A Disobedient Cat

[hazlogs]

Date: 11/2/02

Currently the moon is in the waning No Moon phase (18% full).

Currently in Saint Claire, it's a sunny day. The temperature is 66 degrees
Fahrenheit (18 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from
variable directions at 3 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.17 and
falling, and the relative humidity is 28 percent. The dewpoint is 32
degrees Fahrenheit (0 degrees Celsius.)

Location: Salem's Apartment.

[Background: Salem has been barely home since he gave Cat the news about
John, usually stopping by then the cub's asleep, and then only briefly. He
would call to check in, but that's it. Kaz visits while Salem's away, and
the kid ends up fleeing into the Umbra for some reason.  Scene picks up as
the two return, via the apartment's single mirror... which is in the
bathroom.]

Cat's quite loathe to part with the roach spirit, but Gabriel scrambles up
to the mirror and perches on it, a rather comical sight. Although the
frown doesn't disappear, it does lose some severity as the cub crosses
over to the Realm. 'Gabriel' flicks his antennae about, looking for Cat-
satisfied the boy is gone, it scuttles down and heads off elsewhere, on
its own business. Kaz's safety is not its concern.

Kaz again mutters, "Smart 'roach," as she watches it out of sight. Then
she shifts over.

Timing is everything. Walker cub and Gnawer fostern emerge back into the
material world and into the small bathroom which is, unlike the way they
left it, steaming. Because that kind of thing happens when someone's using
the shower. Apparantly, the lord of the household (hah) has returned while
the pair were visiting the Umbra.

Cat flashes into existence, blinking confusedly at the sudden steam and
noise of the bathroom. "Wha...?" He's exhausted, drained, irritable, and
now completely befuddled as to what is going on. Why is there someone in
the bathroom, taking a shower? Unless it's-

A brief look around, and Kaz winces. "Oh, nice timin'," she mutters. "I
gotta say, Salem naked ain't anything /I've/ ever wanted to see. C'mon,
kid, privacy." The metis is almost out the door already.

Well, there's a curtain, you know. And the Walker behind it is just an
indistinct shape. One that pauses and then, very deliberately, says
something very resigned-sounding in Serbian.

Cat's fast on Kaz's heels, keeping his eyes on her back without even a
wistful glance to the mirror. Once he's out in the living room, he goes to
the couch and curls up in a corner there, his back to the Galliard.

Over her shoulder, Kaz says, "I don't speak foreigner." And then she's
into the living room, and giving Cat's back a baffled look.

"Oh, Jesus fucking _Christ_," comes the reply from the halfmoon, over the
sound of falling water. The shower stops after a moment or two, and Salem
exits the bathroom, dripping, a towel wrapped around his waist. He stares
at the two of them with eyes shadowed from lack of sleep, his face tight.
"Are you aware what fucking _time_ it is? Not to mention what phase the
moon's in?"

There's a mark spread over Salem's chest that Cat's already seen, but
would be new to Kaz, a seven-fingered, Crinos-sized handprint pressed into
his flesh like it was clay.

Cat doesn't understand whether or not the question is meant for him- he's
facing away from both of them -so he stays curled up on the couch, eyes
closed and looking dreadfully unhappy.

Kaz says, "Me?" She's apparently ignoring his chest. And his towel. "Yeah.
I come here, bug the kid, he says leave me alone, I say ok, I'll leave him
alone until after I'm done eating. So I eat, because I ain't had breakfast
yet, so he goes into the bathroom, and eventually I'm done eating, and
hey, presto! he's gone. So I went to get him." She gives Salem a level
look, then turns to Cat. Or, rather, Cat's back. "Hey, Cat, talk t'us
f'asec -- you aware of what th' moon phase does t'th' Umbra, an' alla that
good stuff?"

Salem's jaw tightens as he turns a displeased look over toward the cub.
"He knows. Or he should. Or, at the _very_ least, he should remember that
I've told him he's not to enter the Umbra unescorted." Yes, the halfmoon's
in poor temper this afternoon; irritable and distinctly cranky.

Almost knowing that the cliath's gaze is on him, Cat can't repress a
cringe. "I know," is his very soft, very small-sounding reply.

Kaz says, "Huh." Then she shakes her head. "Should I get th' fuck outta
here for this conversation, Salem? All I know is, he's a fuckin' natural
theurge, he needs a space of his own, and that this ain't my cub."

Salem continues to stare at the cringing boy, then shakes his head with an
exasperated sound. "My own damned fault," he mutters, then turns to Kaz.
"You'd better go, yes. Find me later, and I can tell you what Jarred told
me about John's and Chaser's deaths."

Somehow, the roach from the kitchen has ended up on the coffee table, and
is settled happily on Cat's sketchbook. Not that the cub notices, curled
up and eyes closed still.

Kaz adds, "Although sometimes, having me around improves communication."
But she's leaving.

Salem makes a noncommital response and vanishes into the bedroom,
presumably to put on clothing while the Gnawer lets herself out. He
returns in sweatpants and t-shirt, both black, his long hair still quite
tangled and wet. His coat's draped across the counter that separates the
living room from the kitchen area, where he discarded it when he came in.

Kaz has, in the interim, written down her cel number, told Cat where she
was putting it, and headed out the door.

The cub's response to Kaz's voice was a slight nod of his head, that's
all. Not even opening his eyes long enough to say goodbye. At the sound of
the door opening Cat turns his face into the couch, a pathetic mimic of
the ostrich tactic.

Salem's bare feet are almost soundless on the wooden floor, so the cub has
little to no warning before Jack's hand is on his shoulder, gripping it
tightly in order to pull Cat around to face him.

And Cat's head snaps around, his eyes fearful and tired. He doesn't look
well, pale and shaky, more the way he used to look when Salem first found
him. "I'm sorry," he whispers automatically, averting his glance to
somewhere safe, like his knee. "Sorry."

"Goddammit, Cat," Salem growls, his voice rasping and harsh. "_Look_ at
me. And tell me what the god-damn _fuck_ you were thinking? You could have
been killed, are you _aware_ of that?"

"But I was practicing," Cat protests weakly, honest belief in what he'd
been doing driving his eyes back to Salem's. "An...and Gabriel wouldn't
let anything happen...I was careful."

The Philodox's anger explodes out at the boy, verbally. "The fuck you
were! Going out into the umbra in the middle of the fucking day is _not_
being fucking careful! Garou with years of experience over you have
fucking _died_ pulling the kind of fucking stunt you just did! Why the
_fuck_ do you think I told you what I did? For my fucking _health_?" He's
not hitting the boy -- at least not yet -- but his words beat down on him
all the same.

Cat just stares, eyes getting a fraction wider with each passing breath,
his voice caught in his throat. He shrinks back into the couch a bit,
trying to get away from the verbal assault. The cub radiates confusion and
fear, but most of all and most strangely, horror.

"What the fuck were you _thinking_?" Salem demands again, stepping close
to the couch and towering over the terrified cub. One might wonder if he
even sees the look on Cat's face... or, if seeing it, registers it.

His lips move, but he's too frightened to form sounds for the words right
away. "...what I wanted to do...do with my life," Cat murmurs back
frantically, voicing pitching higher in his fear. He has nowhere to run,
and he can't even turn his eyes away from Salem for fear of rebuke. "He
told me to find out, and so- I- I-"

Salem's eyes narrow, spearing into the boy. His hands have clenched
themselves into fists, and he looks dangerously close to using them.
"_Who_ told you?"

The boy is becoming steadily consumed with terror and recognition, as each
angered action from Salem dredges up a hundred memories branded in his
brain. Again, Cat fails to speak. He's still holding his breath.

Faster than the eye can follow, faster than is humanly possible, Salem
grabs the cub by the shirtfront, lifting him almost bodily and then
_slamming_ him back into the wall. "Answer me! WHO TOLD YOU?" Though the
halfmoon's still in human form, his good eye has shifted from brown to
gold, and his fingernails have darkened, thickened.

Cat's head knocks back into the wall of Salem's apartment with a sharp
crack. Reflexively his hands clutch at the ones holding him up, legs
kicking jerkily, but it's a weak struggle and only lasts a second. Then
the cub's just pinned there, blue eyes filled with disbelief and
unadulterated fear. "John Smith John Smith John Smith," he whispers, voice
thick with tears. "John Smith..."

Salem's nostrils flare. Then, abruptly, he lets the boy go and turns away,
stalking back across the apartment, rage still snapping and coiling in
every movement. The danger hasn't passed. But the cub has a moment or two
before the Philodox speaks again.

Cat slumps to the couch again, a tangle of limbs and a sharp pain in the
back of his skull, stinging his eyes anew. Trembling, he wraps his arms
around himself and makes himself as small as he can, weeping without
sound. His fingers dig into his own sides so tightly the knuckls are going
white.

Salem, when he speaks again, is at the other side of the living room,
closer to the kitchen than the couch. He's managed to get his voice back
under some form of control, but the anger remains, snarling. "How long
have you been disobeying me behind my back?"

"S-s-since you le...left to see Miz Rina," Cat stutters, face twisting
like speaking the words caused him actual pain; maybe they do. He
swallows, trying to steady his voice, terrified gaze locked on the arm of
the couch. "I ne-never stayed very long. I'm sorry Salem-rhya I'm sorry-"

Salem cuts him off with a curt, "Shut up." He glowers at the cub for a
long moment. "There are a thousand things pulling at my attention right
now, Cat," he says. His hands open and close, open and close. "I don't
have time to babysit you, or keep an eye on you twenty-four-seven. I can't
live like that. Nor will I. So, what do you suspect I should do, if I
can't trust you to behave and _follow orders_ when I'm not looking?"

If at all possible, the cub pulls himself into an even tighter curl,
closing his eyes tightly as his heartbeat thunders in his ears. "I don't
know, I don't know," he whispers through his quiet sobs, although there's
so little breath behind the whisper that Salem can't possibly hear him.

"Think about it," growls the Philodox. "You have two hours, because that's
how long I'm going to be asleep. Two hours. Think of something, or by
Gaia's tits, I'll drive you out to the farmhouse and let you keep Quentin
company on the Bawn." He starts toward the bedroom, adding, "Two hours.
And you'd _better_ be here when I wake up."

Cat's not going anywhere, not for far longer than two hours. Only after
the bedroom door closes does he dare give any sound to his sobs, and still
then, as quietly as possible. The cockroach, bored with his perch on the
sketchbook, crawls off elsewhere. His headache is dulling, but constant.
And now a deadline approaching with each passing minute...one hour,
fifty-nine minutes, one hour fifty-eight...a growing, gnawing new fear,
one of the clock.