Letters from the Dead

[hazlogs]

Date: 11/15/02, Friday, Night.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is raining lightly. The temperature is 47
degrees Fahrenheit (8 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in
from the north at 5 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.02 and
falling, and the relative humidity is 100 percent. The dewpoint is 47
degrees Fahrenheit (8 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waxing Gibbous Moon phase (72% full).

Rat and Raven Main Room

A relaxed atmosphere characterizes this room: less rowdy than a bar, less
formal than a restaurant, the pub is filled with a friendly hubbub that
spills out from tables and the bar itself. Several tables are scattered
across the floor, each with room enough for two or three people at a time
to walk between them. The tables are a dark wood, kept clean by the
waitresses bustling around to accept orders. The patrons range from low
twenties to their mid-fifties, or thereabouts, both male and female.
Paintings decorate the wall, one each of the 'mascots' of the bar, a rat
to the left of the door, a raven to the right, both depicted with a
nobility not commonly offered to, at least, the rat. The other paintings
include a three-masted ship, sails spread to the wind, that matches the
tiny ship in a bottle behind the bar.

The girl probably shouldn't be in the bar, but no-one seems to have made
any comment, and the bartender's still serving her drinks. There's an
'arrangement', perhaps. She can't be more than eighteen, now, and there's
considerable differences between the bright young thing that briefly
interrogated the Walker in his Ostracism. Her shoulders are hunched, and
rather than babbling at the nearest ear, the girl sits and stares dully at
a mostly full glass of whiskey with ice in it. Lots of ice. At one end of
the bar, on her own, the flame-haired, emerald-eyed girl just listens to
the music. Clothing's not changed, much... a white tee with 'I.A.C'
written on it is covered by a heavy brown-leather bomber jacket that's
probably ten sizes too large for her. Red suspenders superficially attempt
to hold up tight blue denim shorts that obviously don't have any problem
clinging to her scant curves. Shoes are simple sneakers with short white
socks.

Salem stops short as he spots her, blinking in moderate surprise; he'd
just about given up on finding her. He stares at her from across the bar,
frowning, then crosses the room to take the stool next to her. "Double
scotch," he tells the bartender, then turns a dark brown eye to regard the
girl thoughtfully.

Mel doesn't move much, but can't hide the slight shiver that shifts her
shoulders uncomfortably and the tightening of her hand around the glass
she's been cradling for a while. There's a noticable tension rising in
her, for those watching for it.

"Hrm," says the Walker, after a moment. He reaches into his coat and
withdraws a black cigarette case. He takes one plain white, filterless,
handrolled cylinder out and sets it between his lips, then looks at her
again, eyes narrowed. "Care for one... Mel?"

She takes the cigarette from his lips and wiggles it thoughtfully between
her fingers - she hasn't looked at it, directly, yet... or him. "I don't
smoke, she murmurs. And pauses. "Got a light?"

Salem stiffens subtly, then simply takes a second one from the case as
replacement and puts the rest away. "Of course." The light comes from a
book of gas station matches; he strikes one for her -- ladies first,
though the gentlemanly courtesy is ragged around the edges, ragged and
lifeless, like torn curtains on a windless day. "I've been looking for
you."

She takes a slow drag from the cigarette, and restrains a coughing fit a
few moments afterwards. She reaches over to a nearby ashtray in a nervous,
hurried movement, and squishes the end of the tube into it, before
reaching up and rubbing at her face with her other hand. It moves upwards,
messing up already-messy hair. She doesn't respond to the observation.

Salem exhales a breath, stifling a spasm of impatience. He takes a drag
and nods absently to the bartender, who brings the Walker's drink and then
departs, quickly. He exhales cigarette smoke slowly, willing himself calm
before speaking again. "Have you heard about Smith?"

"/John/," the girl replies firmly, with her eyes still on her drink,
"...is just lying low. And he didn't tell us because whoever was watching
needed to see us like this." Intense green eyes with red at the edges
stare angrily at the glass full of ice and alcohol.

Salem grimaces. He takes another drag, then taps ash from it. "John's
dead," he says quietly, as gently as he can. He watches her face
carefully, but his eyes are tired and shadowed, and the way he gives the
news has the dullness of bad news repeated far too many times.

The Walker's words only brings a tightening of already taut features, and
a scowl, from the girl. "/John/," she half-growls in determination,
"Cannot be killed. He is /not/ dead. People like John do not just die like
that." She glares at the glass with a welter of unspoken emotions.

Salem's face tightens. "Mel." His voice is harsh, and there's more than a
hint of command in it. "Look at me."

She squeezes her eyes closed and whispers a bitter, "Fuck off," before
pulling herself up from her stool and moving to leave.

Salem growls -- literally, almost -- and snakes out a hand to grasp her
firmly by the arm. "No."

"Hey, get the fuck OFFA ME!" Mel shrieks out, twisting and pulling at her
arm. "Creep!" Her shouts are loud and unsubtle, and the few people
gathered in the bar pay close attention. The bartender frowns, moving for
the phone, and a couple of frat boys at a table in the corner appear to
discuss something with each other - one of their number stands.

He spits out a single word in Serbian and lets go, teeth gritted, clenched
around the cigarette. "Forget it, then," he snarls around it. "I can
fucking _break_ the fucking box open." He's not oblivious to the rest of
the bar, surely, but he's not paying attention to it, either; his eyes are
on the young redhead.

The rest of the bar seems to ease somewhat, as Mel stops, and turns -
wide-eyed - to advance on Salem, and lean up close against him. A
fingerless-gloved hand reaches for his collar and grabs it viciously. "I
don't care /who/ you are, don't you /dare/. Don't. You. /Dare/," she
hisses. "Where is it? Where?"

The cigarette-smoke smell is thick around the Glass Walker, which is a
marked difference from the last time she spoke to him, a year ago. The
mismatched eyes bore into her own. "Safe," he rasps, teeth still clenched.

Her eyes have to flicker away from his, at that somehow unsettling stare.
Mel scowls, and mutters, "Give it to me. I need to see it."

Salem, quite deliberately, takes the cigarette from his mouth and sets it
on the edge of the ashtray, hardly looking away from her. "It's my
responsibility," he informs her, with brittle calm. "Mine alone. But if I
don't have the key I _will_ be forced to break into it."

In a small voice, Mel murmurs, "You can only open it when he's dead."
Reddened eyes stare sullenly at his sleeve, while she grips his collar.

Salem reaches up and closes his hand over her wrist. "He _is_ dead." The
words are leaden. "Verified by witnesses. He's not coming back."

"Shut up," she growls weakly. "Stop saying that." Mel gives a little
shove, when she lets go of his collar, and turns to reach under her tee.
Fiddling with something, with her back turned to him. "You're full of
shit. You didn't know him like I did."

Salem opens his mouth to retort, then closes it and, instead, picks up his
drink and drains the glass in one gulp. "Be that as it may..." He sets the
glass down. "He's still dead." He pauses a beat, then adds, wearily, "You
have _no_ idea how much I wish he wasn't."

Mel's pulled a key from a necklace, but before she has time to detach it,
rounds on Salem and growls tightly - in a weaker voice, "Shut up. Shut
/up/! Stop it!" As her throat tightens up, she's left only able to whisper
gruffly, "Asshole." She fumbles around the back of her neck to detach the
chain. Head lowered and eyes hidden, he jerks her hand out, offering the
key on the fine chain. "Take it. Fucking /take it/. Jerk."

He takes it, his mouth set into a grim, tight little line, offering up a
flat-sounding, "Thank you," as he makes it disappear into a pocket.

Mel just stands there for a while, after that, with her arms crossed over
in front of her bare midriff - a hand on each elbow. Her head's still
lowered, eyes hidden. "You're going to open it, aren't you," she notes
flatly.

Salem confirms this with a nod and reclaims his cigarette, inhaling
deeply. His eyes don't waver from the girl's face. "I have to. I have
certain... obligations."

Trembling slightly, she takes an unsteady breath and whispers, "Fuck
/you/." The girl turns and moves away purposefully, leaving her drink
almost untouched.

"Shit," Salem mutters, once she's gone. He looks at his empty glass, then
at the drink that Mel's abandoned. Eventually, though, he simply shakes
his head and gets up, heading out with the cigarette clamped firmly
between his lips and a hand curled around the key in his pocket.

[...]

Salem treks back to Elson Avenue on foot, moving briskly in the cold
November weather, the hood of his coat pulled up against the rain. He
makes only one stop on his way back to Red Mill, and there at a nearby
liquor store, for a bottle of vodka.

His tail is largely invisble for the most part. Not even the scrape of a
footfall or a misplaced shadow from street lights.

He doesn't notice -- whether through lack of sleep or preoccupation with
the night's grim task, or simply because his tail is just that skilled, it
doesn't matter. Salem enters the old apartment building and clumps up the
stairs to the second floor.

The tricky part... He doesn't hear her, when she follows. Mostly because
she waits until he's already inside, before slipping upstairs and just
resting near the door.

Salem hasn't lost all sense of caution, and the act of setting the locks
is habitual -- latch, bolt, and chain. He flicks on the main light,
considers it a moment with a squinting frown, then clicks it off again and
heads toward the bedroom, shucking off the coat and tossing it carelessly
onto the couch on the way.

In the bedroom, he turns on the reading lamp, letting its indirect light
be the only illumination in the place, and sets key and bottle on the
nightstand next to it. Then he gets the box from where he's been keeping
it ever since his encounter with John's lawyer. Bedroom closet, locked in
the strongbox with the two pistols Kaz scrounged from the Black Spirals.

The girl intrudes no more than listening at the door. Ravaged eyes stare
dully at a blank space of wall as he settles in to wait, hunched over in
that oversized jacket. She pulls her knees up to let it cover the exposed
legs, too.

Salem sets the box on the bed and sits down next to it and regards it for
a moment with a frown, considering it. Then he gets up again and makes his
way to the kitchen, navigating in the dark to fetch back a glass to go
with the bottle. The halfmoon pours himself a sizeable dose, but doesn't
drink. Yet.

He stares at the box some more, then abruptly mutters, "Bastard," and
takes the key off the nightstand and unlocks the damned Pandora's Bane
with some savagery.

Inside... Sheafs of paper, scribbled notes, and entire passages of text
with lines crossed through them, scribbled out beyond recognition - and
these over sections covered almost entirely in liquid paper. Envelopes
with various people's names on them can be seen amidst the chaos of paper.
It's a thorough mess, but all written out carefully in the unwavering,
precise, and deliberate script learned by the now-dead Walker Elder whilst
in his teens. It has the air of something being done 'properly'. A cover
note sits atop the other pages, all stapled in various sections or wrapped
in string.

Salem, lips thinned, takes up the cover note first.

The dead man's words. "Josef peterson: A Serb nationalist I helped into
the country when his life was in danger; he's something of a lawyer with a
penchant for some more unusual - if harmless - vices. He keeps what
valuable possessions I have, and my last will and testament. Plus a few
notes I've written over the months and years for my friends and
colleagues. Speak to him and he will be able to organise matters regarding
my passing, and the tidying of my human affairs - I have a few." A few
lines of space. "These thoughts are diorganized and randomly ordered. I've
sown so many secrets in this Sept and this city, I need to be careful with
who finds out what. I need to sort this mess out, sometime... I'll get
around to it soon. When I've got time to take stock again." The irony...
shall probably be repeated in various places through this mess. "You who
reads this first... the sections are ordered by who needs to see what. The
envelopes with specific labels for certain people may not be read by you,
or any other unless they allow you to. ...You have my trust in this.
Please ensure that these messages reach their targets with all haste. If
the recipients are dead... please give them to Rina or Drew."

"Secrets." Salem's face pulls into a grimace as he sets the note aside, on
the bed next to the box. "I can just imagine the fucking web you've
woven... make Aunt Spider very proud. Hmnf." He shakes his head, still
scowling, and starts sorting through the rest of the contents. Envelopes,
names, taking mental stock on which goes to whom.

There's lots. Rina, Drew, Kaz, Yi, Sophia, Sepdet, Jarred, Raeye, Leala,
Francisco, Vicki, Leanne, and more. One for Chaser. Finally... Jack Salem.
It's... thicker than most of the others, in a large envelope. Other
envelopes are attached to it, the bundle wrapped in string.

Salem stares at the envelope with his name on it for almost a full minute,
his face tight. Then, with the same abruptness he used to open the box, he
fetches out the pocketknife, cutting the string, then slicing open the
thick envelope. A swallow of vodka, and then he sits back against the wall
to read.

Sheets of paper, again - some appearing to be letters, but some,
curiously, have diagrams and technical instructions. Combat plans, some
appear to be, others are lists of addresses and there are even a few
photographs apparently taken from a distance. Surveillance. The first
letter, however, seems to be there for a reason. The opening words give it
away. "Jack. To you, I have little to give except my debts and
responsibilities, plus a few words of advice and reassurance. I am
assuming that in the event of my death, that you will survive and
leadership will fall to you. And I've been grooming you for it."

Salem's eyes narrow at that. "Arrogant fucker, weren't you?" he mutters.
He lifts the glass and takes another drink.

The writing changes tone abruptly. "Leadership issues and what you need to
do, aside... hell. Even as a part of it. Being a leader is... Jack, you
stubborn bastard: /feel/. /Give/ a little. /Care/. I'm trying everything
in my power right now to crack that pointless shell you put up around
yourself, but it's taking too long. You're going to take over the Tribe
from me, when I'm dead, and I'll be /damned/ if it's going to be run by
some cold-hearted bastard that no-one likes. I'll be damned if I'm going
to let you get away and die without knowing this... these things I've
found. It's /important/. And you /need/ them even if you think you've been
'surviving' without them. You just won't know it til you've felt it."

Salem makes an irritated noise, his jaw tight, but reads on.

"You stupid, blind fool. Your priorities are all fucked up. People /want/
to like you, and you can't see it. They watch you, waiting for that chance
where you'll loosen up and find out a bit more, so they'll see something
more about you - so you'll feel more comfortable around them and start
treating them like friends who are /worthy/ of your trust. And the moment
that you /show/ that you /give a damn/... they'll flock to your side.
These are the things I've discovered about being a leader. A leader is not
someone who simply knows what is right... a leader /serves/. A leader
/cares/ about his people and will walk through hell to make sure they're
the better for having known him. As I would've done for all of you. Any of
you. Even that little runt, Jonathan."

He re-reads that last bit, shaking his head slightly, grim. The glass gets
ignored as he continues reading.

"You were a pawn, whilst a Shadow Lord. Much as I was. But for you, I
think... as far as I can tell it was probably because you were so focussed
on your rage and ambition that you didn't see the dance of motives that
goes on when people interact. I grew up with the rage in my head and
heart, clouding everything. Full of ambition. But one man... one amazing
man took me under his wing and taught me things. He taught me numbers, and
reading and writing. Educated me in literature, languages and music. The
meditation that comes through the martial arts - tuning your mind and soul
to your body. He taught me to dance, modern history, how to play the
piano, how to treat a woman so she'll tell you everything you need to
know, and more. But most importantly, he showed me the game that goes on
above our heads - politics. It's in everything. Everything. From street
level to the board rooms. And knowing it's there doesn't help you play any
better unless you get involved."

Salem closes his eyes a moment and rests his head back against the wall.
Thoughtful. He glances at the glass after a moment, then turns his
attention back to the dead Ahroun's handwriting.

"Some politics here are important. Some secrets will die with me as a
matter of honour to those involved. But for the rest... trust Kaz. She'll
never try to use you. In a bad way, anyway. Trust Sepdet... but trust her
to want to manipulate you in... what she sees as the right way. In every
other way, she is an excellent confidant. Dead, I can't influence the
Tribe as much as I'd like to. But you - you need to get it together and
realize that as despicable as it is, there /is/ an agenda, and that when
one gains, another loses. And that it must be us who gain. For no other
reason than that with respect, we are better able to lead others. And that
in leading others... we can get done the things we need done, without
risking ourselves as much. It's despicable to some, but it is effecient
and effective and more important: it is survival. And that is what being a
Walker is all about, even if I have failed in it."

"First rule," Salem mutters, in response to the last statement. "Never
follow a Get down a dark hallway into enemy territory." He grimaces, as
much at himself as the spectre of his late packmate, and continues.

"The first - and most important - of the secrets that I leave you, is that
I will have a child. Drew and I have been lovers for some time, and
recently, we discovered she was pregnant. Whatever you might think, this
was not a slight to Rina. This was something she'd known about for some
time. Much as she had Jenny, while we were together, I suddenly discovered
that Drew and I felt more strongly about each other than just the good
friends that we had been. Look after her, Jack. I don't know whether she
will confess the child's father to Rina, or even whether she is pregnant,
but you, I tell. For the sake of her having someone who knows and will be
sympathetic. No-one else did, save Chaser, and I doubt she'll be the
understanding ear Drew will need. Make sure she stays healthy. Make sure
my child grows strong and well. Sorry to burden you with so many
responsibilities, but if I cannot be father to my own child... and I
probably won't get to, but I need him or her to be safe. And raised by
their mother. A mother who will love them, knowing how much I would have.
Do not let Rina take the child. Drew may offer, but don't let her. This
was our child. It was a product of what we felt /for each other/. It was
not something to make up for Rina's inability to bear children. I loved
Rina more than words can express, and after committing to her and her
alone, never touched Drew afterwards. We can't have it all, Jack. Much as
we may want it."

"She didn't know," the halfmoon mutters at the page, after reading this.
"You should have fucking _told_ her, you hypocritical bastard." His jaw
clenches as he fights back the dull, pounding anger. Finally, he says,
"Shit," and continues reading. Unsatisfied -- the page can't talk back,
and it has no face to bury one's fist into.

"In a similar fashion to this one which weighs on my mind... some secrets
aren't mine to reveal. Some secrets I don't have the time to resolve. This
is the tragedy of death. Loose ends. The following are some I wish to be
resolved, and some more I want you to keep. And... maintain. It'll
probably do you good. This is where it gets business, Jack. Details on
what needs to be done. Where the bodies are buried. Who's owing what. Some
of the less dirty secrets. Some chores. This is where I say goodbye. I
don't know what else to say. We could've been good friends if we'd had
more time... but I know you'll always be loyal, and always do what's best
for the Tribe. Keep your crutches in check. Drink and cigarettes work for
most people."

Well, there is that. No needles... except for the dose Rina surprised him
with... which is better not to think about. He's kept his promise to
Malone. Word of Honor.

Salem lets out a sigh and rubs briefly at his eyes. "Right."

"I don't want to put the pen down. I don't want to go. But it'll never be
my choice. I love my wife. I love the woman bearing my child. I want to
see my son or daughter on their birthday, or their first day at school. I
want them to have all the things I never had. An education. Friends.
Childhood romance. Worries about a job, and a future. Children of their
own. I care for my charges, who you don't know about. I care for the
safety and health of this Sept. Make my legacy live on, Jack. Don't let me
die and be forgotten. You can't sit back and let the fools do what they
will, and know that you can move on if it ever gets bad enough. You have
to make it work, and you have to see that what needs to get done... gets
done. Would that I could be there still. I love living... and I still owe
the world more of my time. But in the absence of that... the world still
has to be saved."

Another sigh, as much regretful as it is tired.

And the following pages are, indeed, mostly business. Skimming through,
the first few are profiles with photographs, of various uglies. A few
headings stand out. "Known Russians", and "Hospital strategies:
Merits/Cons/Backups/Roles for Sept Members." "Tribe: Big picture.
Development steps:" And more. Some documents even have post-it notes stuck
to them, in his familiar careful script. There are little editorial
comments in margins - one that stands out, "If only the agendas weren't so
different.. if only there weren't agendas. City = The Battle. Why can't
they see?" The documents are full of little notes similar. It's a work of
personality, indeed.

The Philodox doesn't spend much time going over the details; it'll be
something for later, when his eyes aren't burning from lack of sleep, when
the grief has had a few more days to scar up. He utters a bitter grunt of
agreement in regards to the city.

A little scribbled note in a margin. "I have more enemies than an army
could fight. The question is not will they win, but which will win first?
And when?" More like it. Far too many little notes. ...Outside, Mel just
listens to the door, red-eyed. She swallows, and takes a sniff, before
biting her lip. Huddled up and forgetting herself in the silence of grief.

Salem reads the main letter back through again, then puts it, and all the
documents it came with, back in the big envelope, which goes back in the
wooden box. One by one, the other envelopes go back as well, though two
stay out. Rina's. And, when he comes upon it -- he hadn't taken much
notice of it the first time, going through the stack -- Mel's.

He considers the latter thoughtfully, frowning, and then gets up after
closing and locking the box again. The key goes back in his pocket.
Striding out to the front, bedroom lamp still casting a dim glow through
the door, he shrugs back into his coat, tucks both envelopes into an
inside pocket, and heads for the door. Chain, bolt, latch.

The door to apartment 219 opens again.

There's a sudden scrabbling outside the door, as the girl wakes from a
brief flirtation with sleep, and struggles between backing away, and
getting up - and winds up with her feet coming out from under her and left
looking something like a startled rabbit, staring up at Salem when he
emerges from his apartment.

Salem pulls up short, blinking, staring back at her. Then his mouth
twitches, wry, and he says, low and dry-throated, "What a coincidence. How
long have you been out here?"

Mel just blinks, in response, staring up at the man - utterly trapped
between fear and pleading. Her cheeks are streaked with long-dried tears.

"Mm. Nevermind. I have something for you." The shadowed, intent gaze
leaves her as he reaches into his coat. High -- the same pocket he took
the cigarette case from, back at the bar. This time, out comes the
envelope with her name on it in John's handwriting. He holds it out to
her, offering it.

Her lips tremble, then thin as he face sets into a determined, wary
expression. She eyes the letter with distrust, then reaches out very
carefully to take it. "Wh..." She frowns, and blinks in confusion. "Where
di..." He frowns a little more deeply and blinks again.

"The box," he says, simply. "Some last words for you, I imagine." Salem
pauses, regarding the girl thoughtfully, eyes narrowed. "Were you planning
to stay outside my door all night? It's not entirely safe."

She swallows and eyes the envelope with definite fear, now. Mel blinks
again and her lips tremble some more. Eyes on the envelope, not the
Walker. Shaking her head slightly, she starts to murmur, "No, he..." The
words trail off and die, however. Tears well.

Salem passes a hand back over his head, pushing back loose strands of
black hair. Then he steps back, away from the door. "Come in, if you want.
It's more comfortable than the hallway, warmer than the street, and more
private than the Women's Shelter for... well, reading. No strings."
There's sympathy there, a touch of it, in his voice, and his gaze isn't as
hard as it was in the bar.

That expression should be familiar to him, by now. A soft, slow numbness.
Wide, unseeing eyes stare at nothing in particular as she pulls herself up
and shuffles quietly into the apartment with her shoulders hunched and her
hands clutching the letter.

Salem follows her in, closing the door behind them and turning on the main
light. Grimacing slightly. He gestures her toward the couch and continues
onward into the bedroom, emerging only when his coat's hung up and the
wooden box is put safely away.

Cockroaches scuttle across the floor, seeking the corners and shadows as
the lights come on, though one large specimen remains perched on the dish
of cat food, antennae waving. And, as if remembering this, Salem calls
out, in cryptic warning, "Ignore the roaches, and please don't step on
any."

Pausing only to stare at all the cockroaches, and eye Salem with a hint of
unsettled recognition, she moves over to the couch and sits quietly with
her knees pressed together and hands settled on the letter in her lap. She
just stares at it for a while, looking miserable.

Salem studies her, lips thinned, for a moment, and then says -- quite
gently, in fact -- "I'm sorry. You have no idea how much." And then, after
a deep breath, "I'll let you alone, to read that." He nods toward the
letter. "If you want to stay the night, feel free; there's extra pillows
and blankets in the hall closet. And you can help yourself, in the
kitchen." Another pause. "If you need _me_, I'll be in the next room. All
right?"

Mel just looks back up at Salem mournfully and waits for him - with
trembling shoulders - to close the door before she's ready to look back
down at the letter. ...Later, the sobbing and the crying is just another
thing to keep him from sleep.