short
phrase under his breath.

Socks get pulled on slowly, and then he's dressed. Cat takes a deep breath,
standing up and looking at himself as much as he can without a mirror.
"Presentable, sir," he mumbles out of some habit, then goes to the door.
Another deep breath, and it opens a little, enough for one blond head to
poke out curiously.


[Cat]

Fifteen years old, but he looks twelve. His palms and feet are 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 for a girl. Locks curl softly
around his ears and seem 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.

	What may seem a rather odd outfit, is actually a style Cat developed
with his father's hand-me-downs; only now, it's Jeremy's clothes. He wears a
slightly-too-large white button up t-shirt with the cuffs folded back so he
can use his hands. The top button by the collar is missing. The shirt is
tucking into tan slacks which are held up by a thin black belt. The legs of
the slacks are rolled up a bit since they're a little too long. White socks
with a green stripe across the toe complete his outfit. Give him a newsboy
cap and he looks cut right out of the 1920's.


Rhiannon notices the door open out of the corner of her eye, but rather than
address the apparently reluctant cub, she glances at Salem. "A theurge then?
That's two we have to reach outside the tribe for proper training." The tone
of her voice indicates this isn't something she likes.

"Perhaps we can invite someone to visit from L.A.?" Salem gives Rhiannon a
brief, sidelong look as he says this and then sits up, turning his attention
toward the cub. "How do they fit, Cat?"

Cat's gaze lands square on Rhiannon, in his rather familiar
deer-in-the-headlights expression. At Salem's question to him, though, he
breaks his stare and steps out from behind the door with obvious reluctance.
He stands there for inspection, toes wriggling. "Better than the other
clothes, sir," he replies softly. "I h-hope you don't mind, I had to borrow
a belt?"

Rhiannon watches Cat enter the room, and looks him over. As the last time
she saw him he was passed out, covered with blood and dirt, and wrapped in a
blanket, this is a considerable improvment. She doesn't say anything
immediately, and she doesn't make a move towards him. She's leaning/sitting
on one arm of the couch, her arms crossed.

Salem gives the timid boy a faint, quirking smile and gestures him over
toward the couch. "I don't mind at all. Come over here and meet another
member of our family." The bastard asshole's nowhere in evidence at the
moment; Salem's tone is calm, almost gentle.

Cat smiles back at Salem, but there's worry in that smile; be it towards the
Walker or the woman, well. As he walks to Rhiannon, the smile fades a bit
into complete worry. Here was not a boy who handled well around strangers. A
meter in front of her, he stops for a moment, before giving her a little
jerky half-bow. "I'm Cat, ma'am," he tells her softly, his bangs getting in
his eyes again. "Pleased to meet you."

Although amused by the bow, Rhiannon manages to keep her expression calmly
serene. "Rhiannon MacKenzie," she says, speaking as if to a peer. "That's a
mouthful, so, you can call me Mac, or Rhi, whichever's easier."

Salem watches Cat steadily, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles,
one arm resting along the back of the couch.

Cat blinks, batting at his wild hair. The other hand tugs on the corner of a
pocket. "Oh...kay. Mrs. Mac is okay?"

Rhiannon laughs softly. "Not a Mrs., much to my mama's dismay. Ms. is
probably more appropriate."

Salem doesn't grin, but there's a definite hint of amusement in his eye.
"Rhiannon is kinfolk," he says to the cub. "She has the wolf blood, but
doesn't change forms."

Rhiannon's laughter confuses the boy for a moment. He tilts his head, then
nods slightly. "Miss Mac," he repeats, then looks to Salem as he speaks.
Like he was in school, his fingers hook behind his back. "Kinfolk? Oh...um.
Nice to meet you," is the only thing he can think to say. Reddening at his
own locquaciousness, he edges a bit closer to the Philodox.

"My mama is Garou," Rhiannon explains to Cat, "and so is one of my brothers.
But my father, my other two brothers, and myself, we're all Kin. We're not
as...affected by Garou as regular humans, and we don't affect regular humans
ourselves. Kin try to be the Garou's link to humanity. We live among both,
work among both."

Salem nods in agreement with Rhiannon, then pushes himself to his feet. "Can
I get anyone something to drink?" he asks, pushing a stray lock of hair away
from his face and tucking it behind his ear.

"No th-thank you Mister Salem sir," Cat mumbles as he moves a bit back,
allowing Salem room to pass into the kitchen. He stares down at his socked
feet for a moment, before glancing up at Rhiannon through a curtain of hair.
"Garou affect humans?"

Rhiannon makes a face. "Unfortunately, yes," she tells Cat. "It's called the
Curse. Garou are the teeth and the claws of the Madre. Regular humans are
afraid of them in a very primal way, even when they simply stands before
them in a human form. Most humans can sense the wolf, always." Suspecting
Cat might reconsider the offer if she accepts, Rhiannon asks Salem, "Do you
have soda? Coke, Dr. Pepper, Fanta..."

Salem opens the fridge. "Coke, I have." He gets a can for the kinswoman and
pours it into a glass, with ice, for the moment apparantly content to play
host and let Rhiannon field questions. "Certain you don't want anything,
Cat?"

Unaware that Rhiannon's got his number, Cat fidgets. "Um...maybe a Coke?
Please?" he calls out hesitantly. He glances furtively at the Kin and digs
one toe into the carpet, careful to miss the cockroach who scuttles on his
way to the cat food bowl. His expression is flat, still the
deer-in-headlights look. "I like Dr. Pepper too," he murmurs softly, eyeing
Rhiannon carefully for her response.

Rhiannon's look is frankly approving. "Dr. Pepper is the best to have. But,
Coke can substitute nicely." She chooses to actually sit on the couch now,
and says to Cat, "I hear you're from Helena."

"I'll pick some up with the groceries tomorrow," Salem says. He gets another
glass of Coke for the cub, crossing back to the couch to pass out beverages
before getting his own. He avoids stepping on the cockroaches without
effort.

Cat smiles faintly at Rhiannon. I trust you, is what the smile says, which
doesn't fade as he accepts his glass of Coke from Salem with a mumbled
"Thank you sir." Carefully he takes a seat on the floor, crosslegged. He
takes a deep sip before answering, licking his lips. "Um, yeah. I am. Out by
Bryer's Way." His head tilts as he looks left, then right. "Did...did
Quentin leave?"

Salem's own drink of choice is distilled water, with ice. "He did, yes."

Rhiannon accepts the soda from Salem, and briefly returns to his earlier
comment. "Francisco might know someone in LA. The only Walker theurge I know
is my grandmama, and she's very old. Probably too old to come here, and
maybe even too old to teach cubs." She makes a face, and glances away. "And
maybe John's not as picky as I am. Mama was pretty specific about Tribe
teaching tribe, even if it meant trucking in people from other Septs, but
this isn't LA, or Steel Angel."

Cat continues to sip at his drink, eyes flicking from one adult to the next.
Whatever where they talking about.

Salem leans against the bookshelf and sips at his glass. "Unfortunately, a
non-tribe Theurge isn't likely to be able to give the best education on
Weaver and technology spirits."

Rhiannon hmmphs, and sips from her soda. "No, probably not," she agrees,
apparently glad to have some support for her mother's Tribal loyalty. "I'll
have cito ask. My mama or his papa may have suggestions to make, if nothing
else."

The young Theurge wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes still
ping-ponging between the two. "Y-you're not going to be my teacher?" is the
plaintive question thrown to Salem.

Salem nods, swirling his glass in small, subdued motions. He tilts a look
sidelong toward Cat, one brow rising. "You'll have several teachers. I can
do quite a lot, but in regards to Umbral matters, I'm far from an expert."

"It doesn't mean he won't teach you a great deal, lobito," Rhiannon
reassures Cat quickly. "You're a theurge, so you'll need to learn about
spirits. The best person to teach you that is another theurge, but right now
we don't have any from our Tribe." Here she pauses, and asks, "Do you know
about the Tribes?"

Cat nods a bit, soda glass cupped in both hands. "There's...twelve?
Thirteen?" he hazards. Shamfacedly he adds, "I d-don't think I remember them
all. I'm sorry."

Salem makes an 'mm' noise. "Twelve, now. Thirteen in this area, but only
because the local Stargazer has decided to stay with his pack." He sips his
water. "Don't worry, we'll go over it again." Completely patient. "You've
had a lot of information dumped on you in a short period of time."

Rhiannon echos Salem's words. "No need to apologize for not remembering."
Her voice is firm and prim, almost like a school teacher's. "You're not
expected to memorize everything immediately. It's a lot to take in."

Cat smiles a bit, grateful that they understood and were so kind about it.
Then the smile fades as he remembers something. "Um, Mister Salem sir?
Re-remember how you took me to the Umbra yesterday?"

Salem's eyebrows rise a bit. He tilts his head, eyeing the cub. "Yes?"

Rhiannon drinks her soda quietly and lets Cat and Salem discuss the Umbra.

Cat chews on his lower lip a moment before answering. "Take Quentin sometime
s-soon, okay?" He looks down into his soda, then takes a sip before looking
back up at Salem. "I think he was...a little...jealous."

Salem's mouth thins into a little grimace. He studies the ice in his glass
for a moment, then shakes his head once. "Mnh. Was that the reason for the
scene I walked in on?" He looks up at Cat.

"N-no," is the immediate answer. Then the boy's looking down into his glass
again. "Maybe," he amends softly as he watches ice cubes float. "I'm not
sure. He's...he's not going to get in trouble, is he? He was just having a
bad day, I think. It's not his fault."

Rhiannon arches one of her eyebrows at such an observation from someone so
young, but she chooses to stay out of the conversation, as any punishment
for Quentin isn't up to her.

Salem swirls the ice around in his glass for a moment more, then shakes his
head. "No, he's not in trouble. Many of us can sometimes have... a temper."
He sips, then looks at Cat again to lend credence to his words, and to
reassure the cub. "If he'd attacked you, or hurt you, I'd discipline him.
But he didn't." He arches a brow. "At least, knowing Quentin, I _presume_ he
didn't."

The look on Cat's face shows his uncertainty, but he shakes his head slowly.
"N-no. He was just...yelling a lot." The last admission brings a sad
expression to blue eyes, and what he was seeing was not Quentin's face but
his father's. He shakes his head again. "Oh, and...you sh-should eat the
cookies." He looks up at the Walker and quirks a half-smile. "They're good.
Um, Miss Mac, d'you want some?"