hazlogs: Glass Walker Glyph (Glass Walker)
[personal profile] hazlogs

Date: 10/30/02

Currently in Saint Claire, it is clear outside. The temperature is 38
degrees Fahrenheit (3 degrees Celsius). The wind is calm today. The
barometric pressure reading is 30.23 and rising, and the relative humidity
is 48 percent. The dewpoint is 20 degrees Fahrenheit (-6 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning Crescent Moon phase (36% full).

Location: Rina's Apartment

A knock comes at her door sometime in the early evening, the day before
Halloween.

There is music, on the other side of the door: something ambient and
quiet. It takes her a while, but eventually Rina opens the door--without
asking, first, who it might be. She is scruffy, tired-looking, wearing a
pair of pajama pants and a ripped wifebeater. At first the door opens just
enough for her to look out; dark, sleepless eyes look at him without a
great deal of reaction, and then she opens it the rest of the way, and
turns, and paces back into the dark. It's dark.

Salem looks much as he did the last time she saw him, minus the
Gnawer-given wounds -- they've finally healed -- and with the addition of
a different, thicker coat. It's damned cold outside, after all, and
getting colder. His lips compress at the sight of her; as she heads back
into the black, he shakes his head wearily and follows after her, removing
the sunglasses as he does so. His eyes are sleep-shadowed and bloodshot,
and the new coat already has that cigarette-smoke smell to it.

Rina pages: [...] And there are new cuttings, swirling down both arms.
Rina pages: Look like glyphs, almost.
You paged Rina with 'Garou glyphs?'.
Rina pages: Not that he recognizes... just shapes, symbols. That sort of
look to them, like they're meant to be that way. Not random.

Rina rubs at the back of her neck. "What is it?" Her voice is hoarse,
either from disuse or abuse.

She wanders aimlessly to the stereo, and turns it down a little; then, for
lack of anywhere to go, she leans against the bookcase and looks toward
the darkened windows.

"Just stopping by," Salem says, closing the door behind him. "To, ah...
mm." His gaze flicks to the fresh marks carved into her arms and then
away, his jaw clenching with anger -- a dull, weary, brooding anger,
simmering in its own helplessness. "You know, then. About..."

One hand comes up, to rub at her forehead. "What?" There's hardly enough
energy for dread, in that flat inquiry.

He doesn't want to say it, that much is clear. "Drew. Her pregnancy."
Reluctance drags at his words; he looks back at her across the distance
between them, unhappily. "The father."

Rina nods minutely. She doesn't say anything... just watches the dark
glass. Her expression is distant, as if whatever consciousness remains is
somewhere far away.

Salem takes a step toward her, then stops. His hands tighten into angry,
helpless fists. "Shit," he mutters. "Shit, shit, shit, shit."

She drops the hand, but she does not look back to him. "What's wrong?"
There is nothing in that voice; no pain, no life.

Salem shakes his head, his head lowered, watching her. "Everything." He
exhales a quiet, tired breath. "Rina..."

Rina takes a quiet breath, and releases it. Her eyes focus somewhere past
the streetlights. "She knows to ask the tribe, if she needs anything. Help
with Di, medical expenses ... whatever. We take care of our own."

Salem grunts. "We do," he agrees. He steps across the apartment to join
her at the other end of the window, hands folded into his coat pockets as
he faces her. "I..." He grimaces, his posture stiff, shoulders tight,
searching for words. "I didn't know."

A faint, barely-there curve comes to Rina's lips. "He did," she says
softly. "He knew."

His gaze is fixed intently on her face, searching. "He did?" The corners
of the halfmoon's mouth tug further downwards. "How long?"

Rina shakes her head minutely. "I don't know," she murmurs. "Probably as
soon as she found out." Her expression reveals little, though it tends
more toward soft distance than hard neutrality; there is something about
her eyes, a remote sadness. "Before it was over between them, I imagine."

Rina's brow furrows a little. "No, it must have been after," she muses.
"Or he wouldn't have ended it."

"Are you..." Salem trails off, looking around at the dark studio, at the
marks on her arms again, at her shattered appearance. "What can I do?"

"I'm fine." And, in fact, she sounds merely... tired. Disconnected. One
hand runs back slowly into her hair, and hangs there a while. "I'm fine.
Check on the kids. Make sure they're all right. I haven't seen Quentin."

Salem reaches up to rub at the side of his face, fingers absently trailing
the network of scar tissue. "He's at the farmhouse," he says, dully.
"Someone from his old school recognized him at Whispering Pines. We're
keeping him there for now." He sighs, folds his arms across his chest.
"The timing works. He's near to Riting anyway, and it'll let him make some
more connections with the rural-types."

Rina nods minutely. "Good. If you need help with them, let me know."

"I will." He's silent for a moment or two after that, just looking at her
with that expression of thinly-veiled pain and frustrated anger. And
again, his eye strays toward the shapes carved into her arms.

There is a silence. Though she doesn't look toward him at first, she seems
to pick up on the subtle current of rage. Another breath, and she asks,
hoarsely, "What else?" There must be something, clearly.

Salem turns partially away from her, leaning his back against the wall
near the window, his arms still folded, his head lowered. "Nothing," he
says dully. He gives her a sidelong glance. "Are you certain you're all
right, being alone?"

Rina lifts one shoulder a fraction, and lets it fall. "I'm fine," she
says, emotionless. "If the Russians want to come at me here, they'll have
it rough."

Salem grimaces. "I don't mean the fucking Russians."

She looks over to him--and the dark eyes are fathomless, empty. Her
expression is numb. "I'm fine," she says quietly.

"You cut yourself," he points out. The anger's still there, simmering with
depths of his eyes, underneath the quiet anguish. That rage, at least, is
controlled, wound tight and boxed up.

One shoulder lifts a fraction, and her eyes slide away. "I do that," she
says, without the least feeling attached to the words.

Salem's fingers tighten on the sleeves of his coat. The tension within him
rachets itself a step higher and a strand of it snaps free. His hands
close on her shoulders, fingers tight against her flesh, and he shakes her
-- once, just before he realizes what he's doing and stops, but it's a
sharp, rough, violent motion for all its briefness. "God-dam--" He cuts
himself off, slamming down that famous self-control.

She jerks like a rag doll, loose and limp in his grasp. There are raised
scars under his fingers. Distractedly, she glances up to his face. "Why
are you mad?"

Her voice is still quiet, thoughtful--as if it is a matter of academic
interest, perhaps tinged with concern, rather than a matter of actual
danger.

Salem's throat works. He lets her go, turning away rather sharply and
stalking back across the room, hands clenched into fists. And it's only a
crescent moon, too.

He doesn't answer her question.

Rina lets out a breath, and steps to the window to lean her forehead
against the glass. "It's nothing, Jack," she says quietly. "Nothing you
need to worry about. Worry about the kids. Keep them straight."

His face is blank when he turns back to look at her again, and the
darkness in the apartment doesn't make his expression any more readable.
"Fine," he says at last, emotionlessly. "I... fine." A beat. "I suppose
that I'll be going, then."

Rina closes her eyes, letting out a breath. When they flicker open again,
there is a hint of something--resignation? Distant, still. "What do you
*want* from me, Jack?"

"Nothing." Salem's voice is flat, and a moment after he says the word,
he's moving toward the door. "Call me if you need anything."

Rina nods minutely, bowing her head. "Sure." She doesn't turn, to watch
him go.

He's gone without further word, closing the door behind him.

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