A Talk with Cat

[hazlogs]

It is currently 20:02 Pacific Time on Wed Sep 11 2002.

Currently in Saint Claire, it's a sunny day. The temperature is 78 degrees
Fahrenheit (25 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the
north at 9 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.93 and falling, and
the relative humidity is 46 percent. The dewpoint is 56 degrees Fahrenheit
(13 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waxing Crescent Moon phase (31% 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.


Salem's return from the outside world is heralded by the usual sounds of
keys and locks. The Walker comes in empty-handed tonight, his expression
dour as he closes the door behind him and resets the bolt and chain.

Cat hides the piece of newspaper by shoving it under the rest of paper on
the counter, looking at Salem over his shoulder with an innocent
expression, face perfectly calm. "Hello Mister Salem," he calls out, as
his hands stick his work more firmly under the paper.

Salem pauses, turning to regard Cat with a critical, almost suspicious
look. "Good evening, Cat," he says evenly, after a moment. He approaches,
shrugging out of his coat as he nears the cub. "What's that you have
there?"

"N-noth- um, the newspaper," he stammers, hands pressing flat on the edge
of the paper, holding it down, as he looks up at Salem. The innocent
expression is getting much more forced. Yes, it's that voice on the TV
commercials where the young child is lying about having spilled juice, but
Momma has the magic of Clorox- well, Salem has no TV, so maybe he won't
recognize the fib.

Salem may not have a television currently, though it's possible that he
grew up with one. In any case, he was raised by Shadow Lords. One eyebrow
rises. "The newspaper, hm?" He folds the coat over one arm and stands over
the cub. "_Just_ the newspaper?"

Cat wilts under Salem's presence. "Um, ye-es?" Is he lying? Not
-really-...it's -on- newspaper. "A picture on- in the paper," he adds,
trying to mix in as much clear truth as he can without giving himself
away.

Salem grimaces faintly, a touch of impatience in the expression. "What are
you hiding from me, Cat?" he asks, quite calmly.

Sullenly and slowly, the cub takes his hands away from the newspaper to
rest in his lap, twisting and curling the fingers together. "You won't
like it," he mumbles unhappily, staring at his hands.

Salem's eyes narrow. "I won't, won't I? Well. We'll see. Show me." It's
definitely an order.

A touch of moon in Cat's demeanor as one hand reaches up and shoves the
newspaper aside. It doesn't fall off the counter, luckily. One-third of
the drawing is bared then, mostly the lower part of bodies as the rest of
the newspaper is slanted over it. "I know it's not good," he chokes out,
cheeks flush with shame. One black pencil rolls out from the newspaper- it
does fall off the counter.

It's a ripped-away page of the newspaper, from the Lifestyle section, upon
which a gigantic ad is printed. That's not the interesting part, though.
Since the ad is mostly grey and so large, someone has seen fit to draw
upon it for lack of construction paper. Balloon figures (you know, like
the bathroom people) stand in front of a giant black wheel of
spokes...maybe it's a snowflake. Or a spiderweb.

	There are six balloon figures. The smallest has a yellow head, a
sloppy face, and blue dots for eyes...the tallest, lines drawn over the
face and two black lines for eyes. Two 'women' figures, only apparent from
the skirts they're wearing. One of the balloon figures is very skinny,
with a messy black mop of hair and green dots. The last balloon figure has
wild black hair that loops down in a long ponytail and only one eye and
black strokes under his arms that might be a trenchcoat. Written in
surprisingly neat script at the bottom (only surprising because the
artwork itself is pretty horrible) is 'May God Watch Over My Family.'

Salem's brow furrows. Shifting his coat from his right arm to his left --
he's right-handed, like almost everyone else in the world -- he reaches
out and snags a corner of the drawing, then pulls it out into full view.
For a long, long moment, he simply looks at it, his face going from
irritated and bemused to -- as the picture is revealed -- an expression
that's a good deal less easy to read. Touched, perhaps, or simply
stricken; there's a tangle of other emotions in there, too, passing
quickly as birds. It's almost impossible to say. And it's all gone within
a second, vanishing as the mask slams down over his face, his eyes. For
several seconds after that, he continues to look at the picture, and then
he lets it rest flat again on the counter and turns a stoic gaze toward
the cub's face.

Squinting eyes watch the hand come up and pull the picture out. Cat
winces, just imagining Salem's look of disgust at the childish picture.
"I'm just not -good- at art," he mutters angrily, trying to sound like he
doesn't care. One foot bumps against the counter and he presses his
fingertips together, just keeping his eyes on his fingers. "I
thought...that...Miz Rina might like it..."

Salem looks away, then heads over toward the bedroom to put his coat away.
"I'm sure she'll be very appreciative," he says over his shoulder, his
voice flat. He's got nothing to add to that, apparantly, or at least not
during the process of hanging up his coat.

Cat peeks up, hair dangling in his face- why, why, why won't someone give
him a haircut? -as he glances to his picture, leaning over a bit as if to
make sure it's all right. Then he looks up at where Salem used to be,
frowning slightly. Childishly, he calls out, "You're in it, Mister Salem,
did you see?"

"I saw," Salem replies. He emerges from the bedroom. "And John and Quentin
too, am I right?" His folds his arms across his chest and regards the cub
from the bedroom's doorway.

The theurge cub nods emphatically, one hand trailing over each appropriate
balloon figure as they are named by Salem. "An' Miz Rina, and Miss Mac."
Cat eyes the drawing with the critical gaze of the artist, then looks
under the newspaper where more colored pencils lie. "I forgot someone,
it's not done."

Salem reaches up and rubs at the left side of his face, fingers absently
trailing the network of ugly scar tissue. "Never mind that for a moment,
Cat. I need to speak with you."

Cat pauses, one hand lifting the newspaper up and the other clutched
around the yellow colored pencil. "Uh...yes, Mister Salem?"

Salem lets his hand drop away from his face as he walks back over toward
the counter. "Yes. About the other night." He pulls out a stool and takes
a seat across from the cub, hands clasped together with the index fingers
steepled. "Are you happy, Cat?"

Blue eyes blink, startled, and Cat's fingers uncurl from around the
pencil. The newspaper is laid flat. "Um...right now?" Cat muses, glancing
from the drawing, to the case of Dr. Pepper at his feet (the one that
Rhiannon brought over earlier today) and then back up at Salem. He smiles
a bit, unsteady but true. "Mmhmm. Today was a good day. I finished
/Ordinary Men./"

Salem doesn't smile back. He remains impassive, though the darkish circles
under his eyes give him a rather weary look. "In general. Are you happy?"

His toes curl on the corner of the soda case, and Cat's smile fades, till
it's just one upquirked corner of his mouth. "I..." He looks at the
picture, studying it for the answer. His fingers drum on the table, the
beat unsteady and the pattern not really a pattern at all.

Salem studies Cat's face, then nods once. "I see." He looks down at his
hands, then back at the cub. "What do you _want_, Cat? Not right now, in
general. Think carefully about your answer." The calm seriousness of his
tone might be, for a cub in a certain frame of mind, frightening.

What's frightening to Cat is that Salem, aloof and stoic Salem, is asking
him these questions. He eyes Salem with a worried, 'are you feeling okay?'
kind of glance. "Have you been talking to Miz Rina?" is the gentle, if
slightly accusatory, query.

Salem arches a brow slightly. "Rina? No. I haven't seen her since this
weekend." He lifts his head slightly, monocular gaze intently focussed on
the cub. "Answer the question, please." Still, his voice is deadly,
deathly calm.

"I..." Cat starts again. Something about Salem's voice worries him. He
looks the Walker over again. Salem, Salem was sitting there as interested
and intent on his happiness like someone concerned, like... Another pause,
another long hard look at the picture. "I think so," he says softly,
tugging the drawing a little closer to him. "I have a -family- here.
Quentin said so. Miz Rina said so. And...and I really want a family." He
takes a deep breath, moves one hand up to run through his hair helplessly.
Evening-sky eyes glance at Salem. "I'm happy here...you're not going to
send me away again, are you?"

Salem doesn't answer that right away, but merely gazes into the cub's
face, his own stony. Then he straightens up, the steepled fingers
collapsing into his folded hands. "No," he says then, at last. "I have a
responsibility toward you, as well as toward our tribe. Whatever happens,
I'm not going to simply send you away."

The cub quirks a small relieved smile, before frowning at a thought.
"You..." he starts. "Am...hn." A pause, as he tries to collect many
different ideas and get a coherent, non-stuttery sentence. Cat looks down
at his hands, shamed again at memory. "Do I cry t-too much?" he asks,
hesitantly, looking up with his question. "I'll try not to. Harder. I
mean, um." Gaze falls again.

"A Garou's life is confrontation. War. Violence. Blood. Death." Salem's
voice is flat, his face impassive. "And the city, as wonderful as it is,
represents the front lines. The forefront of conflict." He pauses a beat,
the edges of a pensive frown tugging at his mouth. "I worry that I've been
doing you a disservice by sheltering you as much as I have, but neither am
I confident in your ability to face the city on your own feet."

One hand reaches up to scratch behind his ear. "I thought I was a
-theurge-," Cat bursts out, almost angrily. Angry at what? "I thought I
got to learn about the Umbra and see spiders and roaches. I like that, I
like spirits and webs and crossing over into the Umbra and shifting..."
His voice lowers back to normal levels, and his feet shuffle on the case
of soda repentantly. His eyes glance up at Salem's briefly, although his
posture is still a little hunched. "I'm trying harder, honest. Miz Rina
said she'd teach me to shoot." A pause. "An' I said okay."

Salem's jaw clenches at the angry tone, though this relents somewhat when
the cub's voice reverts. "You're a theurge, but this is still a war. You
_will_ have to fight sometimes. You will _have_ to keep your head in a
conflict. Or else it won't be just your life that's put in jeopardy. If
the enemy attacks and you break, if your pack is forced to save your skin
because you've frozen up, there will be death. And if there isn't, it will
be stupid luck." He says nothing about the news of Rina's offer to teach
him how to use a gun.

Cat pulls his legs up to his chest, balancing precariously on the seat.
"But- but-" He has no defense against Salem's argument, and just looks at
him with wide blue eyes. He knows Salem is right- Salem knows he is right.
Nervously, the cub wets his lips, fingers clutching at the fabric of his
slacks. "Wh-what can I do? Now? I don't know how to fight!" And then,
quickly added, "Yet..."

Salem hardens and grows cold. Like granite, like ice. "You can start by
learning to suck in your fear. Acknowledge it and ignore it. You can start
by standing up straight and looking people in the eye. You can start," he
says, "by acting your age. You're fifteen. You're not a child, and it's
time you stopped behaving like one."

As Salem starts speaking in the colder, sterner tones, Cat reflexively
begins to curl up- then stops and tries...to do something. Namely, stare
at the Walker cliath with a stunned, frightened-bird expression. He has no
idea to how to even begin to respond to that, in body language or in true
words. He's too surprised to even cry.

"I've been patient with you," the Philodox continues, not relenting in the
slightest. "And I will continue to be patient with you. But I have no
intention of coddling you anymore. Do you understand?"

There is no one to look to for help, to hide behind. He understands the
words, and their meaning...it's what is prompting this discussion that Cat
can't puzzle out. That, and how he should reply. "C-coddling?" he echoes,
soft voice tinged with disbelief. He blinks, mind still racing in circles,
in and out of his present life and of his storybooks. "What...what happens
to me then?"

Salem unfolds his hands and pushes to his feet. "I have the day off
tomorrow. We're going out, and we're going to get you a haircut, some
decent shoes, and some decent clothes. The day after tomorrow and every
day thereafter, you'll get up with me at five in the morning and you will
join me when I go running. Moreover, you will drop the 'Mister' and 'Miz'
thing, starting now. My name is Salem. If we're out and someone outside of
the family asks, you're my brother's son and may call me 'Uncle Jack', but
only then. John you will call 'John' or 'Smith'. Rina is 'Rina'. Et
cetera. Understood?"

Cat leans back a bit as Salem stands, nearly losing balance and falling
off the stool. His hands fly to the counter, one splayed on the top and
the other around the edge. The stool tilts back on two legs, but then
pitches forward again and the cub manages not to fall off. He stares at
Salem in complete disbelief. Exercise regimen? Sticklike boy, running? One
hand tugs on his collar protectively. His clothes? He liked his clothes!
Then the bombshell. No prefixes on names. Politeness was the core of his
existence, practically, and at a basic level the boy knows this. Maybe
Salem's perceptive enough to see that moment that the theurge's eyes gain
a small blue spark of defiance, maybe lent by the moon. "F-fine. But..."
The gaze wavers, and there's a noticeable pause, a deep breath. "No to the
names part."

Salem stares directly into Cat's eyes, unblinking. Every year of bitter
existence, every ounce of noble breeding, every iota of controlled,
snarling rage, and every bit of that iron-clad will throw their weight
behind that gaze. It's not one to be denied. "Yes to the names part.
You're a _Garou_, damn you, and you will act it. You will respect your
elders, but you _will_ look them in the eye and you _will_ avoid peppering
every single utterance of our names with slavish mewling." He leans
forward, showing a hint of teeth. "Is. That. Clear?"

A second or two of Salem silently staring would have been enough to make
Cat retract his words. At the first emphasized word, however, he curls a
bit. Just a little, a dip of one shoulder, really. At the second, a little
more. When Salem leans forward, though, Cat leans towards the counter,
still holding onto it with almost-white knuckles. Terribly confused by the
sudden changes of 'typical' behavior in the Walker cliath, the theurge cub
can only stare up at him, eyes showing a hint of fear. "Y-yes Mi- Say-" He
swallows, lciks his lips and hurriedly adds "Salem."

Salem holds the stare for a few more heartbeats, then nods and
straightens. His face smooths, turning perfectly calm again. "Good," he
says smoothly. "Now stand up straight."

The drawing's one edge has been crumpled by the boy's hands, a fact made
apparent as Cat releases the counter-edge to sit up 'straight'. It's not
perfect, there's still a slight bend to his back. Years of slouching and
bad posture, not from lack of effort.

Salem eyes the effect critically for a moment. "Hmn." He seems to accept
it for now, and turns away, toward the refrigerator. "If you have anything
to say, by the way, say it."

Cat blinks, opens his mouth a bit in surprise at the offer. "Um," he says,
watching Salem walk off to the fridge. His gaze goes down at the
slightly-rumpled drawing. It looked complete, actually, and besides there
was no room to add Sunshine. Then the boy -does- have something to say,
and he bites his lip, glancing at Salem's back. Of course, he's hesitant
to say it. No idea how the Walker may react.

"'Um', what?" Salem doesn't look back at the cub, but there's a touch of
impatience in his voice. He gets an orange from the fridge and rummages a
small knife out of the silverware drawer near the sink.

Blue eyes look down at the picture again. Softly, and it's very possible
it's spoken too low for Salem to hear properly, Cat murmurs, "Can I say
you're my dad instead of my uncle?"

Salem apparantly managed to catch enough of it to pause. A breath later,
he turns to face Cat with an unreadable expression, orange in one hand,
thin little fruit-peeling knife in the other. "...Pardon?"

Cat looks up from the drawing, his eyes catching on the fruit-knife for an
instant before meeting Salem's unreadable gaze. He takes a deep breath,
and in the last of his moon-given bravery, repeats more loudly (if more
rushed) "Can I say you'remydad, insteadof my uncle?"

Salem just looks at Cat for a moment. Then, finally, he shakes his head
and takes a seat at the counter. "I'm not quite old enough to be your
father, Cat. Not unless I sired you when I was around _your_ age."

"Oh." Pause. "'Kay." The theurge shrugs one shoulder as he tugs the
drawing into his lap (and behind the counter), trying to hide his
disappointment by looking down at his meager attempt at art.

Salem's mouth twists slightly. Then he shakes his head and takes the knife
to the orange, removing the peel with methodical, fastidious care. "How
old do you think I am anyway?" The question's half-rhetorical.

Cat looks up, thumb tracing the outline of the scripted words, and cants
his head as he thinks about his answer. The uncertain reply he puts forth
is "Thirty?" Then the added, "Eight?"

Salem should have known better than to ask a question like that, and
judging from the rueful look on his face, he's realizing that now. "You're
nine years off," he tells the cub, rather dourly.

Blue eyes blink in confusion, and Cat tries again. "Forty-seven?"

Salem puts the peeling knife down, the orange denuded. "I'm twenty-nine."
Is that a touch of irritation in his voice?

Probably. Cat quickly tries to, somehow, pacify Salem. "Oh, well, um, I
guess that's pretty young then." Pause. "To be my dad." Another pause,
this one heralding the thought that maybe he should quit while he was
ahead.

Salem shakes his head and starts pulling the orange apart into its
component slices. He sets a quarter-section of the fruit in front of Cat,
though his expression's still more than a little disgruntled. "Just a
bit."

One hand reaches for the orange, spinning it in a slow circle before
picking it up. Cat takes a bite out of the orange, careful not to drip any
juice on the picture. He's saving it for Rina. "Um...how was your day?" he
asks, trying to get onto safer ground.

"Tolerable," answers the Philodox. Flat. "Recite the Litany for me."

Safer. But not by much. "Uh-m...in order?" Cat asks, holding the orange in
mid-air, having been about to take a bite. "I...um...I'm not sure I know
them all...yet..."

Salem's eyes narrow. "Recite what you remember. Order isn't necessary." He
pops one of the slim, pulpy slices into his mouth. The orange is one of
the seedless variety.

The blond boy looks down at his juice-sticky fingers, mumbling under his
breath before saying in a stronger voice, "Garou Shall Not Mate With
Garou," he rattles off easily. A pause. "Accept An Honorable
Surrender...um...um...The Veil Cannot Be Lifted..."

Salem eats another slice, nodding once at each law. He says nothing,
offering no prompts, as the cub falters. "Go on."

Oh, like it's all that easy. "Leader Can't Be Challenged In
Wartime...Leader Can Be Challenged In Peace." Stalling for time, Cat takes
a bite of his orange, thinking as he chews. After he swallows, he's
dredged up a few more. "Respect For Those Below You, Submission To Those
Higher In Station. You Shall Not Eat The Flesh Of Humans. Um...Respect The
Territory Of Others, and. And." Through some fluke, the boy hasn't
stuttered. Triumphantly, he announces what he believes to be the last.
"Combat The Wyrm Wherever It Dwells And Breeds."

Salem has eaten several more slices of his portion of the orange by the
time Cat finishes. "You missed three. The first share of the kill goes to
the greatest in station. Do not suffer your people to tend to your
sickness in death. And you shall take no action that causes a caern to be
violated."

Cat's still got a bit to go on his orange slice. "Oh," he says softly,
looking slightly crestfallen. He'd been so sure he'd gotten them all, too.

Salem grunts. He finishes the last of his orange in silence, then glances
over toward the clock on the bookshelf. "It's late," he notes flatly and
gets up, gathering up the bits of peel as well as the knife. "Think about
what some of those laws mean, and then go to bed." As he turns away to
throw out the peel and wash off the knife, he adds, without any greater
warmth, "And think about what kind of lunch you want to have tomorrow.
Pizza, Chinese... anything but McDonalds." The cub might recall, then,
Salem's earlier words about haircuts and shoes and more clothes.

Jerkily, Cat nods, overly long curls tumbling into his eyes as he takes
another bite of his orange. A quick swallow. "Yessir," he promises,
automatically adding the sir and not even realizing he'd done it,
apparently, from the way he goes on eating his orange. Happily. The
prospect of an outing tomorrow- even if it means losing the clothes -is an
exciting one to the cooped-up cub.

Salem lets the 'sir' slide; he doesn't even look around. He finishes
washing the knife, dries it, then puts it away; the dish drainer remains
empty and forlorn for another night. Then he vanishes into the bedroom and
closes the door, leaving the cub to his own devices.