A Near Disaster

[hazlogs]

It is currently 20:45 Pacific Time on Fri Aug 23 2002.

Currently in Saint Claire, it's a sunny day. The temperature is 80 degrees
Fahrenheit (26 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the
northwest at 5 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.99 and rising, and
the relative humidity is 40 percent. The dewpoint is 54 degrees Fahrenheit
(12 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning Full Moon phase (97% full).


Salem raps on the door to Jeremy's apartment, one knock, a short pause, then
two quick ones. Almost like code.

Quentin is, at the moment, on his back on the apartment floor attempting to
do a series of sit ups in a completely incorrect fashion. Someone never paid
attention in P.E. class, evidently. At least he's trying, however, a
play-list of 80's music piped out of the speakers of his computer off to the
side. At the familiar knock at the door, he lets his head fall back to the
floor for a moment before scrambling to his feet and heading to answer.
"Hey.. c'mon in."

Salem is jacketless today, and as Quentin opens the door, he's in the
process of taking off his sunglasses and tucking them into the breast pocket
of his t-shirt. "Evening, Quentin," he says, and steps in; his good eye
skims a glance over the apartment before settling on the cub. "Keeping
busy?"

Quentin's skin glistens with just a touch of sweat, as he wipes his brow
with the back of one hand and steps back to allow his entrance. "I was just
doing some exercising," he says with a quick nod, lips quirking faintly as
he adds, "John-rhya brought me umbral for some practice combat the other
night."

Salem lifts an eyebrow, and studies Quentin with renewed interest. "Really."
He settles onto one of the black leather couches with in a characteristic
I'm-only-pretending-to-relax manner that's only heightened by the moon's
current phase and steeples his fingers. "How did it go?"

"It went.. alright, I guess," Quentin allows with a slight grimace, stepping
over to ease himself down on the couch and lean back, continuing with a wave
of one hand through the air, "The cockroach told me 'learn or die', and I
didn't die, so I guess I learned. Took me a few hours to heal all the burns
after I got back here, though.."

"Pain _is_ a lesson," Salem agrees. "Or at least, it can be. And you've been
exercising, I see."

Quentin nods ever so slightly, hands folding between his knees. "Yeah, like
I said. If you're going to keep making me /run/ out to the caern I figured I
should.." A faint twitch of a smile.

Salem makes a brief, amused sound that could probably be interpreted as a
chuckle. "What forms did John have you fight in?"

Quentin shakes his head slightly. "John-rhya mostly just stood there and
watched. The giant cockroach made me fight an ashy thing in wolf form,
though."

"Hmm." The Philodox seems somewhat less pleased by this. He unsteeples his
hands and sits forward. "Unfortunately, that's not a form you'll probably
use much in the city. Not Realm-side, anyway. As inconvenient as it is, the
Veil usually forces us to fight in human form." He pauses a beat, then adds,
"Although the near-man can sometimes be used if conditions are favorable
enough."

"If it's dark and out of public maybe, yeah," Quentin agrees with a slight
frown, admitting, "I've never actually been in a fight in my life. Outside
of the ash-wolf spirit thing that burnt the fuck out of my fur."

"We'll need to remedy that," Salem says, getting to his feet. He glances
around the apartment, lips pursed, and after a moment shakes his head. "Not
here, however. Not enough room, and too many breakables."

"If I accidentally broke Jeremy's computer," Quentin says with a slight
chuckle, before pushing himself up to his feet, "He'd kill me in my sleep or
something.."

Salem tilts a look at the cub. "He'd kill both of us," he says, perfectly
deadpan. Then he starts for the door. "Come."

Quentin's lips purse briefly in faint amusement at the comment, before
stepping away from the couch and heading after the Philodox without another
word-- pausing only long enough to slip on shoes.

No car this time; Salem walks, and makes the cub walk, too, saying little.
They pair head blocks south and into the grimier, more dangerous parts of
St. Claire, to streets abandoned by industry and forgotten by the
government. The Philodox knows where he's going, or acts like he does, at
least, and if the length of the walk bothers him, he doesn't show it.

As the Philodox is silent, so is Quentin as he follows along in his wake..
keeping close as they reach the dirtier, more dangerous part of town and
glancing around himself warily.

Salem does comment on that, at least. "You're a predator, Quentin. Act like
it. Animals, even the human kind, can smell fear."

Quentin's head snaps upwards at that comment, and then he admits ruefully,
"Sorry. Old habit.."

Salem cuts a sidelong glance at the cub. His upper lip lifts slightly, and
the way he shows that glimpse of teeth is partially a faint grin, and
partially something much more wolfish and humorless in nature. "They die
hard. Yes. I know." He looks around, then takes a right. "We're almost
there."

A slight twitch of Quentin's lips into a slight smile, straightening a bit
more as he walks along after him. "Sorry," he repeats with a shake of his
head, "Just been kind of.. edgy lately. Almost slugged that weird guy at the
park earlier."

"Luna's bitch," Salem murmurs. Empty warehouses and burned-out factories
line the street. The homeless lurk in various degrees of wariness or apathy.
Nearly every wall is plastered with graffiti, and almost every window is
broken. Very faintly, sounding like it's a million miles away, a police
siren wails, lonely as a coyote.

Belatedly, Salem glances at Quentin again. "Harbor Park?"

"Yeah," Quentin replies with a slightly curt shake of his head, his eyes
narrowing in suspicion as he watches the oily shadows of an alley mouth
passed by the pair, "Setting up prisms and lasers and shit and babbling
about missing part of his brain."

Salem frowns. "What did he look like?"

Quentin flickers a glance sidelong back to Salem, frowning a bit more.
"Dark, curly hair. Kinda scrawny.."

"Hmm." Salem slows outside of an abandoned warehouse. Above their heads,
only vaguely visible in the light of moon and streetlamp, is a faded logo
featuring a cartoonish bulldog in a coonskin cap. The massive doors don't
look like they've been moved in decades, but the Philodox isn't heading for
them anyway; he's moving toward an alleyway between this warehouse and the
next. "Did he say anything... specifically suspicious, or give you a name?"

"Aside from being a freak in general?" Quentin looks back along over the
street as he follows the philodox, talking without looking to him, "..well,
he was talking about ley line nexuses and seekings and magic and stuff.
'Carter' I think his name was.."

Salem fishes his keys out of the pocket of his jeans, jingling them as he
reaches the warehouse's padlocked side door. The padlock, at least, looks
new. "Either a wizard or a crank," he says, pushing the key into the lock
and turning it; it snaps open with a heavy-sounding click. He glances at the
cub. "Has anyone told you about them? The reality-benders?"

Quentin's green eyes flicker back up over to Salem at that, and he purses
his lips slightly. "Warpers? Lyra mentioned them when we were talking about
magic.. she didn't say much about them, though, I don't think that she knew
much."

Salem nods, as if he'd expected as much, and pushes the door open. There's
nothing inside but shadows and blackness. "Some humans can, to put it
bluntly, do magic. It's not like ours, not really, and most of the time you
wouldn't even notice them. The gift some of our judges have to sense what
someone is? Doesn't often work on wizards." He steps forward into the
darkness, becoming one with the shadows, crossing the almost bare office and
avoiding the one obstacle -- a desk -- with practiced ease. "Some are evil.
Some not. Some are even our kinfolk."

"Really?" That last brings a startled note to Quentin's voice, unexpected
perhaps, as he steps across the threshold of the building and pauses to ask
tenatively, "Ah.. is there a light switch?"

"Yes," says Salem. "But it doesn't work." There's the sound of another door
opening at the far end of the office and, after a few moments, a light
clicks on, the stark glare of a single bulb in a massive space leaking back
through the entrance from office to warehouse floor. "Anyway, the thing
about wizards is that you have to take each one on his or her own merit. If
they're Wyrm, they're Wyrm, and there's no question, but even those not
corrupted can be our enemy. They've been known to suck the power out of
caerns. But two actually aided us in getting the caern back. One died."

Quentin raises one hand, fingers splaying a bit to shield his face from the
sudden glare of the lightbulb. He grimaces briefly, reaching back to close
the door before walking across the floor towards Salem. "What about the
Veil?" A hint of worried urgency there, "I mean.. if two of them came along
to help you with the caern.. doesn't it apply to them? If they're not Garou
or kin.."

The floor of the warehouse is bare concrete, stained by old oil, and there's
trash -- empty boxes, food wrappers, and the like -- scattered about the
edges of the wide space. Salem walks a way into the open and turns to face
the cub, massaging at his knuckles. "I don't know about the one who died.
The other, I gather, has been in the area for many years, and Andrea knows
more about him than I do. As I said, some _are_ our kinfolk, and some even
fight the same war. Or at least the same enemy. But not all. Not even most.
In general, they're best avoided, or at least not trusted. Not until they've
been proven trustworthy. And the Veil does apply, which means you're not to
tell them things about us, or reveal yourself to them."

"What," the Galliard asks, as he pauses beside an empty box to nudge it
aside with one foot, "If they find out what we are on their own? If he
wasn't just a crackpot.. some of the things he said might have been hinting
that he knew I was a werewolf." A frown crosses his lips, a sidelong look
flashing back over to the Philodox.

Salem grimaces, his jaw clenching. He pulls his hair back away from his
face, then lets it hang loose down his back. "They have ways of doing that,
I think, yes. Nothing that can be done except to deny. Play dumb, if
necessary. Don't confirm. Et cetera." He gestures the cub closer.

Quentin nods once in response to that, "Yessir." The box is shoved the rest
of the way to one side by his foot, and he steps forwards in closer to where
the other Walker stands.. grimacing just a bit as he considers just how much
this is likely to hurt, before forcing himself to relax.

Salem shifts his weight. He cracks his knuckles, then lets his arms drop to
his sides, held loose, hands half-open. His chin lifts slightly, head
tilting to favor his good eye over the blind as he regards the cub. "You've
never fought in human form? Not even thrown a punch?"

A barely audible wince at the crack of Salem's knuckles, and Quentin rolls
both shoulders in a rather boneless shrug. "A punch here and there," he
admits, shaking his head, "But not an actual.. you know.. fight."

"We'll begin simply, then," says the Philodox. "I'm going to strike you, but
I'm going to tell you _where_ I'm going to strike, so you can block it.
Understood? And remain mindful of your rage. Luna's full tonight, which
means she can ride us much more easily than she can the rest of the month."

"Easier said than done," Quentin mumbles under his breath, both feet sliding
a bit apart to brace and his hands raising in his best 'boxer' stance.
"Alright. Go for it."

Salem's expression flattens out to bland neutrality, utterly businesslike.
"Face," he states curtly, and pistons a fist out, straight and hard and
direct and _fast_. It'll break Quentin's nose if unimpeded.

In fact, it does. Quentin wasn't quite expecting that swift a strike or his
face as the target, and though he falls back half a step and tries to raise
a forearm to intercept the fist-- it smashes him square in the face with a
loud crack, a trickle of blood splattering down his upper lip as he goes
staggering back with a pained yelp.

Salem grimaces, clearly displeased. "Shift," he orders, without the
slightest bit of sympathy. "Heal it, then shift back. And this time be
_ready_."

Quentin doesn't complain, as much as he's clearly in pain, simply braces one
hand against his nose as his frame bulks up into the near-man of glabro..
holding that form long enough for bone and cartiledge to snap back into
place and seal together. Flowing back downwards into his breed form, he
takes a deep breath and eyes the Philodox warily, taking a more defensive
(if unpracticed) stance. "Alright."

Salem waits for the cub to ready himself, then snaps out, again, "_Face_,"
and out goes the fist again, just as fast this time, if not faster.

The door from the alley gives a violent creak of protest.

Quentin drops back slightly from the punch, an instinctive motion-- one
fisted hand raising swiftly into the oncoming punch's path and taking it on
the back of his wrist. Which only hurts marginally less, of course. "Fuck,"
he swears sharply as he draws back, rotating his wrist slightly to make sure
/it's/ not broken.

Salem grunts, flexing his fingers. "Better. Not good, but better." The sound
of rusty door hinges turns his attention sharply toward the office. "Get out
of the light," he orders, and moves away from the hanging bulb's
illumination himself.

A quick glance over his shoulder towards the entranceway, and Quentin steps
away from the light as requested and leans back into the deeper shadows of
the room with a frown.. reaching over to rub at his wrist and ease its
soreness as he waits.

Pulling the Glock, Rina moves the slide back with infinite care, as she
moves quietly through the office. Her steps are almost silent as she
approaches the second door, the one that leads to the warehouse proper.

Salem steps further back into the shadows, keeping his eye on the door,
fingers twitching and body language tense. Waiting.

Quentin's hands drop to his sides as well, as he even holds his breath in
his cautious stealth-- his eyes narrowed a bit, fingers twitching slightly
as he watches the door.

Rina slinks around the edge of the door, covering the room with the Glock as
she scans the semi-darkness away from the lightbulb.

Salem keeps a careful eye on the obviously-armed arrival as he slides a hand
into his pocket. It's no weapon that he brings out, just a quarter, a
quarter that gets sent on a swift airborne journey through the darkness to
land, skittering distractedly, on the concrete in a direction that'll draw
the woman's attention away from where he's lurking. If she falls for it,
that is.

Like a charm. The gun swings in that direction practically out of reflex,
and the figure searches the shadows, advancing on them slowly.

As soon as she's distracted, the Walker halfmoon lunges out of the shadows
with rage-fueled speed, ruthless as an oncoming train and almost soundless.

Gunshots fire, but from an unexpected direction, filling the warehouse with
noise. The halfmoon is taken from behind in the back and shoulders, shirt
torn and flicking up blood as two, three... four bullets slap into him. The
ruthless charge evaporates in a snarl of surprised rage as Salem crashes
into the concrete, then rears up halfway, his good eye blazing golden and
teeth lengthening in fury.

"EVERYBODY FREEZE!" calls out a familiar, authoritive voice. John stands
near the dark and opened door to the bathroom, at the other end of the
building.

Rina goes pale in that instant, as Salem comes hurtling toward her with the
attack speed of an angry Garou. She stumbles back in reflex, dark eyes going
wide--and by the time she reacts to John's voice, she is already lowering
the gun. "Jack," she chokes out hoarsely, hoping the Philodox can hear her
though the fog of rage.

The echo of the gunshots is terribly loud in the warehouse, and as they ring
out and Salem's dark form goes down in a spray of blood, Quentin swears
sharply under his breath, almost moving away from the wall before realizing
that-- well, he'd be a wonderful target to get shot next if he did that.
Fortunately the choice is taken from him as that commanding voice rings out
in the lingering echoes, as he freezes. It's not hard. He was half-frozen
already.

It's a close thing, and everyone present can be glad now of that stubborn,
relentless self-control as Salem drops himself back down to the floor, teeth
bared in a frozen snarl. What used to be well-trimmed fingernails dig at the
concrete as he beats down the berzerker in him. Swearwords that are half
growls spit from him, but he doesn't go past glabro. It's a close thing,
though. Frighteningly close.

The strides that the Walker Elder is taking are long, and speedy - the coat
billows around a figure nearly eight feet in height. He moves faster and
more fluidly than any man that size has any right to. ~STAY DOWN. STAY
SHIFTED,~ he barks, in a deep, guttural voice. Salem's not the direction
he's headed, though - Rina is John's target.

Rina still has the gun in both hands--muzzle-down, but not far from use
should it become necessary. She cannot hold her ground, as John advances
toward her; in the face of that creature, nearly twice her height, she
begins backing away, a guarded, wild look in her eyes.

As for the cub, he barely breathes despite the rapid thud of his heart
against his rib cage and the adrenaline flowing hot through his veins-- just
keeping there in the dark, trying not to move, dragging a deep breath into
his lungs and exhaling it slowly. Green eyes close, as he tries to calm
himself down.

The Walker Ahroun lifts his hand - it's a blur, almost invisible, as he
strikes his kin across the face. "What were you /thinking/?!" he snarls; his
voice breaks, on the last word. Too much, he turns, and starts out the front
door, shifting down to homid - gun still in hand.

Salem rolls onto his side, but doesn't make any further move to get up. His
eyes were closed, squeezed shut in the effort to resist the killing urge,
but now he opens them, the good one focussing on the pair, beauty and beast.
His lips twitch, wrinkling upwards as Rina's struck, and the pointed ears
almost seem to flatten. But he holds himself still until the Elder's out the
door.

The Glabro backhand whips the young woman's head to the side and sends her
to the floor. Rina catches herself on one hand, just barely managing not to
drop the gun in the fall. She is still for a moment, her head bowed and her
breathing an unsteady, harsh sound in the quiet of the room. The outside
door screeches, and bangs as the exiting Ahroun nearly knocks it from its
hinges.

Quentin actually flinches as the sound of John's hand against Rina's face is
an audible crack in the silence that's fallen.. his eyes closing and face
scrunching up in shock and sympathy. Only slowly does he push himself from
the wall and into the swinging light of the hanging bulb, and only once he
hears the front door closing, hesitating as though uncertain which of the
two to check on.

The Philodox's wounds close, Salem's flesh re-knitting itself and ejecting
the bullets. Even so, it's long moments before he shifts back to human form
and pushes himself off the floor and to a kneeling position, hands on knees
and head bowed. Long black hair obscures his face, but he's still breathing
hard. Eventually, he utters a rasping, muttered, "Jesus wept."

Rina's breathing remains ragged. She props herself up on both arms, one hand
gurding the Glock against the floor; her head is bowed, to hide the look on
her face. "I'm sorry," she says in an unsteady ghost of a voice.

After that moment of torn decision, Quentin at last moves away towards the
door and closer to the place where the kinfolk supports herself.. easing
himself down to one knee and splaying one hand against the floor to lean
down a bit. Not too close. Just beyond arm's reach, really. "Hey," he says
in tense, rough tones, "..you alright?"

"No," says Salem tiredly, in response to Rina. "I am." He straightens up,
pushing hair away from his face with an unsteady hand. "Shit. I should have
fucking recognized you." For once, the masks are off, and Jack's face is
haggard, the look in his good eye haunted.

A dark circle appears on the dusty floor by Rina's hands, and then another,
the sudden splash marks of tears. "Jack--" Her voice is uneven, strained
enough to betray the closed throat. "You okay?"

Silence then, as Quentin pushes back up to his full height and takes a
hesitant step back to lean against the nearest wall again.. hugging both
arms around himself and glancing between the two. His own expression closed,
though he gnaws uneasily on his lower lip as he listens.

Salem's face twists into a sudden flash of loathing, but he's not looking at
either the kin or the cub. "No," he says again, getting to his feet.
Standing, he focuses on Quentin, his expression tight. Rigid. "School's out
for tonight," he tells the cub, brusquely. "Escort Rina home." He turns
toward the exit.

Rina sits up a fraction straighter--enough that she can holster the gun
one-handed. Her voice betrays the tears, and a pain runs deep under the
words. "It's not your fault," she says in that broken voice. "He's right. I
was fucking stupid. If-- if it hadn't been you--"

Salem stops but doesn't turn back around. "--If it hadn't been me you
wouldn't have almost been a smear on the fucking concrete."

Quentin's chin dips in a slight, wordless nod to the brusque order from the
Philodox, releasing his lower lip and taking in a deep breath.. exhaling
with a trembling sigh, stiffening his spine and stepping back away from the
wall. Not a word, hands slipping into the pockets of his sweatshirt, just
waiting now.

"I'd be just as dead from a bullet," she says quietly. A sniffle, then, and
she dashes the back of a hand across her face. "Or from whatever else is
after me. Just... f'get about it."

Salem's head lowers slightly, and then he nods as though unwilling to argue,
as though he lacks the will for it. "Fine. Let Quentin take you home.
Please." Without waiting for an answer, he heads for the door.

Her shoulders shake for a moment or two, after Salem leaves--but then Rina
pulls herself together, clearing the tears from her cheeks with a violent
gesture. The backs of her gloves are wet, by the time she gets up and
glances to Quentin. "It's not far," she says hoarsely. "Where are you
stayin' at?"