A Gift of Cookies

[hazlogs]

It is currently 14:43 Pacific Time on Fri Jan 10 2003.

Currently in Saint Claire, it's a sunny day. The temperature is 44 degrees
Fahrenheit (6 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the
north at 5 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.99 and falling, and
the relative humidity is 65 percent. The dewpoint is 33 degrees Fahrenheit
(0 degrees Celsius.)

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

Red Mill Apartments #603

This smallish, two-bedroom apartment is somewhat sparcely furnished, but
has a comfortable, homey look to it. A greenish-gray couch holds court in
the main room, accompanied by a low, sturdy-looking coffee table. A squat
black entertainment center is set up on the other side of the room, in
perfect view of the couch; on it sits a rather large television and within
the small cabinet area underneath is a VCR. There's bookcase set up along
one wall, its shelves holding a stereo, a clock, various CDs and video
tapes, but very few actual books -- most are nonfiction paperbacks,
history books. The carpet's a neutral shade of tan and covers whatever
floor doesn't belong to the kitchen or the bathroom; the walls and ceiling
are a shade lighter and on them are a few Van Gogh prints; _Starry Night_
hangs over the couch in a position of prominence.

The kitchen's small and narrow, but it's clean and holds the basic
conveniences of modern life, including (but not limited to) a microwave, a
toaster oven, and little blue and white dish towels. A short length of
hallway past the kitchen entrance leads to the bathroom and a pair of
bedrooms.

Though the apartment is kept fairly clean, cockroaches are a constant
presence and go about unmolested by traps, sprays, or other poisons. In
fact, a small plate of fresh canned cat food sits in a corner at the far
end of the kitchen, apparantly just for the benefit of these insects.

Long distance to the room: Salem lets you go first. Say Lyra managed to
get hold of the landlord, used her I'm-so-adorable-little-girl charm, and
got told that 'Mr. Salem' and his niece moved upstairs to #603.
You paged the room with 'Landlord, by the way, probably wasn't all that
friendly. :>'.

There's a light tapping on the door, not at all businesslike. "Hello,
Mister Salem?" is the faint-but-familiar voice. "I brought you and your,
um, niece some cookies." Like Lyra bakes anything else. There's a pause.
"Well, the landlord took two."

The door opens to the sound of Vivaldi on the stereo and the image of the
Walker Philodox in his 'at-home' uniform on black sweats and t-shirt.
Salem's mouth thins ruefully for a moment before he nods and steps aside
to let her in. "My niece. Right. Come on in, Lyra. Have a seat."

There's a gilded wire basket covered in seran wrap, and a dozen or so M&M
cookies arranged in a neat little circle, 'cept there's a whole were some
cookies should be. Lyra smiles warmly and pads inside, glancing about at
the new apartment. "She must be adorable if she got you to move into a new
place," the Gnawer teases. "Thought she might like M&M cookies then, more
colorful."

Lyra seems to be under the impression the niece is quite young.

Salem gets a rather strange, unreadable look on his face. "She needed her
own room," he replies vaguely as he closes and locks the door. "You can
put those in the kitchen, on the counter near the microwave. Can I get you
anything to drink?"

"No, but thank you," Lyra says cheerfully, heading cautiously into the
kitchen- roaches and small children lurking about -and depositing the
cookies where instructed. She reappears in the living room once more, as
half-shy and smiling as she'd been months ago. "So, is the nightingale
working then?"

No sign of small children can be seen. No toddlers or grade-school
munchkins leap out at the young cliath. No toys lying about, either, nor
crayoned artwork on the fridge. Of course, Salem's so terribly tidy...

When Lyra returns, she finds Salem settled onto the couch again; there's
an empty teacup on the coffee table and a book called _The Tunnels of
Cu-Chi_. The Walker lifts an eyebrow. "The nightingale?" His mouth quirks
briefly into a thin, wry expression. "About as well as can be expected.
Last year didn't end particularly well, after all."

Delicately tucking in her skirt as she takes a seat on the other side of
the coffee table, Lyra cants her head, eyes filled with concern and
possibly a hint of understanding. "Well. It wasn't the merriest of
Christmases, no. But new years mean new beginnings." She grins. "As pip'd
say, 'just think of how nice it is to know you haven't screwed your year
up yet.'"

Salem snorts, the sound sardonically amused. "Yes, that sounds like
something Quentin would say. So. To what do I owe the honor of this visit,
Lyra?" He leans back against the couch cushions, stretching his legs.

"I'd hardly call it an honor, unless my cooking's -really- that good," she
murmurs wryly. "But, a few things. I wanted to thank you for talking to me
about Fei Lung. It helped more than I can really tell you." Lyra grimaces
ruefully, her voice getting softer, sadder. "I still can't understand why
he did what he did, but he did it of his own making. I'm sure you saw it
in the paper. I killed him." A pause. "In the struggle to do so, it -was-
a struggle. A fierce one, and I fought poorly. In my Rite of Passage, I
failed in one place, to fight."

Salem nods, his manner turning more serious. Businesslike. "Mm. You
haven't had much training in that, have you? I'm surprised." He frowns,
then, thoughfully. "Or perhaps not. Aiyana's the only full-moon member of
your tribe in town these days."

Lyra squirms a bit. "Renee taught Aiyana, but I refused to learn, at
first...later, when I was open to it, our tribe had become a lot more
scattered." She pauses again, before smiling faintly and adding, "I was
always very impressed by the way you played tag."

Salem snorts. "I was an Ahroun once, remember?" He tilts his head,
studying her carefully. "If you need instruction, I can help you. In fact,
I'd be glad to."

Lyra smiles gratefully. "Only if you're not terribly busy, because I know
you're running Kentin's Rite, and with new cubs and being Walker Elder...I
don't want to add to your plate."

Salem pushes to his feet, taking up the mug as he does so. He shakes his
head. "It's no bother. Quentin's got his task, and the rest is up to him.
A little extra exercise won't hurt." He starts toward the kitchen, bare
feet carefully avoiding one recklessly scurring roach. "You're familiar
with the industrial sector, yes? Germantown, near the junkyard?"

The halfmoon Gnawer nods, wrinkling her nose in that odd habit of
annoyance. "Where we had the gang fight. My only real fighting experience,
and not to my credit." A pause, as she thinks back. "I got hit with a pipe
and it was lights out, then."

Salem isn't the laughing type, and so he doesn't. He disappears into the
kitchen for a moment, returning after putting the cup in the sink and
running some water into it. "If you head west from there, you'll get to a
neighborhood of empty warehouses. Victims of the eighties." He leans in
the doorway, arms folded. "One of them has a faded bulldog logo on the
front. Meet me there tomorrow morning at 6am sharp, and we'll see about
making sure you come off better the next time you have to get your hands
bruised." Though is tone of vocie is brisk and his words somewhat harsh,
the Walker's gaze is mild. Authoritative, but mild.

She seems surprised by the 6am call, but doesn't say anything; only two
hours earlier than she tended to wake, really not so bad. Unfortunately
for Salem's reputation as 'scary', it seems Lyra's becoming immune to all
but the harshest of his tones, as she smiles brightly. "Thank you, rhya!"

Salem smiles faintly at the small Gnawer. "You're welcome. And thank you
for the Christmas gift, by the way."

Lyra looks like the cat that ate the canary, she does. "Auntie brought
loads back for me, and there isn't enough window space for them all. Glad
they found a nice home." She gets to her feet, dusting off her skirt and
watching, slightly amused, as a roach attempts to scale the coffee table.
"I won't take up more of your time then, Mister Salem, but thank you
again. I want to make you and Annie proud."

"You will," the tall Walker assures her. "You already have. See you
tomorrow morning, Lyra."

Fairly beaming with that praise, Lyra starts undoing the locks to let
herself out. "G'bye, Mister Salem," she calls back over her shoulder. "Oh,
and thank you for your present."

Salem's brow furrows in bemusement. "Present?"

Lyra just smiles. "See you tomorrow," she adds, the door closing behind
her.