Pessimistic Cub

[hazlogs]

It is currently 10:51 Pacific Time on Wed Sep 25 2002.

Currently in Saint Claire, it's a sunny day. The temperature is 54 degrees
Fahrenheit (12 degrees Celsius). The wind is calm today. The barometric
pressure reading is 30.12 and steady, and the relative humidity is 90
percent. The dewpoint is 51 degrees Fahrenheit (10 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning Gibbous Moon phase (76% full).

Location: Whispering Pines - Rhiannon's Apt.


Salem announces his arrival with a brisk, businesslike knock.

It's a familiar knock, although as usual Quentin takes a look through the
peep-hole to make sure who it is before opening the door -- he steps back,
holding it open and greeting the man with a weary smile, "Hey."

"Good morning, Quentin." The Philodox removes his sunglasses as he steps
into the apartment, his face a stony mask that isn't particularly
encouraging. "Rhiannon out, I presume?"

"Yeah, she's out.. doing marshal stuff, I presume," Quentin replies with a
slight shake of his head, closing the door and turning to walk along back
into the living room before offering, "Coffee? There's a fresh pot." Perhaps
curiously, there's a large hard-back cookbook sitting open on the coffee
table, over all of the far more aggressive publications that usually sit
there.

Salem gives the cookbook a cursory glance before ignoring it. He shakes his
head at the offer. "No. Thank you." His gaze rests intently on the cub,
studying him almost critically; after a beat, he says, "I hear that our
esteemed Elder has been telling you about the end of the world." His tone is
flat but for a hint of biting sarcasm at the reference to John.

Quentin's steps pause for a moment, before he continues along towards the
kitchen to presumably get himself some of the aforementioned coffee. "Yeah,
what about it?" The question evenly spoken, as the counter dividing the
kitchen from the living room somewhat obscures his presence.

Salem follows Quentin into the kitchen after shucking off his coat and
draping it over Rhiannon's couch. "He's told you that we're all dead in
twenty years, no matter what, is this correct? That the war's as good as
lost?"

A moment's silence from the cub as he leans into the fridge to get out the
milk - revealing a pizza box and a number of take-out boxes as the main
inhabitants of the fridge at the moment - and then sets it on the counter.
"Yeah," he says quietly, doing his best to keep any editorial emotion out of
his voice as he reaches up to a cabinet to find a cup, "Pretty much."

Salem's jaw tightens. He's not surprised, unfortunately. "Lovely," he
mutters, irritably. He folds his arms across his chest and leans against the
wall, his gaze tracking the cub's movements dourly. "He's wrong."

Quentin sets the cup down onto the counter, next to the plastic container of
milk and the coffee machine, and rests both hands on it for a silent
moment-- and then asks in quiet, terse tones, "And how's he wrong?"

Salem straightens up, his arms unfolding as he steps toward the cub. He
reaches out to take the younger Walker by the shoulder and turn him around.
"Look at me, Quentin." It's not a request.

A moment's stillness, tension under the philodox's hand, before Quentin
turns back to face him with a frown.. both arms folding across his chest as
he gives him a rather sullen look. "You didn't," he points out, "Answer me."

Salem's eyes fix on Quentin's, and the look in them -- in the good one,
anyway -- is as intent as the cub's ever seen in the dour Cliath. "Because I
want your _full attention_ on me when I tell you that no one, _no one_ can
know the future. Not the wisest Theurges can say for certain when the
Apocalypse will happen, what form it will take, or what its outcome will be.
_None_. What Smith's told you is sh-- is garbage." His gaze burns down at
the young Galliard, and a thousand generations of noble breeding add their
weight to his words. "_He doesn't know._ And if the _thinks_ he does, he's a
fool."

Quentin briefly captures his lower lip between his teeth and worries against
it for a moment. "Then tell me," he says quietly, watching Salem with an
expression both defensive and hopeful, "Just how anything we do makes a
fucking difference? The big problem is that the Wyrm's all tangled up in the
insane Weaver's web or whatever, right? Then what the hell good does
fighting a few monsters and bogeymen do while fighting a defensive battle
just to hold onto the few places we /have/?"

"Because those places we hold are Gaia's heart. Her soul. Her _life_."
Salem's gaze remains intent. "While those places live, She has strength to
fight back. We keep Her alive, She keeps us alive, and it may be that we all
die in the process. Victory isn't any more certain than defeat." He inhales
a breath, nostrils flaring. "While we _live_, though, there's a chance."

"A chance for /what/, though?" Quentin glances away, unable to meet that
intent gaze for long, and says quietly, "I mean... honestly. Sure, we sit and
we hold the caerns... and our enemies run rampant over the other
ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the Earth and build up and attack us. And
if they lose, they just do it again, because /they've/ got the leisure to do
it. And humanity spreads further out and eats more of the planet up.. what
the hell are we holding out for, a miracle?"

Salem grimaces, nearly scowling with anger, though his ire isn't directly at
Quentin, not precisely anyway. "What we're holding out for is the future.
Tomorrow's potential." He takes a breath, calming himself somewhat. "And
I'll tell you something else. The Wyrm's people aren't unified. In fact,
they make the _worst_ of us look like a harmonious hive mind by comparison.
Their corruption makes them turn inward to devour each other as much as or
_more_ than they seek to devour _us_. The fact that your enemy outnumbers
you means _nothing_ when they can't, or won't, work together."

Quentin's eyes narrow, though he doesn't look back up as he comments dryly,
"They certainly seemed organized enough to kill a bunch of us and take over
the caern, even if they couldn't hold it."

Salem's upper lip lifts in an expression that'd be a smile if it didn't show
his teeth so ferally. "Listen to what you just said. They couldn't hold it.
A hundred of them, plus fomori, plus a spirit ally who could destroy Garou
without effort against... how many of us? Thirty? Forty? And we took it
back. We _won_."

"Yeah," Quentin says quietly as he looks back up to Salem, "We did. And..
there's still hundreds and hundreds of them out there, and they still
control everything else, and we're demoralized and weaker than we were
before. So it'll just happen again, won't it? And again, and again.."

Salem utters an abrupt snarl, the sound more lupine than human, and the cub
finds himself grabbed roughly by the collar and shaken. "Shut up! Are you
giving up? Are you?" He shoves the younger Walker violently back against the
counter, still keeping his grip. His good eye's gone golden. Though he
hasn't given Quentin time to reply, he repeats the question with anger, as
though the cub had refused to speak. "_Are you?_"

It's a gibbous moon, the cub's; that shows in the flare of rage that gleams
suddenly in his own green eyes, as he glares right back up at the older,
stronger man. Defiance where there would once have been fear. "John-rhya's
just whiling away the days until the end of the world," he replies, nearly
spits back out at the philodox, "You spend most of your time brooding and
snarling at people, from what I've seen. Maybe I should, if a life like
either of yours is what I have to look forward to."

Salem's face twists into a spasm of rage, then contorts, sprouting hair and
teeth and mass; mere seconds after Quentin's spit the last word out, a
nine-foot monster has him by the shirt and is lifting him bodily. The
ex-Ahroun bares his teeth in the cub's face, all repressed fury. ~Be _very_
careful what you say next, _whelp_. Because if you really have decided that
nothing's worth fighting for, if you really have decided to give up, then
you're not worth teaching. You're not worth Riting. You're nothing but
Wyrm-bait.~

Now there's fear in those green eyes -- he's upset, and pissed off, but
there's nothing quite like an nine-foot crinos baring its teeth at you to
set your heart to pounding and spill adrenaline hot into your veins. A hard
swallow causes the apple of his throat to rise and fall, as he looks to the
side rather that meet the blaze of anger there in that one golden eye. This
way he won't see death coming, either, if it does. And he'd really rather
not. "I never said I was giving up," he mutters tersely, fingers tightening
against his arms, "Like I told John-rhya, I'll be a good little soldier and
do my part. Just because I don't see any way to win doesn't mean I'm not
going to fight."

Another thick, deep growl bubbles out of Salem's throat. He doesn't sound
wholly satisfied with this answer... but he's satisfied enough. He lets go,
letting the cub drop to the floor ungently as he shifts back. "Lovely," he
rasps, with deep sarcasm.

A hand raises to rub against his collar where the philodox had lifted him,
rubbing against slightly-bruised flesh although the cub doesn't look back up
towards him still-- closing his eyes and saying flatly, "I'll do as I'm told
and expected, but you can't expect me to be all happy about it. None of you
are, after all."

Salem's eyes narrow. "And how long before you decide to join the so-called
'winning' team, I wonder?" His jaw tightens, lips thinning into a tight
grimace. "The other day, I told John that I considered you ready for your
Rite of Passage." He pauses a beat to let that sink in. "I was wrong."

Quentin sinks his teeth into his lower lip, but doesn't say anything-- he
just nods sharply, eyes still closed, arms still folded over his chest
though defensively rather than defiantly. Sinking back against the counter
and remaining quiet, more like the scared and hurting cub he was for the
week or two after his 'napping than his usual sarcastic self.

Salem regards the cub for a moment or two more, then exhales a breath and
turns away, heading back for the living room. "Think about what I've said,"
he tosses over his shoulder, brusquely. "And apologize to Lyra." He picks
his coat back up, shrugs into it with sharp, angry gestures. "And if you see
John before I do, be sure to let him know I'm looking for him." There's a
dire note in his voice at this last.

"Yes, sir." The words are just audible as they're spoken, as Quentin remains
just where he is. The coffee slowly cooling behind him, forgotten
completely.

Salem glances back toward the kitchen, his face still tight, the set of his
mouth grim. Then he shakes his head and heads for the door. "Give my regards
to Rhiannon. I'll let myself out."

No response to that, as Quentin just leans against the counter and.. waits,
evidentally, for the philodox to let himself out. At the very least, he
shows no sign of moving from there.

The door opens, then closes as Salem leaves, and Quentin's left alone again
in the apartment.