Neo-Night

[hazlogs]

It is currently 18:21 Pacific Time on Wed Oct 2 2002.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 62
degrees Fahrenheit (16 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in
from the northeast at 3 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.22 and
falling, and the relative humidity is 53 percent. The dewpoint is 45
degrees Fahrenheit (7 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning Crescent Moon phase (26% full).

The pool hall is busy despite it not yet being seven in the evening, and
over half the pool tables are occupied, while a knot of young men in dark,
baggy clothing is gathered around the foosball table. Salem's over at one
end of the bar, nursing a bottle of nonalcoholic beer, with a good deal of
empty space around him.

Scuro both sticks out, and, oddly enough, blends in. The white hair is a
definite stand-out, but somehow, she manages, either by dress or by
attitude, or both, to 'tone down' a good deal. Spotting Salem is easy,
after all. Crowded place, big empty clearing.

Plus, how many six-foot-three-or-thereabouts body doubles for Lucifer
_are_ there in this town?

One of the punks by the foosball table spots Scuro and lets out a low,
appreciative whistle, drawing the attention of his friends toward the
white-haired woman. Leering mutters and some grabbing of crotches follows
-- typical behavior for the young and testosterone-poisoned. And Salem
ignores it, lost in his own thoughts and a vague examination of the line
of bottles behind the bar.

The look given to the youths is of absolute disinterest, and at the same
time, witheringly cold and calm. Moving beyond the jibes and juvenile
behavior, the pale Shadow Lord makes her way towards the dark Walker.

Ribald laughter follows the Shadow Lord on her way to the bar, to the
saturnine figure who doesn't look up until she's almost upon him. His
first reaction is irritation, frowning as he turns to see who dares to
invade his personal space, but this vanishes as soon as the intruder's
revealed. "Scuro," he greets, reserved but amiable. He lifts the bottle in
salute.

Scuro inclines her head politely. "Salem." She pauses a moment, as if
gauging the time, the place, or perhaps the Walker's temperment. "The
woman in the park a week or so back, she is some type of law enforcement,
yes?"

Salem's temper is as good as it's apt to get, outside of the dark moon. He
certainly seems relaxed enough, though Scuro's question lifts an eyebrow.
"US Marshal, actually. Why?" He nods toward the stool next to him.

Scuro again, gives a polite nod, and sits on the indicated stool. She
frowns faintly, "Oh, its perhaps nothing... but she seemed quite intent on
hunting down a... pusher, or some such, that evening?"

One corner of the Walker's mouth quirks upward. "Yes. Part of her job,
after all." He studies her face, head tilted to favor his good eye. "Why?
Did you run into some kind of lead?"

Scuro withdraws a piece of paper from the front pocket of the hooded
jacket. It is a black fire, with blood red lettering, advertising a rave.
"Yesterday evening, as I was simply learning the city, I encountered
something that struck me as rather odd." She shrugs. "Again, probably
nothing, as I am not accustomed to American teenagers, but, anyway..." She
gathers her thoughts, and says, "There were two teenagers, a young man and
a young woman, putting these posters up along the shop fronts. The girl
never even seemed to blink, and, in fact, often posted flyer over flyer,
as though she wasn't even sure of what she was doing. The young man was
severely agitated, and suddenly shoved an innocent passerby, then
proceeded to fight him. The girl never even once turned around to her
companion. I, of course, stepped up to the young man, and when he wheeled
on me, I met his gaze. I got a glimpse of some sort of... overwhelming
/need/ for something, when two other young men stepped in front of me,
obviously intent on defending me from the ruffian. Without a word, he
grabbed his companion's hand and ran off. In their haste, she dropped a
small plastic bag containing these..." she fishes out a small pill from
her pocket, showing it to Salem. "It is my opinion the two were /on/ some
sort of substance, and perhaps I should talk to this US Marshal about
this?"

[Paged: The poster, a black page with screaming red lettering, advertises
a rave to be held on Thursday night. Directions are provided, along with
the line "sponsored by Neo-Night, Inc." Fancy printed poster. It looks,
really, like some wealthy media-savvy but older person's idea of what a
Rave poster should look like. Small plastic bag. Has 3-4 pills in it. Dark
red in color, stamped with a UL.]

Salem's gaze skims over the poster, the set of his mouth distainful, and
takes a swallow of his drink as he listens, grave and intent, as Scuro
describes the incident. The pill gets a more closer look than the poster,
but he doesn't seem overly intent on examining it. Not here and now,
anyway. "Mnh. Yes. Absolutely."

Scuro nods quietly. "I wanted to be certain she was trustworthy. And I
assume this is something of a law enforcement matter. Although, the two
young men who came to my 'rescue' indicated that often raves are not
'advertised'. So it seems... odd, to me."

Salem grunts. "Yes... the good ones are often learned about by word of
mouth." Irony's heavy in his voice at the word 'good'. "And Rhiannon's as
trustworthy as any of us. Did your would-be heroes know anything else of
interest?"

Scuro shakes her head. "Other than they seemed to share my sentiment that
something was quite 'off' about the young people. I believe they were
amused, and perhaps even disappointed, that the young man wouldn't fight
them." She shrugs, "They mentioned going to this event. I rather hope they
don't do anything foolish."

Salem shrugs dismissively. "On their heads if they do." He frowns faintly,
his eyes narrowing in thought. "Not that it wouldn't be worth checking
out, if it's significantly connected to something new and vicious coming
to the neighborhood."

Scuro smirks faintly, "Well, I have to admit, the idea of going had
crossed my mind, but I did not know how wise it would be to go into
something quite alien to me, alone."

Salem returns the smirk with one of his own, thin and crooked. "We'll
collect Alicia. Tatt, too." He glances toward the poster again. "When is
it?"

Scuro glances back at the poster as well, "Thursday, it would seem."

"Perfect." Whatever pensive gloom had been threatening the Walker earlier
seems to have evaporated; there's a glint in his eye as he studies the
poster. "'Neo-Night, incorporated,'" he reads, and snorts, then cocks an
eye at the Shadow Lord. "Find a place to stay, yet?"

Scuro shrugs faintly. "Here and there. The usual." A faint smile lights
her features, "You know how it is. And by the way, I stopped by the
library and did a search on that company. Came up with nothing. Granted,
all I did was hit one or two search engines, and the system /is/ limited.
But I thought a cursory inspection was better than none at all, yes?"

Salem inclines his head. "Agreed. Not that Thursday night gives us much
time for research. Well. We'll see what we can do." He takes another
swallow. "Apart from strange new drug addicts, how are you finding the
city?" The Walker's humor is very dry.

Scuro's lips purse faintly. "The city itself has been quite interesting,
but, I shouldn't get too attached, after all. I could be banished." Her
tone rides the faintest of lines between sarcasm and the utmost
seriousness.

Salem grunts. "One _hopes_ not. Still... you could always switch teams, if
so." He arches an eyebrow. He's not entirely serious, but he's not
completely joking, either.

"Better to switch teams than to switch leagues, at any rate," she returns,
amicably. "I swear. I would love to take him to meet some of his betters."
Her eyes widen, then she chuckles. "Ahem. At any rate."

Salem quirks a lopsided grin at that, his amusement muted, but no less
sincere for that. "One can but dream." He tips the neck of the bottle
slightly at her, pointing. "Consider it, though... if it comes to that.
Jarred's sphere of influence is meager, at best."

Scuro arches an eyebrow, watching Salem closely for a moment. "Indeed. I
shall remember that." Whether she means Salem's response to her, or the
remark about her tribal's elders influence, well, it isn't clear.

Salem inclines his head slightly; there's a glint in his eye that's almost
wicked, a touch of the old Rade tempered by the person he's become.

Scuro chuckles softly, and gazes towards a pool table. "So. Do you play?"

Salem follows her glance and affects a casual arrogance that's only
partially feigned. "On occasion. Care for a game?"

Scuro smirks, "Certainly, as I'm going to guess that none of these patrons
would indulge /you/ in a game."

Salem drains off the last of his mock-beer and gets up. "Intimidated, as
usual," he retorts. "Go pick us out a table while I refresh. Anything I
can get you from the bar?"

Scuro shrugs, looking towards the tables, "Oh. Surprise me."

Salem lofts an eyebrow, then nods, that thin half-smirk still ghosting
around his lips as he signals toward the bartender.