A Killer's Advice

[hazlogs]

It is currently 20:25 Pacific Time on Thu Dec 26 2002.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 42
degrees Fahrenheit (5 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in
from the east at 9 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.87 and
falling, and the relative humidity is 92 percent. The dewpoint is 40
degrees Fahrenheit (4 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning Half Moon phase (50% full).

Porch

A lathe-turned wooden railing runs the length of the porch save where the
steps are, well-worn with use. To the right of the stairs, a wide swing is
suspended from the overhang which shelters this area; to the left, a small
table is the centerpiece for several chairs pulled around it, all of which
face out to the front yard and the fields and trees beyond. The biting
cold of winter is tempered somewhat by the sheltering of the roof, but it
is still enough to make the porch an inhospitable place to tarry for long.
Even the low shrubs seem to avoid it, their leafless woody stems closed in
tight upon themselves.

An aging screen door newly refurbished stands between the heavy inner door
of the house and the outside air. Four steps lead down to the lane, a
number of pots with small flower seedling carefully arranged alongside
them.

It's a chilly December night, and the ground's still wet with the recent
rain. Salem's the porch's sole occupant for the moment; the Glass Walker
is bundled in coat and scarf and gloves, all black. Smoke rises from a
filterless cigarette that dangles from his lips. He leans against the
porch railing, arms folded as he stares out at the dark lane.

Someone's crunching up the gravel of the lane, a lighter shadow against
the dark backdrop of the road and beyond. A slow walker, hands at their
sides, and dressed in dark colors, that's no help.

Salem straightens up, his eyes narrowing as he peers at the approaching
figure. He waits a few moments, long enough to take a drag on the
cigarette and exhale a stream of smoke. Then, as the figure comes within
earshot, he hails the visitor, his voice pitched to carry. "Evening. Can I
help you?"

This girl is five foot three, thin and slender, on the small end for being
sixteen. She's a little on the pinched side too, like someone who hasn't
been eating enough lately. Almond-shaped, hazel eyes that change in the
light are set above high cheek bones in a pale face. There's a tinge of
yellow to her skin, her Chinese heritage obvious in the first glance. Long
black hair falls halfway down her back, well-groomed. Lyra's pretty enough
when she smiles, limbs long and muscles toned, if not very strong. She
used to be a sprinter, and all those years of dance lessons have made her
flexible and acrobatic. Her voice is smooth, a gentle contralto, and
peppered with an English accent.

	A tight, longsleeved black shirt with holes cut in the shoulders
is Lyra's choice of wear today. The sleeves become fingerless gloves.
Muddy, dark jeans with frayed hems and torn belt loops hug her hips. Her
shoes are black, scuffed Mary Janes. And she's done her hair up today,
braids wrapped around her head with black ribbons running through. The
only real spot of color is a cheap smiley-face necklace around her neck,
the kind you get from a twenty-five cent machine. There is no Gaian
pendant anymore.

"Salem-rhya?" The crunch of the gravel halts for a moment, then picks up
again, slightly quicker. Soon the stranger steps into the circle of the
soft porchlight, revealing a lost-looking Lyra. She smiles faintly at the
Walker, coming to a halt just before the steps. "I called your house, but
the machine answered...and, well, I couldn't sleep, so a walk seemed like
a good idea." She sneezes, rubs at her face with the back of her hand.
"Maybe it wasn't."

Salem grunts. "I'm still on Guardian duty... until New Year's Day, at
least. Next week." He taps cigarette ash out onto a cracked coffee mug
that sits on the railing near him and eyeballs the young Gnawer
critically. "How was your Christmas?"

Lyra shrugs one shoulder, leaning the toe of one shoe against the
bottom-most porch step and folding her arms. "Quiet. Auntie made a nice
meal, we talked, watch silly Rudolph cartoons." She tilts her head to look
at Salem with another small smile. "I don't suppose you got to see the
Christmas Specials this year, unless pip managed to get that TV he
wanted."

"'Pip'," says Salem dryly, "did not. He was allowed back in the city some
time ago, in fact." He arches an eyebrow. "Which you well know. I believe
you two had a talk not long before I sent him down to L.A."

There's a flicker of something, before Lyra swallows and looks down at her
shoe, at the steps. "So, th...that's where he is? Not that I was worried,"
she's quick to add, tucking an invisible strand of hair behind her ear.
"He...might've left a message, though."

"He might have, yes," Salem agrees. He takes another drag on his
cigarette. "If he did, though, he did not leave it with me." He cocks his
head slightly. "Did you two have some kind of arguement?"

A wet, murky brown glance meets Salem, before Lyra coughs out a laugh.
"Isn't it obvious? The only time dirty Gnawers come to the Walkers is when
they need something." The smile fades quickly, and she looks away again,
shoe scuffing the step. After a moment, softly, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean
that."

Salem's mouth thins. "Did Quentin tell you that? Mnh." He shakes his head
slightly and puts out the cigarette, dropping the stub into the coffee mug
and then picking the mug off the rail. "Why don't you join me inside,
where it's warm? There's soup, or there should be."

"Not pip," Lyra murmurs, shaking her head. "One of your lady kin...doesn't
matter, it's over." Lyra takes a deep breath, hands slipping into her
pockets. She stands on the bottom step, then goes up onto the porch. "Soup
sounds nice. Xie."

Salem eyes the cub for another moment, like he's about to ask which 'lady
kin' she's referring to... not that there can be much doubt. All he does,
though, is nod and head inside, holding the door open for her.

[They head into the house.]

Lyra dips her head in silent thanks for his courtesy, heading straight for
the kitchen and opening up the pantry. Someone had brought in a whole
grocery load today, there's microwaveable macaroni, rice, and soups. She
fishes out a Chef's Boyardee can of lasagne, frowns at it, and tosses it
back. She opts for rice instead. "We had an argument," she murmurs, eyes
on her task as she searches the shelves for a bowl. "I thought maybe he'd
told you, that you could help me make it right again."

Salem sheds his outer winter-wear as he enters the farmhouse, tucking the
scarf and gloves into the pockets of the coat and hanging the big black
garment in the hall closet. Then he follows Lyra into the kitchen. "The
last I'd heard, Quentin didn't know that you'd been, mn, assaulted. He was
under the impression that the incident had been completely voluntary." He
goes to the kitchen sink, disposing of the remains of his cigarette and
washing out the coffee cup.

The halfmoon cub opens the box, sets a green plastic bowl on the table and
starts filling it with dried rice. "Voluntary," she repeats, whispering
the word. Her grip on the box tightens. "Everyone, so ready to believe
that I...but I'm not -like- that..." She bites her lip, hard, then tilts
the box upwards quickly and spilling a few grains across the table. "I
explained it to him." She looks over her shoulder at Salem, a cut
appearing on her lip where she's bitten through. "Do you think I should go
kill him?"

Salem rinces out the mug and dries it with a dish towel. The mismatched
eyes study her as he does so, and his face is difficult to read. "Is there
a reason why you think you shouldn't?"

Lyra blinks, then looks away as she closes the box top. She moves to the
sink and turns on the faucet, filling the bowl halfway with water.
"I...don't want to." She turns the faucet off, licking her lips and
wincing. "Kentin told me all the reasons I should. He was so angry that I
didn't want to go after him. Fei Lung deserves...punishment. Maybe he
deserves death. But I'm too afraid."

Salem's eyes narrow slightly. "Hm." He puts the coffee mug away and gets
down a pair of drinking glasses. "What are you afraid of? And what would
you like to drink?"

"Milk, if there's any. Water would be just as nice." Lyra places the
sloshing rice in the microwave and sets it for five minutes. She stands to
the side, watching the bowl rotate and the machine hum. "I think I'm
afraid of being happy. Happy that he's dead." A pause. "He has a sister."

There is indeed milk, a half-full gallon of it, in fact. Salem pours a
glass, then fills the other with fruit juice. Closing the fridge door, he
nods. "We're judges, which requires a certain level of impartiality," he
says, setting the glass of milk near Lyra. "But we're also Garou... and
mortal. Intelligent beings. _Human_. When we're hurt, we wish to hurt
back."

Lyra takes the glass in her hands, but she doesn't drink from it. "I told
myself...that he did not kill me. So I have no right to take him from his
family." The microwaved rice is nearly done. "But if I lose pip, because
he came between us. Then I want him to die." She turns the glass about in
her hands, glances up at the Walker. "Is that a fair decision?"

Salem answers her question with another question. "Do you think that
murder is necessary to heal the rift between yourself and Quentin?" The
Walker Elder arches a brow.

"There wouldn't be one if this hadn't happened." BEEEP. Lyra sets down her
glass of milk, then takes the rice bowl out. She opens a drawer, picks out
a spoon. "And so now it's murder? Your kin told me she was going to kill
him." A sharp intake of breath, and the drawer is closed a little harsher
than necessary. "Even though I slept around, even though I was a Gnawer,
she'd do me a favor and kill him for me."

Salem sips his fruit juice, his manner very calm and detached. "Killing
another sentient is always murder, Lyra, whether it's justified or not. We
kill Spiral Dancers because we must, we kill fomori because we must. We
even kill each other sometimes... because we must." He takes another sip,
then swirls the liquid around in his glass, frowning faintly. "We're
bloody creatures because that's the way Gaia made us. But never forget...
it _is_ murder." He looks at her, holding his stare as though to further
reinforce his point. "You understand?"

The memory of the insults brings temper to the otherwise peaceful cub. She
holds Salem's stare for a moment, angry words barely in check, before
taking her milk and rice and slipping into a seat at the dining table. "I
know already." The spoon is jabbed into the fluffy white mountain. "Didn't
you tell me that night I was with my own weapons or somesuch if I wanted
to track down Fei?"

Salem seems unruffled by the cub's anger, though his own temper hasn't
gone away; it's just held in check. "I did. And I tell you quite honestly
that if it were me, I _would_ kill him, because there are things I cannot
and _will_ not forgive." He sips again, still leaning against the counter.
"I'm not condemning you for wishing to kill him, Lyra. I tell you only to
consider your own motives. And forget Quentin for the moment. Forget Rina.
Forget Kaz, forget Renee, and forget _me_." One finger frees itself from
around the drinking glass to point at her. "Murder him if you must, but
know why you do it. Be _unequivocal_ about it. Or let him live." His brows
rise. "You can do that, too, but again, know why you do it." He takes
another sip, then finishes with, "And be prepared to defend your decision.
It's something a Philodox sometimes has to do."

Lyra looks up, mouth open to protest when Salem says 'Forget Quentin'. But
she keeps silent, glances down into her rice again. When the cliath
finishes she takes a mouthful of her meal, chews, swallows. "Okay." One
finger nudges her glass of milk, idly. "I'll speak with him, and then I'll
decide."

Salem gives the cub a faint but nonetheless approving smile. "Good." He
swallows the rest of his juice. "We're none of us saints, Lyra, but that
doesn't mean we have to be mindlessly violent beasts... _or_ willing
victims."