Love Minus Zero

[hazlogs]

Date: 9/8/02.  Near dawn.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is mostly cloudy. The temperature is 44
degrees Fahrenheit (6 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in
from the southeast at 6 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.09 and
steady, and the relative humidity is 100 percent. The dewpoint is 44
degrees Fahrenheit (6 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waxing No Moon phase (8% full).

Harbor Park -- The Meadow

One of the last bastions of green left in the city, mottled and withered
grass and weeds covers the earth like a badly stained carpet, with the
construction work turning what is left into just bare dirt. The vegetation
seems marginally healthier the further it is from the river and much
healthier towards the central area of the park around the fountain.
Construction work is ongoing here: a raised earthen berm about five feet
tall is being built all around the park perimeter, with two breaks each at
the Bridge Street entrance and the First Street end. Wooden posts are
being erected at regular intervals all along the earthen wall, while
tasteful iron gates and fences are being added at the entrances.
Overpowering the scent of living vegetation are the exhaust fumes from a
busy street to the west and an unpleasant stench from the Columbia River
to the east. From the street view or river view, the park is now isolated,
as if it existed apart from the city. People in tall buildings have an
excellent view of any goings-ons for now, though. In the center of the
park, a small glade of six tall trees and a flower bed surrounds the
fountain.

The murky waters of the Columbia River flow swiftly along the east side of
the park. Bracketing the park to the west is First Street and the city of
St. Claire.


As always in the early morning, the park seems almost peaceful in the
bright sunlight--as long as you don't pay too much attention to the refuse
and abandoned shopping carts. There's a new sound, besides that of the
fountain's running water: an acoustic guitar, playing a simple melody. The
musician is seated on a bench far-removed from the central area, facing
the rising sun.

A lone jogger intrudes upon the guitarist's solitude, Satan in sweatpants
and perspiring heavily; he's been at this a while. Salem slows his pace as
he heads for the fountain, squinting slightly to make out who else is mad
enough to be up this early on a Sunday morning.

Tatt is recognizable from a distance, of course--nobody else could pull
off those spiralling tattooes on the scalp. She's entirely absorbed in the
song, however: head bowed, eyes closed, boot tapping in time with the
percussive rhythm she strums out of the instrument. There's something
different about this morning, because the Galliard is... singing.

A few strands of hair have escaped Salem's ponytail and hang into his
face. He pushes them back as he approaches the Strider, the slow jog
dropping down into a walk by the time he gets near. Though not making any
special effort to sneak up on her, his arrival is quiet enough to avoid
interrupting.

The tune might be familiar to the Philodox, if he's any fan of folk music.
Tatt puts her own twist to the song, and the delicate finger-picking
sounds vaguely flamenco. The Galliard's voice, when it's not making snide
comments or gruff retorts, sounds extremely different: low, rolling,
perfectly pitched. There's no denying the effect of her scars, but the
whiskey-edged roughness of the Galliard's voice is almost appealing,
coupled with her skill. The words ring loud and clear in the crisp morning
air:

"My love she speaks like silence,
 Without ideals or violence,	
 She doesn't have to say she's faithful,
 Yet she's true, like ice, like fire.	
 People carry roses,	
 Make promises by the hours,	
 My love she laughs like the flowers,	
 Valentines can't buy her..."

Salem, unobserved, lets a faint smile tug at one side of his mouth. He
props himself against the side of the Strider's bench, leaning against it
as he watches, and listens, to her play. He'll let her come to her own
conclusion; either he's too polite to interrupt her, or he's actually
enjoying the performance.

The Strider is entirely absorbed in the music, and completely unaware of
her audience. She continues her song, voice cracking in a few places as
though rusty from years of disuse.

"In the dime stores and bus stations,
 People talk of situations,
 Read books, repeat quotations,
 Draw conclusions on the wall.
 Some speak of the future,
 My love she speaks softly,
 She knows there's no success like failure
 And that failure's no success at all.

 The cloak and dagger dangles,
 Madams light the candles.
 In ceremonies of the horsemen,
 Even the pawn must hold a grudge.
 Statues made of match sticks,
 Crumble into one another,
 My love winks, she does not bother,
 She knows too much to argue or to judge..."

Tatt pauses her singing there as her voice breaks, and she opens her eyes
as though to look towards the rising sun. The Walker's presence, however,
distracts her sharply; a note rings sour, and her rhythm falters slightly
as she continues to play. Topaz eyes narrow at him with an unreadable
expression. Distant, contemplative. She's still caught up in the song.

Salem straightens up, face shifting back into that characteristic
neutrality, relatively amiable this morning but still fairly guarded.
Typical. He wipes that stray hair out of his face; it's amazing how
dignified he manages to look with the effects of a long, hard run. That
high-pedigree background, possibly. "Sorry," he says. "Didn't mean to
disturb you."

The Strider, still picking out the strains of melody from her guitar,
simply stares at Salem, unblinking. After an internal shrug, she turns her
gaze back to the sun, starts to sing again:

"The bridge at midnight trembles,
 The country doctor rambles,
 Bankers' nieces seek perfection,
 Expecting all the gifts that wise men bring.
 The wind howls like a hammer,
 The night blows cold and rainy,
 My love she's like some raven
 At the window with a broken wing."

Tatt plays on for a moment, and then ends the song without any flourish.
She puts the pick between her teeth and leans back on the bench, chewing
thoughtfully.

The silence stretches on for a moment as Salem laces his fingers together
at the back of his neck and stretches. He should be doing more than that,
of course, but isn't bothering to. "You sing well," he notes, finally.

The Strider grunts, now fingering the strings aimlessly. "I sing rarely,"
she corrects him, her voice slightly hoarser from the song's exertion.

Salem finishes stretching and lets his arms drop loosely to his sides. "A
shame," he tells her. It sounds honest.

"Tell it to the fuckin' Fenris," she rasps, a shadow passing across her
features. She does concede to lift a corner of her mouth at the
compliment, though.

Salem snorts. "As though the Get know anything about culture outside of
their own."

The Strider's angular features darken further, and she stares towards the
rising sun with a grimly-set jaw. A calloused hand goes to her neck, and
the scar there, absently. "Don't know about culture, amigo," she mutters,
"But the shitheads sure know how to slit throats."

Salem rubs at the side of his own neck. No scars, no there anyway. "Mmnh,"
he grunts. "That they do." His expression takes on a dour twist.

Tatt turns half of her attention back to running through sequential chords
on the guitar. "That cub'a yours," she notes lowly, changing the subject.
"He's a good kid. Make a good gib-moon, after we get him laid a few
times."

Salem asks, "Quentin?" As though the Glass Walkers had two Galliard cubs.
He nods, a glint of dry amusement in his eye at the latter suggestion.
"Feel free. He could use the excitement, I'm sure."

Tatt purses her lips, plucks an ear-jarring high note almost hard enough
to snap the string. "So could you, hombre," she notes with a glance.

Salem's mouth thins into a faint grimace. He shakes his head props a foot
up against the bench. "I have plenty of excitement in my life, thank you,"
he says dismissively, while stretching.

"..Yeah," the Strider murmurs, not unkindly. "So much excitement that you
still got enough energy after a Saturday night t'get up and go jogging."
She pauses in her strumming and glances up at hime. "Do y'self a favor and
find some pussy, hey? It'll make everyone's life easier. You heard the
cub." Tatt looks away, starts strumming again. The tune of Elvis' 'Hound
Dog'.

Salem pauses, just staring at her for a moment, his expression rigid. Then
he shakes his head again and switches legs. "I always go jogging around
this time of day," he tells her, blandly.

The strings reverberate loudly in protest as Tatt slams them abruptly,
then claps a hand over them to halt the vibration. Her full, formidable
attention is on the Walker, now. "Aright, packie. /Spill/. Cuz if we're
gonna do this thing, I gotta know how much baggage I'm helpin' my pack
haul." She looks at him directly, entirely solemn.

Salem stiffens. Straightening up, he stares back at her, unwaveringly.
"I'm not carrying any more 'baggage' than our esteemed alpha," he says,
and there's a touch of brittleness at his reference to John. Jack Salem,
being snide -- even mildly so -- in regards to Mr. Smith? "And probably no
more than you yourself." He folds his arms across his chest, shoulders
lifting in a dismissive shrug. "I rarely sleep more than a few hours a
night, and tend to be awake at this hour normally."

Tatt ignores the latter comment, concentrating on his original answer. One
can almost hear the wheels turning in the Strider's head as she
calculates, and then clucks her tongue. "Candy that everybody wants, hey,
amigo?" Her ink-marked fingers take up another tune, this one a soft
Spanish flamenco. "You play with fire, you'll get burned." There's a
knowing look in her eyes.

Salem's eyes narrow slightly, the blind one turning to a thin cresent of
white amidst the scars. "And what the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?"
Now he definitely sounds prickly.

The Strider releases a thin breath, glancing at him openly. "I could never
resist the Italian birds, either," she confesses, with a shrug. The
delicate melody continues, a soothing contrast to the Walker's tension.

Salem stares at her for a long, long moment, then grimaces and looks away.
He glowers eastward instead, toward the river. "You mean Rina," he says
flatly. "We're friends. Period."

Tatt watches his profile quietly for a moment, the strings of her guitar
barely audible. "What you are means jack shit about the way you feel,
Jack," the Strider observes lowly.

Salem grunts. There's a tightness to the set of his shoulders, not to
mention in his face, but his voice is calm enough. "Mnhf. Rina is... Rina.
She likes to live dangerously, and she likes to push boundaries." The
muscles in his jaw tense subtly. "Frankly," he says, inserting a dry,
sardonic note into his voice, "I think she'd be the death of me, even
without Smith in the picture."

That coyote grin shows itself, stark white against the Strider's brown
skin. "The ones we love will always be the death of us, amigo," she
rumbles quietly. "But, _dios mio_, what a way to go." Her smile turns
gentle at some unspoken thought, softening the harsh lines of her face for
a split second. The moment's gone quickly.

Salem's reply is a noncommital 'hmnh' noise. The walls are up, have long
since been raised. He glances back at her in time to catch that smile,
then shakes his head again. "Cat'll be awake soon," he says, glancing at
his watch and starting to give all the little signs of needing to leave.
Perhaps the Strider's probing has something to do with that, and perhaps
not.

Tatt nods once, fingers switching to a twanging bluegrass melody--they
play of their own accord, entirely separate from the Strider's attention.
"I should hang with Quentin s'more," she notes. "Just say when." The
Strider pauses in her playing, and flicks the guitar-pick towards Salem
after a moment's thought. Confident that he'll catch it. "Think about what
I told you, hey?"

Salem does, indeed, catch the pick. It's smaller than lacy underwear, but
its flight is more true. He examines the pick for a moment, then tucks it
into a pocket. "Feel free to seek him out whenever you wish," he tells
her.

"..Asshole," the Strider replies affectionately, with a toothy grin and an
upraised middle finger. She rises from her place on the bench, gives a
good long look at the sun, which is considerably higher in the sky than
before. She slings the guitar's strap across her shoulder, throws him a
wink and a salute, and heads for the south side of the city.

Salem takes the label calmly enough; he's surely no stranger to it, and he
responds with a dry, "Likewise," at the Strider's departing back. Previous
statements about waking cubs notwithstanding, he lingers to watch her
leave before turning toward home himself, heading out of the park at a
brisk walk.