hazlogs | Cat's First Fighting Lesson (Reply)

It is currently 18:23 Pacific Time on Thu Aug 29 2002.

Currently in Saint Claire, it's a sunny day. The temperature is 70 degrees Fahrenheit (21 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the southwest at 15 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.91 and rising, and the relative humidity is 49 percent. The dewpoint is 50 degrees Fahrenheit (10 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning Half Moon phase (57% full).

Red Mill Apartments #219(#3551RJ)

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 from another day of work and Other Things is announced by a rattle of keys in the brand new lock. It was replaced yesterday by a grizzled fifty-year-old who smelled like cigarettes but worked quickly; the Philodox's dour, disconcerting gaze might have had something to do with the latter. Jack's never gone into much detail about what he does when he's away from the apartment. He has a job, that much is certain, and sometimes gets a call from a Mr. Lo.

It's a little late in the evening for young boys to be awake- but Cat is awake, sprawled on the floor next to the cat food dish and reading a book. The dictionary. He's reading it out loud to the cockroaches. "Ferret. A weasellike, usually albino mammal (Mustela putorius furo) related to the polecat and often trained to hunt rats or rabbits."

The door opens just in time for Salem to catch the last few words. He regards the cub for a moment, somewhat nonplussed, then grunts and closes the door again, turning the lock and hooking the chain. "Good evening, Cat," he says. The keyring -- with its brand-new, shinily-new apartment keys -- gets tossed onto its spot on the bookshelf and is joined by his wallet.

The cub bolts upright when the door opens, the new lock being rather silent as it turns- but relaxes, somewhat, when the intruder is proved to be Mr. Salem. "G-good evening Mister Salem sir," Cat replies, book in his lap. The cockroaches wave their antennae about merrily. "Um..." He glances down at the pages uneasily. "Um...how...was your day?"

Salem shrugs out of the light trenchcoat and crosses the apartment to go hang it in the closet, adroitly stepping over a scurrying 'roach. "Tolerable." As he puts the coat away, he says, "You've been doing well, by the way, Cat." He delivers the praise blandly, almost matter-of-fact.

Cat's head tilts upwards, slowly. "I...I have?" he squeaks disbelievingly. He blinks, then smiles a bit. "Really?" Then, because he really doesn't know. "Um...with what?"

Salem sets the coat-clothed hanger in the closet, then shuts the door and turns around. He folds his arms across his chest and regards the boy steadily, as if studying him. "Your learning."

Cat dips his chin down, staring at the dictionary again. "Thank you, sir," he says earnestly, glowing with the praise. "I want to do good- um, I mean, well. Do well." Right. He quickly flips to the next page of the dictionary, seemingly engrossed with that specific task.

Salem unfolds his arms and steps forward, back across the floor toward the cub. "You still have more to learn, however," he says. "Put the dictionary away. Please." It's almost like the Terrible Weekend never happened; the scarred halfmoon's tone is nothing but courtesy and patience.

Without stopping to think why, the dictionary is shut and Cat gets up, placing it back onto the bookshelf carefully. That done, he turns to face Salem, blue eyes questioning. One hand still hangs loosely on the edge of the bookshelf.

Salem laces his fingers together and stretches his arms out in front of him, palms turned outwards. "Take glabro form," he orders, as he relaxes out of the stretch. While waiting for Cat to do so, he pushes the coffee table closer to the couch, making more room in the middle of the apartment.

Cat cants his head a bit, watching Salem move furniture. Then he shakes his head, trying to watch his focus. One deep breath, two- and then he's grown larger. Glabro. His clothes fit much better now, although slightly tight about the waist.

Salem eyes the coffee table, then the amount of space in the apartment, his expression dubious. Then he shakes his head slightly and turns to face the cub. One hand comes up and tucks a stray lock of hair back behind his ear, then joins the other in hanging loosely at his side. "Hit me."

Glabro for Cat is not nearly as...intimidating as one might think the form should be. In others, certainly. But this hulking man-creature barely tops six feet. He seems to stretch out, become grotesquely thin and bony. His overly-long hair becomes shoulder-length tangles of blond, and his blue-green eyes seem to get a little larger, more moon-filled. His hands are larger, more muscular, but all-in-all, he looks like the stunted emaciated version of many a stronger Garou. His clothes fit snugly about him, a perfect fit.

Blue eyes widen at the request- the cub steps back. "W-what?" The voice is deeper, but still retains the characteristic Cat-squeak of surprise. "I can't -hit- you!"

Salem shows no irritation at the protest and seems unsurprised. He speaks firmly, though, accepting none of it. "Yes, you can. And you will. Make a fist, and _hit_ me. Now."

Cat shakes his head emphatically, biting his lower lip with teeth that are unusually large, on a person. "B-but...why?? You're nice to me, I shouldn't hit you." He wrings his hands in anxiety, and more than a little fear.

"Because," says Salem, relentlessly, "you're a Garou. You're one of the Mother's warriors. You may not be in the front lines like John Smith, but you're still expected to be able to fight." He stands firm, his good eye burning into the cub. "I know that you're afraid, and that you think that the world will end if you actually fight _back_ rather than cringe away from conflict, but we _are_ in a war and you _will_ learn to defend yourself and to defend the Mother. So _hit_ me. That's an order."

'That's an order' seems to do the trick...or maybe the cub can't think of any more excuses. Closing his eyes as if not watching will help some (and maybe it will), Cat swings one arm back and lets it fly at the Walker Philodox. His fingers a balled tight into a fist, and there's decent speed and strength in the strike, which is aimed for Salem's chest. Of course, his eyes are closed. Where it will -actually- land...

There's a meaty smack of flesh hitting flesh as Cat's hairy fist collides with Salem's homid palm. Strong fingers grip the cub's hand with a strength that, in homid, matches Cat's glabro. "Cat." In that one utterance of the cub's name is a generous helping of disapproval and sternness.

Cat cracks his eyes open, a half-apologetic, half-despairing expression on his face. Slowly he pulls his arm back to his side. "Y-yessir?"

"That was poorly done." Salem's expression is bland. "Try it again. This time, keep your eyes open."

"I don't know how," the cub protest weakly, shifting his weight onto the other foot nervously. "To fight. Hit. Um."

Salem grimaces, very faintly. "I know that you don't know how to fight. That's why we're having this lesson. And the first one is very simple. Make your hand into a fist and _hit_ me. Strike as though you actually want to do some harm, and keep your eyes open when you do it. _Now_."

Taking a wheezy breath to...oh, for whatever help it may be. Eyes open in a grimace, Cat pulls his fist back, in the air for a moment. For a second, if he pretends Salem is his father, then maybe he could be angry enough to hit him. Like in soccer at gym, when they said pretend it was someone you hated and kick the ball. With a snarl, the Galliard lets his fist fly at Salem's jaw.

And it lands, which may be the most shocking thing of all to the timid theurge. His intimidating teacher doesn't dodge the blow, nor block it, and -- perhaps most importantly -- he doesn't fly into a hateful rage and beat the cub into a pulp in retaliation. Salem's head snaps to the side with the force of the blow, and he takes a step backwards.

Cat's eyes fly -wide- open as he connects with bone and flesh. He jerks back quickly, watching Salem with worried, frightened eyes, a six foot tall cowering Garou. "I'm sorry," he croaks out automatically, but meaning it. "I didn't mean to hurt you-"

(Scene cut short due to RL.)