Smith vs Salem

[hazlogs]

Date: 9/25/2002. Wednesday.

Currently in Saint Claire, it's a sunny day. The temperature is 76 degrees
Fahrenheit (24 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the
north at 7 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.04 and falling, and
the relative humidity is 34 percent. The dewpoint is 46 degrees Fahrenheit
(7 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning Gibbous Moon phase (74% full).


[John's phone rings.]

John picks up the phone in the usual manner - a curt one-word answer.
"John."

"Smith. Good." Salem's voice is brisk and cold. Flat. "We need to talk. In
private."

"How private?" comes the eventual reply.

"The bunker will do," says the Philodox. "Now... unless you're occupied."
There's a dangerous note of dominance in Salem's voice, like a challenge
to the Ahroun's authority. Not to mention ill-repressed anger; one can
almost picture him seething.

"Very well." The Ahroun, for one, seems strangely confident - almost
pleased by the tone. "Be there in fifteen minutes."

"I'll be waiting." The connection clicks off.

(...)

It's over twenty minutes before the sleek black van pulls up outside the
bunker with a crunch of tyres on gravel. John enters the structure looking
strangely peaceful for an Ahroun so close to his moon.

The ugly little Yugo's already parked outside, and its owner is waiting,
just as he said he would be. Salem's trenchcoat is sprawled over a cot
along with a red flannel overshirt; in t-shirt and jeans, hair tied back
into a ponytail, the Philodox stands, his arms folded, his expression
dark. His gaze immediately fixes on John's face, seeking his eyes, and he
looks just as pissed-off as he sounded on the phone.

John doesn't pay the Philodox any special attention as he stalks into the
bunker as if he owned the place, and starts to strip off his own coat.
Powerful, scarred arms are brought into sight beyond that intentionally
tight black t-shirt. The Elder grunts, "Take off your boots and your belt,
and any rings or jewellery."

"Do you even know what this is about?" The Philodox is keeping his
breathing slow and even by force of will. He doesn't quite manage to hide
the hint of scorn.

"Does it matter?" John asks mildly, looking up at Salem suddenly in the
process of removing his own boots. His expression is frank and openly
questioning.

Salem stares at him for a moment before his face twists into a grimace.
"If it was _nothing_," he says, nearly spitting the word out, "if I just
wanted to _challenge_ you, I'd wait until the f--" He grits his teeth.
"Until the new moon. When there's less chance of us losing control and
killing each other."

"Would you?" The Ahroun seems slightly surprised. "So. Give me your
excuse, Jack." His face tigthens slightly, and his eyes narrow. "And take
off your fucking boots." The last is... quite definitely pitched as an
order. Cold, and lacking the disinterest of previous conversation.

Salem doesn't move; his jaw sets stubbornly. "My... excuse." He unfolds
his arms, his voice dangerously quiet. "You smug little--" He cuts himself
off with a scowl. "This isn't about _me_, you hypocritical idiot. This is
about Quentin. Our young Galliard who _someone_ has convinced that we're
all doomed within twenty years no matter what anyone does, so why should
he bother to be anything but a mindless little soldier?" His temper's hot
and growing hotter, straining at the leash. "This is about a certain
_Elder_ filling a cub's head with defeatist _trash_."

Any warmth that might have remained in John's expression or posture
disappears in its entirety. Now, the Ahroun stalks quietly and gracefully
towards the half-moon. His fists hanging loosely by his sides. "He took it
that way, huh? A cub got his perspective a little mixed up by what I told
him I think'll happen, hm?" The words are low and quiet. "Guess I'll have
to have /another/ little talk to set him right and cheer him up. ...Won't
that be difficult." The question ends flatly, as ice-cold eyes bore into
the Philodox. "But I got more important things to deal with, Dark One. I
got a self-righteous, stubborn, prideful, /disobedient/ 30-year-old Cliath
on my hands who won't follow orders." The Ahroun's only a few metres away
from Salem now, and slowly, slowly getting closer. "But even worse than
that... even worse than picking a cub's misunderstanding as an excuse to
get angry... is /lying to himself/ about everything in his life, and won't
take even the simplest hints I leave lying around for him."

Salem stands his ground, nostrils flaring, every muscle tense with
barely-restrained anger. Dark eye and blind eye meet the pair of matching
blues head-on, unflinchingly. Small muscles in his neck and jaw twitch,
and in his unscarred cheek as well, just under the eye. His own hands
close into fists, but he manages -- somehow -- to keep his voice even.
"What... _precisely_... did you say to him?"

"I don't remember 'precisely', Jack," John murmurs lightly, his own eyes
turning peaceful, as he stares down into the Dark One's. "And it doesn't
matter. Only an Ahroun would think of this as an excuse to fight. Only an
Ahroun would be standing here, radiating rage and clutching his fists like
you are..." The Elder's gaze doesn't even flicker down to check. "Hurting
your palms with your nails, El Diablo?" he murmurs softly in question.

There's a pause. His arm twitches, perhaps, but he's still in control.
Barely. "I've asked you," Salem says, warningly, "not to call me that."
He's making a valiant effort not to react to the Ahroun pushing his
buttons, but the chains on his temper are eroding away quickly and might
easily snap. "And if you tell me, _truthfully_, that Quentin misunderstood
what you told him, then we have no argument. I've done what I can to
persuade him otherwise, but until he's fixed he's not worth Riting. He's
barely worth keeping alive."

"Quentin misunderstood," John notes flatly. "But I think he got quite
close to the heart of my message, and took it quite hard." A slow smile
grows on the Ahroun's face, though it has little warmth. "Because quite
frankly, in the scheme of things, neither you nor I really matter-- except
to the ones we care about. Not in the world-changing way. Everyone has to
find something else that's important and worth fighting for. Something
they can see be achieved. Something that'll give them results.
...Otherwise you just spend all your life fighting."

Salem's eyes narrow, though they don't waver from John's own. "Perhaps you
should have told him _that_," he says tightly, through gritted teeth.
"Rather than simply doomsaying."

John tilts his head slightly - though their gaze remains locked and
unbroken. "Simple misunderstanding. Everyone makes mistakes every now and
then." His tone quietens a little more, turning almost sing-song. "Don't
they... /Jack/?"

Salem makes a noise, low and brief, in the back of his throat. Almost like
a growl. He tightens down on the control, hard, and his voice gets very
quiet as a result. "What. In Gaia's name. Do you _want_ from me. ...Mr.
_Smith_." He still hasn't averted his eyes.

The Ahroun's eyes get an odd little glint in them - almost excitement.
"Close to the edge, aren't we, Mr. Salem?" he murmurs. "What I want...
want I want is a packmate and Tribesmate and all-round Lieutenant who's
going to have a good look at himself and see if he's going to keep
pretending to be something he's not. I want to know... if you can keep
this resolve of yours up ...Ahroun."

Salem takes a step closer to the other Walker. Just one step. His good eye
has its own little glint, and it's a dangerous one. "You're goading me. Do
you think I'm stupid? That I don't _know_ what you're trying to do?"
Without taking his eyes from the Ahroun, he unstraps his watch and tosses
it toward the cot. "If you really want to fight, we'll fight." His voice
turns harsh, biting and sardonic. "And why don't you go ahead and tell me
what you think I am, since you're so very, _very_ eager to do so."

"Jealous. And afraid." John only murmurs the word in a soft breath. "C'mon
Jack. You've been wanting to put a fist in my face for months, now. For
testing you... and getting away with it. For being the leader. For being
younger, for having Rina, for being able to /be who I am/. What we both
are. Full-moons, in the blood. You can't seriously tell me the Half-moon's
what you feel you are in your blood. Can't tell me it's what gives you the
urges... No. You have to exercise that impressive willpower of yours, and
force yourself to think like one. You're all about control. You're all
about lying to yourself... but ask any stranger to sniff you out and say
your moon... they'll guess the full, alright. You deny... /everything/
about yourself, out of fear of what will happen. Fear of losing that
/precious/ dignity you have left."

Salem pulls the necklace off from around his neck; both the cord and the
little bird hanging from it end up on the pile on the cot. He's wearing no
belt and no other jewelry; there's nothing left but his boots, but to
remove those, he'd have to break the mutual stare, and he's clearly
unwilling to do so. "You don't know me," he says, flatly. "You don't know
what I fear. You don't know what keeps me awake at nights. You just
_think_ you do."

John closes the distance between the two of them, looking down into
Salem's eyes unblinkingly. "Doesn't matter. It's all the same. Secret
shames. Failures. The tormentors and the dead innocents. None of it
matters. When I leave this world, I'll leave behind a wife and a child,
and people who knew who I was, and cared about that person. What will you
leave? A corpse no stiffer than when it was living, who no-one ever really
knew. You're losing, either way. In life and death. " The next few words
are clear, and well-announciated. "...All because you're so fucking
afraid." The pin drops, with John's whisper. "Coward."

That did it. The rage, provoked beyond tolerance, snaps free of its
chains, and in a blur of motion, faster than mortal eye can see, the
hot-tempered Philodox surges upward into the war form, lunging at the
Ahroun with a roar, jaws gaping and claws-first -- unthinking, uncaring,
nothing but hate and anger and the desire to _kill_. The Demon, made
flesh.

No-one provokes a former full-moon into Crinos a mere foot from their face
without being prepared for the consequences. And the consequences are so
fast, that any witness could easily blink and miss the entire thing.
Fights between Garou rarely last long. Salem's explosion into violence,
and its result, is no exception.

With just as much - if not more - speed, the suddenly sleek, black,
heavily-scarred and naked-armed monstrosity that was John Smith slips
almost immediately around the Demon's lunge, slashing at his face and
bringing him to the ground with the Full Moon's gift. Long, white teeth
sink into Salem's neck from the side, in the descent, whilst claws rake
and tear down his ribs and back.

For his part, maddened with rage and bloodlust, Salem twists unexpectedly,
under the Ice-Walker, turning like a cat to kick and claw at the Walker
Elder with unforgivingly clawed feet; curved black talons rake at the
Ahroun's belly; just in time, the Ahroun twists his own body, and the
curved black talons rend at his ribs instead, turning the flesh there into
bloody ribbons while the Ahroun does the same to the Philodox's back. In
the frenzied grappling that follows, both warriors rend and tear at each
other's flesh for entire seconds... and the teeth never leave Salem's
throat.

That alone ends the fight as soon as it does, since even a frenzied Garou
needs air in order to continue to fight. Salem's struggles weaken... by
the time he finally succumbs to unconsciousness and the frailty of breed
form, both Glass Walkers are slick with blood, both their own and the
other's, and badly mauled.

As the struggles cease, and Salem kicks his last, the Ice-Walker shifts
down from Crinos with his Tribesmate - so as not to crush him. Oddly
enough, the Ahroun's teeth don't leave Salem's neck... not til he hears
heartbeat. And faint, laboured breathing. Skin and flesh comes away in
John's mouth as he pulls himself up a little. Clothes have come back to
his form untouched, save for the blood. Looking down at his unconscious
comrade, John slumps into a sitting position, resting on a gore-covered
elbow. "Way to go, Jack..." he murmurs tonelessly, before wincing with the
pain and rolling onto his own back while he lets his hands move over his
gut, to check and make sure nothing's spilled out. The very motion brings
torn muscles into play, and the pain makes him groan. "Fucker."

Salem might say the same, if not for the unspoken promise to an unnamed
Bone Gnawer. And if he was conscious. The neat black clothing grows
darker, slicker, as it absorbs the blood from the halfmoon's injuries.

Right on cue, a rather jaunty whistled tune echoes outside the heavy door
of the bunker. Tatt pushes her way into the concrete-walled shelter
lugging a large carboard box.

John pulls his head up, and grimaces with pain. Salem could well bleed to
death, unconscious... He winces, and lets his head fall back for him to
spy the intruder - the Strider. He just lies there a moment, watching her
with a pained expression, up-side down.

The lanky Galliard sniffs once as she scents fresh blood, and blinks.
Slowly--very slowly--she sets her load on the floor and surveys the scene.
Both tattooed arms fold across her chest as she murmurs, "_Putan tus
madres hombres._" Her voice is very low, and her topaz gaze is flinty as
she steps over to kneel by Salem's prone form. A brusque hand checks for
the pulse at his neck.

The Ice-Walker's eyes squeeze shut for a few moments and he rumbles gruff
and tight, "Lecture me and I /will/ kick your ass." A moment later, he
grunts with effort and pulls himself up a little onto his elbows.

Some kind of tension snaps in the Strider, abruptly: in one sudden,
rage-blurred movement she backhands the unconcious Philodox across the
face and rises to aim a similar blow at the side of the Ahroun's head.
"_Vergonzoso_," she spits, bitterly.

There's a flash of Rage in the Ahroun's eyes, and in a like blur of
movement - that's not entirely supernatural - his legs whip up and about,
locking with the Strider's to pull her down to the ground with a heavy
thump. In a smooth, follow-through movement, John's broken and torn chest
slips close, bringing him eye-to-eye with the strider. There's savagery
implicit in the blood smeared all over his mouth. "Watch it," he grunts
tightly, eyes boring into hers.

Salem grunts, his head rocking sideways at the blow, eyelids flickering.
Consciousness twitches back into the too-pale face, teeth gritting as the
world comes back to the halfmoon and with it, weakness and pain. He utters
an inarticulate sound, a wet, gurgling noise, then rolls halfway onto his
side to cough out a wad of phlegm and blood.

Tatt hits the concrete floor with a grunt, her yellow-eyed glare intense
for an unblinking moment before she head-butts the Ahroun rather viciously
in the face. "..Watch /that/," she mutters.

"In... satiable," Salem rasps. He sprawls out weakly on his back again,
rolling an eye over toward the pair. He registers Tatt's presence with
dull surprise, then fixes his gaze on the Ahroun. "...Satisfied?"

John doesn't quite get to move his face out of the way in time. He just
doesn't have enough left in him - that kick was evidently the last he had.
With a strangled, 'Grrk!' noise, he recoils, and rests - his head hitting
the floor and staying there. Eyes closed, he rasps out slowly, "Bitch."
With a herculean effort, he does manage to lift one hand and let it flop
so that one finger is pointing towards Salem. "Shift, you stubborn
bastard," he groans, and then does the same for himself. Glabro.

Salem regards John for another moment, then closes his eyes and, with an
effort of will -- probably one of the last shreds that he has -- forces
himself into the near-man form. He remains like that, breathing steadily
but shallowly through a slackened jaw.

"MotherFUCKing pussy-assed yellow-bellied pieces'a /shit/," the Strider
intones with a grimace disentangling herself from the Ahroun. She looks as
though she'd like to give Salem a swift kick in the gut, but instead spits
on the concrete floor somewhere near him. Passing a hand through her shorn
hair, she eyes her packmates with disgust.

"Ahrouns gotta fight sometimes," John whispers weakly, through cracked,
bloodied lips. He doesn't move, in any other way.