Getting Informed

[hazlogs]

It is currently 18:45 Pacific Time on Sat Oct 19 2002.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 63
degrees Fahrenheit (17 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in
from the southwest at 5 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.06 and
falling, and the relative humidity is 81 percent. The dewpoint is 57
degrees Fahrenheit (13 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waxing Full Moon phase (89% full).

Salem has Nick's phone number copied down on the pad by his phone. He
considers it thoughtfully for a moment, then picks up the phone and dials.

The phone rings once, twice, three times a lady, and then someone answers
it. "Hello?" There's a faint hint of background noise that indicates the
person on the other end is using a cell phone--though it's obviously
either a pretty good one, happens to be getting good reception, or maybe a
combination of both. The answerer's voice is male and sounds pretty much
like Nicodemus does.

"Nicodemus?" The Walker's tone of voice is brisk but polite, businesslike.
"This is Jack. Jack Salem."

This elicits a hefty, meaty, drawn out space of dead air that is,
eventually, punctuated by a very brief response. "Yeah?"

"I'd like to meet with you to discuss some information you obtained for a
friend of mine," Salem says. He sounds very calm, very dry. "About UL."

And yet another pause of perhaps too long a time before there's a
response. "Sure, no problem." Particularly perceptive people might notice
a bit of an edge has crept into his voice. "When and where?"

"As soon as is convenient for you," comes the reply. "I'll let you pick
the place." Call him Jack 'Mr. Accommodating' Salem.

Nicodemus seems to have regained what little composure he might have lost
earlier. "I imagine you'd prefer the information sooner than later, so how
about the Cup O' Joe by the SCCU campus in, say, an hour?"

"Excellent. Be seeing you." *click*

[...]

Campustown: Cup O-joes

Small, smoky, spendy, this little coffee shop sandwiched between
establishments more of the chain-store variety is a slice of pure 90's
Generation X available 24 hours a day. Pierced and painted goths bemoaning
the uselessness of life rub shoulders with the next generation of yuppies
getting their caffeine fix via daddy's credit card, while they wait in
line for one of the 20 different varieties of coffees, with flavorings to
create even more choice. To double the offerings, any of those can be made
with Cup O' Joe's very own Spiked! espresso beans which contain four times
the caffeine of normal espresso. For those of weaker heart, Joe's also
offers a selection of Nantucket Nectars in every flavor, and Crystal Clear
water in five, ranging from plain to peach. Sandwiches made on foccacia
bread in such scrumptuous flavors as avocado and sprouts and turkey and
pesto can be purchased for the modest price of around five or six dollars.

A semi-circular counter arcs out from a corner of the bottom floor,
furthest from and to the left of the front door. As many circular tables
as an possibly fit are squeezed into the area between the front window,
which is to the left of the front door, back into the room to the counter.
A set of stairs begins halfway down the right side of the room, leading up
to a cozy "reading room". Under the stairs is an open doorway leading into
another room out of the noisy hubbub of the front entrance. In clement
weather, six umbrella-shaded tables, capable of seating four people, are
out on the sidewalk along the main road of Campustown.

Outside of the shop, SCCU can be reached by taking the main road north,
while St. Claire is down I-90 if you head east. A 'sign' by the front door
advertises today's specials.

Salem gets himself a cup of decaf and takes one of the empty tables in the
middle of the coffee shop. He arrives at it just a bare second before a
larger group of five art students (at least, they're eccentric-looking and
paint-spattered); at a glance from the tall, scarred, Lucifer-lookalike,
the would-be artists decide to head for the counter instead.

Minute after minute drags by and people come and go. Ten minutes past the
designated meeting time, the low bass grumble of a souped-up muscle car
subtly rattles the windows of the shop as it parks out front. Nicodemus
slips out, gives the heavy door a shove to close it, and enters the coffee
store. Today's style is apparently 'gothic geek.' He offers a nod towards
the hard-to-miss Salem before heading over to pick up something to drink
from the counter.

Salem is, by this time, simmering quietly. Of course, the moon being how
it is, he'd probably be simmering anyway. The rage may be under better
control than it was in the old days, but the ex-Ahroun still has an itchy
trigger-finger, temper-wise. He returns the nod and shifts his weight in
the chair, settling into a position that mimicks something casual as he
waits for the goth to sit down.

Nicodemus takes care of business at the counter, collects a medium
frappacino, walks over to join the ex-ahroun in the seat opposite him.
"Sorry. Traffic was murder." He pulls the seat out and settles in, placing
his drink in front of him and working on unwrapping a straw.

Salem nods understandingly, following the motions of social niceties. "No
problem. And I'll keep this as short as possible." With a controlled,
deliberate motion, he lifts his cup and sips. "Alicia said that you were
able to analyze, or find someone to analyze, the organic component in UL."

[OOC Note: At this point, Salem turns on Truth of Gaia.]

Nicodemus, in the midst of pulling the paper wrapper off the straw,
suddenly flings an arm up defensively and falls out of his chair,
managing to kick the table and cause everything on it to bounce and tip
dangerously in the process. He even manages a "Fuck!" before he hits the
floor.

The table's violent motion jars the Garou's elbow, the one holding the cup
of decaf. The cup of still-hot coffee that doesn't, currently, have a lid
on it. Hot liquid splashes over Salem's arm and wrist; the Garou shoves
upward to his feet with a foul-sounding word in Serbian, sending his chair
clattering backward onto the floor.

Heads turn. Somebody yelps. And for a moment, there's a flash of something
very angry, very vicious, very _savage_ snarling out of Salem's eyes,
turning the calm face into a tight, snarling mask, full of scars and
murder. For that moment, it looks like he's going to smash the table,
lunge through the wreckage, and beat his contact to a pulp.

Just for a moment. The iron will clamps down on the rage and throttles
back on the beast.

Nicodemus carefully gets back to his feet, eyes rivetted on Salem and
apparently oblivious--and totally unembarrased--about having just fallen
out of his chair gracelessly and causing a spectacle, not to mention Salem
having gotten burned. He too looks to be very much on edge.

Salem's breathing is very controlled and very even, deliberately so. He
flexes the burned hand slowly, shakes it and, very carefully, bends down,
picks up his chair, and rights it. He ignores the stares, the sudden sharp
quiet that fills the coffee shop now. He ignores everything but the man
he'd come to meet. "Sorry about that." His voice is even, belying the
tightness of his face and body language. "You hurt?"

Nicodemus likewise ignores the stares, Salem meriting his entire attention
as if he almost expected him to come over the table--until he starts
talking again and righting his chair, which seems to slowly defuse the
situation. Then the goth glances towards some people trying not to stare
and his color shifts from stark white to a somewhat flushed and embarrased
light red. "Sorry, I..." He recovers quickly. "Fine, thanks. I've got a
bit of a medical condition." He says the latter part loud enough that
curious parties have some kind of explanation, as well as Salem. "You
okay?" The goth is already returning to his seat. Muted conversations
begin to pick back up in the shop as normalicy slowly begins to return.

Salem resumes his seat. He shakes his hand again, grimacing, then uses the
other to pick up a napkin and mop up some of his spilled coffee. The cup
is placed to one side. "Fine. A minor inconvenience, nothing serious." He
glances up and gives Nick a thin, tight smile.

Nicodemus mirrors with a forced smile of his own. "No harm done, then?" he
inquires rhetoricly as he slides his own napkin across the table for the
philodox to make use of if needed.

Salem does so, though by and large the mess is cleaned up; the only trace
left is reddened, scalded skin; the Walker continues to flex the fingers
of that hand slowly. "No harm done," he agrees. Then, almost visibly
shifting gears, he says, "Now, where were we?"

[OOC Note: Having lost his concentration on the gift, what with the
near-frenzy earlier, Salem activates ToG again.]

Nicodemus stiffens slightly, almost as if you'd gone and stood up abruptly
again. But this time the reaction is less severe and no one nearby at the
other tables seems to have even noticed it. He shakes his head, as if to
clear it, and adjusts his wireframed glasses with his left index finger.
"Sorry. Give me a second." He says this while apparently concentrating on
the table.

Salem's attention is focussed on the other man to a degree that most
people would find uncomfortable, even acutely so, but he seems to accept
the other's behavorial tics as nothing special. He even nods, sitting back
in the chair as though to put a few more inches of space between them.
"Take your time," he says quietly.

Nicodemus takes half a minute to compose himself, but seems to be more or
less fine by this point in time. "God, that's embarrasing," he says
quietly, just loud enough for you to hear. "Where were we, again?"

"UL," Salem prompts. His burned fist opens and closes. "The... organic
component in it. Alicia said you'd found out it was blood?" Like the
other, he keeps his voice pitched low.

"Yeah," Nicodemus confirms, pausing a brief bit after stating that and
looking towards you. Or past you. He doesn't seem completely focused
initially, but blinks and then does focus on your face. "Yeah. Trace
quantities."

Salem shifts his weight forward, his manner intent. "What _kind_ of
blood?"

[Nicodemus pages: As you speak, ToG pings false.]

Salem's eyes narrow a moment after he asks the question. He doesn't
retract it, however.

Nicodemus lifts a shoulder as he fingers the small crucifix around his
neck. "I don't know, really. I didn't have a big enough sample. With only
trace elements and a couple pills to work from there's practically no way
to tell. And it might have just been one pill, not them all. Or just that
particular batch."

[Nicodemus pages: And that pings false, too.]

"Hm." The Walker purses his lips. "Did you analyze the pills yourself?" He
studies Nicodemus with an intensity that falls just short of an
interrogator's spotlight, but the timbre of his speech keeps that facade
of calm.

[Nicodemus pages: The false signal bleeds out to nothing as you speak.]

Still fiddling with the crucifix between his fingers, Nicodemus keeps his
eyes on you as well, though not a constant and direct eye-to-eye scrutiny.
His gaze wanders, taking in everything from eye to ears to hands to neck
to fingers and how you even lean in the chair. "I majored in Chemistry for
a while in college. It wasn't exceedingly difficult."

[Nicodemus pages: The "false" reading returns as Nick speaks.]

"Chemistry?" Salem tilts his head, all the better to focus on Nick with
that one good eye. "Interesting. An individual with a _degree_ in
chemistry wasn't able to analyze the biological component of the pills at
all. Just that it was there."

Nicodemus blinks in faint surprise, but the look doesn't stay for too
long. "Different teachers stress different areas. No two educations end up
being the same. I can probably guarantee we had different instructors.
Probably from different colleges, too."

[Nicodemus pages: No falsehood pinging.]

Salem nods slowly at that. "Very likely. He was educated in L.A." He
considers the goth thoughtfully, with a faint frown. "I imagine that,
considering your vocation, you had access to better equipment as well."

Nicodemus gives a simple nod of his head in response, then turns the
tables on the Garou. "Why, Mr. Salem, are you involved in this little
investigation?"

[From afar, Nicodemus is lying this time too, apparently!]

Salem arches an eyebrow, Spocklike -- Mirror Universe Spock, what with the
beard and all. Then he inclines his head slightly, not quite a nod. "In
the manner of a highly interested civilian... yes. I like keep up with
what gets passed around. I also know a number of young people who frequent
the club scene, Alicia included. I get... concerned, sometimes, about
their health."

Nicodemus lifts a corner of his mouth in a highly muted show of amusement.
"You never really struck me as the type that be particularly concerned
about that kind of thing." The goth, still fingering his miniscule
crucifix necklace, offers, "If you could get me a much larger quantity of
these pills, I might be able to determine what kind of blood it is.
Failing that, I might have contacts that could determine it."

Salem lets one shoulder lift and fall in a shrug, making the gesture
almost seem casual. The skin over his hand and wrist remains a glaring,
angry red, however, a color that does not indicate a lack of pain. The
fingers continue to flex. "I'll see what I can do." He just about manages
to sound pleasant.

Nicodemus pauses for a moment, appearing almost lost in thought for a bit.
He then refocuses and asks another question. "Was there anything else you
needed so desperately to know--other than how I came by the information
and if I knew what kind of blood it was? Or was that it?" He doesn't seem
to be ready to leave, just asking a pointed question.

Salem considers that a moment before saying, "That's it, unless you've
come across any other rumors or bits of information in regards to it."

"I'm afraid I haven't," the goth claims. His frappucino sits utterly
neglected off to his right side, straw never having even been inserted.
"Have you or Alicia or whoever else is on that end come up with anything
else?"

[Nicodemus pages: False. And we'd both been doing so well, too.]

"Nothing substantial," says the Walker, with a little hint of rueful
regret. "Not yet. I'd be glad to keep you informed, though, should
anything crop up." He gives the other another of those thin smiles, a
layer of pleasant friendliness over the annoying pain of scalded flash and
the irritation of moon-fed pissiness.

Nicodemus pushes his frap towards you. "Go ahead and use that to cool off
the coffee burn. I shouldn't have the caffeine after... that incident
earlier." He's still toying with the silver crucifix, fidgeting and
restless in the Garou's presence. "On the off chance that I actually do
learn something else at a later date, and, assuming that there is perhaps
some kind of two-way street here, perhaps I could have your and Alicia's
numbers?"

[From afar, Nicodemus lies yet again.]

Salem hesitates a moment at that, his expression turning somewhat cool.
Then he reaches gingerly into his coat with the burned hand, his right,
and takes out a slim black holder, small and flat, perfect for stowing
business cards. The muscles in his jaw tighten, but otherwise he makes no
outward sign of complaint. The card he extracts, left-handed, and pushes
across the table is plain white, good stock, and contains a phone number
and a very generic-looking e-mail address from one of the Internet's
thousands of free e-mail sites. "There's where you can reach me," he says.
"Unfortunately, I don't have Alicia's number on me currently."

Nicodemus can't help but notice that your hand is burned more than you're
letting on, but he awkwardly lets the matter slide by as he accepts the
offered card. It's given a precursory glance, twiddled between his slender
fingers, and palmed in an almost unconscious movement as the goth resumes
talking simultaneously. "Mention it to her, would you? It was pure
serendipity that I ran into her by accident at the pizzaria earlier this
week after I'd learned some information a day or two before."

"I will," Salem says evenly. He tucks the card-holder back into his pocket
and pushes his chair back; it scrapes against the floor as he gets to his
feet.

Nicodemus remains seated, apparently staying on for a while longer. Or not
wishing to be seen leaving with Salem.

"Again, I apologize for earlier," the werewolf says before departing, all
courtesy. "And thank you for the meeting."

[OOC Note: Salem's turned off ToG around this point.]

Nicodemus shakes his head faintly. "No, I'm sorry for the... thing.
Earlier," the goth replies with massive levels of vagueness easily
attributable to someone with an embarrasing, undefined medical condition.
"And I'm pleased that someone is actually looking into this kind of stuff
rather than looking the other way. Thanks." It even sounds sincere.

Salem gives Nicodemus another of those thin little smiles. "Likewise. Be
seeing you, Mr. Dalton." He dips his head slightly, then departs the
coffee shop.

[Not long afterward...]

You paged Alicia with 'Your cellphone rings.'.

Alicia pages: The phone picks up and Alicia's voice is over the line. "Yo.
Talk ta'me."

You paged Alicia with 'Alicia. It's Salem." The halfmoon's voice is curt,
humorless. "I just finished talking to your contact. The goth."'.

Alicia pages: Oh? Hey, want to come over?"

Long distance to Alicia: Salem, after a pause, says, "Yes. I'll be there
in a bit." *click*


Salem wastes no time in getting to his packmate's apartment; he raps
authoritively on her door.

Alicia walks to the door and opens it up, wearing a pair of baggy sweat
pants and a work out top. Her hair is pulled back and she looks a bit
sweaty. The punching bag is set up on the hook hanging from its ceiling.
"Hey bro." She issues you in.

Salem's face is set into a tight, grim mask, even considering the moon,
and his right hand is an angry, scalded red over most of its back and up
past the sleeve of his coat. He shrugs out of the trench and the red
flannel overshirt as soon as the door's shut behind him -- the burn
extends over his wrist -- and shifts upward to Glabro, the black t-shirt
straining. "We need a second opinion on those pills," he rumbles to the
Gaian, in baritone.

"What the hell happened to your arm?" Alicia asks. "And a second opinion?
Whats going on?"

Salem flexes meaty fingers, watching the burn fade as the skin heals
itself. "Hot coffee. Twitchy little fucker spasmed and knocked the table
into my arm." The process takes little time, and soon enough the Walker's
reverting back to human form. He looks at her. "I asked him about the
information he gave you, under Gaia's Truth. And he lied. About finding
blood in the pills, about analyzing the pills himself... even when I asked
him if he'd heard any other rumors about it, he lied and said no."

Rubbing her chin, Alicia thinks to herself. "I think he's right, but he's
lying to you to cover up his tracks about where he found the info. He
seems to be the resourceful type eh'?"

Salem's eyes are narrowed. "Or he's hiding something _else_. For all we
know, he's involved with this. How much do you know about Dalton, anyway?"
The Walker paces the apartment, restless. He flexes the fingers of the
formerly burned hand.

"I know he's a weird beat cop who doesn't like dogs being kicked around.
He -seems- like a pretty straight and narrow guy who takes his job
seriously. He doesn't smell like the Wyrm tho' ya'know? So.. I mean, I
trust him as much as the next cop I suppose you can say. Most cops that
are bad boys don't dress up as a goth. He isn't a badge waver." Alicia
says, furrowing her brows some. "Hiding something yes.. but, don't we
all?"

"Just because he's not Wyrm doesn't mean he's on our side," Salem says,
still stalking the length of the floor. "Many vampires don't smell of Wyrm
at all, or so I've been told. Wizards, too, may be perfectly clean." He
stops, turns to face her, grim and authoritative. "We need a second
opinion. Dalton's not trustworthy."

"Alright.. Well, Dexter is the only one we got to fall back on, or, Dr
Alec St James... one of my kin who kinda disapeared lately. Perhaps
Lianne?" Alicia asks with a tilt of her head.

Salem starts pacing again, now massaging at his knuckles. "Dexter doesn't
have the equipment to analyze the biological component of the pills. Which
leaves us back where we were. They might contain blood, even vampiric
blood--" He stops, frowns, and turns back to Alicia. "What _did_ make you
think the blood might be vampiric? Just the strange nature of the taint?"

"The fact its tainted an why the fuck would normal people stick blood in a
pill for?" Alicia says, shrugging. "I have never heard of that before."

"Assumptions. Shit." Salem shakes his head, his recrimination directed as
much at himself as anything. "Vampires are possible. I'd even put them
fairly high on the list of suspects. But... for all we know the organic
part of the drug isn't blood at all, or if it _is_, it's merely the
carrier of... something else. Disease, for example." Again, he shakes his
head, fingers raking back through his hair; his mind's working, racing,
thoughts chasing each other. "I should have thought of this the other
night, but I was tired. I should _definitely_ have considered it later."

"That too, but I'm pretty sold on the vampire thing. These people are
putting /way/ too much effort and money into organizing these raves. If
they were going to put diseases into the pills, they'd be taking one big
fucking risk of getting in trouble with the law and jail time. They are
not hiding themselves, thats just it." Alicia says, pointedly. "People are
not getting sick off these pills, just really, really high."

"Plenty of diseases have a long incubation time," Salem points out,
grimly. He takes a deep breath, then pinches the bridge of his nose.
"We'll keep the vampire option open, but let's not be wedded to it. Keep
our minds open to other possibilities." He frowns thoughtfully, the
pinching hand coming lower to rub at his mouth. "Hmn."

"Well, I'm wracking my brains over this as it is. I'm not good at science
or biology. I can only go on my gut honestly. But, still.. its showing up
as taint, so supernatural forces are fucking with it. Its being handled as
such. Thats the big thing to take in mind." Alicia furrows her brows. "And
being that its in the city, its hard to tell what kinda level it is."

Salem grimaces. "We'll take it out of the city, then, and test it. Need to
test Rina as well, since she took a dose of it, and cleanse her if she
is." He exhales a sharp, irritated breath. "Not that cleansing will have
any effect on a blood bond. Not that one dose of blood _should_ cause a
bond to form."

"You know how much it'll take?" Alicia asks with a frown. "Before a blood
bound is formed? Probably a lot, but if the pills are addictive, it
shoudln't take long."

Salem hesitates, the muscles in his jaw tight, fingers twitching.
"Traditional wisdom says three doses, but doesn't specify the quantity of
each dose, or if more doses are needed if each one is less, or if it makes
any difference at all."

"Ah, the rule of three. That seems to always come into play, I suppose..
if you watch cutsie preppy witch soap opera's." A slight smirk tugs on
Alicia's face. "But, do you think its more of a magical means? Three
strikes an yer' out?"

Salem shakes his head. "I assume that a vampire looking to bond someone
would know, just as they'd know how much blood required to turn someone
into a ghoul." He rubs at his chin, frowning more deeply.

"Well, anyways, that'd be a pretty good way to influence a shit load of
people at once to their side. Its subtle and it'll work real fast if they
consume enough of it. Lots of kids are nightly party trippers." Alicia
makes her to the kitchen to snag something to snack on. "Want anything to
eat?"

Salem again shakes his head. "I just came by to pass the word along about
Dalton. I need to go hunt down John and make sure he's getting some
sleep." He smiles in a meager, humorless way. "And run a few errands."
He's already heading for his coat.

"Ah, alright Salem. Take care and get some sleep yourself." Alicia says.

Salem nods once. "Noted." He shrugs into the overshirt and coat, then
heads for the door. "Walk safe." He barely waits for a reply before he's
gone, back out into the night.