"I'll have grand cosmic themes and both chicken and pork, please."

[hazlogs]

Still Saturday, 12 April 2003.

"No." She stares out beseechingly at him, and then the furniture around her. Then him again. "No..." Mel's mumbling denial grows weaker as she retreats inside herself. Running her world, her life, her history, everything she knew through this new filter. Destroying dreams and ideals and heroes. And magnifying the horrors... He can see it all happening in the movement of her lips, speaking whispering without voice, the shaking of her head as new thought after thought intrudes unpleasantly, against her will. She moans, "Oh God, please... /please/ no..." again, miserably, before her eyes roll up into her head and she slumps sideways.

Salem looks at the girl and sighs heavily. "Marvelously done," he murmurs in sardonic Serbian, and then gets up, walking over toward the redhead's unconscious form. Bending down, he picks her up and carries her to her room, to her own bed. Carefully -- but he's practiced at this; he's lost track of how often he's done this for Rina -- he removes her shoes and tucks her in.

After studying her pale face for a moment or two, the Walker goes back out, closing the bedroom door quietly behind him as he heads for the living room -- to have a drink, to brood, and to wait for her to wake up.

---

Some hours later -- he's turned on the Mozart, low, to keep the apartment's silence at bay -- Salem gets up and paces back to the girl's room. He listens at the door first, then knocks quietly.

Hearing nothing, the Garou turns the knob and opens the door partway, enough to get a look at the girl in the bed.

She's lying on her side, curled a little with her hands folded in front of her face. She frowns. Sleeping properly, not just unconscious... it's likely the dreams aren't pleasant.

The bedroom on the left is a cosy little room that somehow assaults the senses with a seeming kaleidoscope of images. Photographs and posters, of varying sizes, pasted all over the walls create an odd effect - they've been arranged by colours, creating a belt of warm to cool. Individual photos are largely of landscapes, sometimes people. There's plenty of black and white interspersed... and they're taken at angles and with compositions that suggest an artistic mind, rather than holiday or memento snaps.

Far less striking is the rather small single bed with black sheets, and nondescript wooden desk next to it, with lamps, and a cluster of sketchpads and various writing/drawing implements. A chair almost creaks under the weight of various pieces of clothing that hide it, and there are small piles of clothes arranged in some kind of order. The scent of perfume in the room, plus the nature of the clothes (including occasional lacy or frilly things) suggests that a female lives here.

Salem's mouth thins, and he shakes his head slightly. Frowning, he lingers at the doorway, watching her, then pushes the door more fully open and approaches the bed -- silently, but for that one place where the floor creaks.

Mel starts, suddenly, gasping and wide-eyed, lunging upwards a little and halting herself. A frightened yell cuts itself off before it can get too far, and then she's panting quietly and looking around herself. Staring at Salem blankly for a while, before his appearance apparently allows her to exhale with relief, and ease herself back to her elbows Sighing. "Oh s'just you, Jack... thank God."

Salem unfreezes. Slowly, the tall man relaxes, partially at least; that edge of underlying tension. "You all right?" he asks quietly, concerned. He's still only halfway between the door and the bed.

Wiping a hand over her face, pushing away sweat and closing her eyes briefly. She smiles wanly, looking over to him and blushing slightly. Shakes her head and murmurs, "Just had a..." She looks up at him, speech slowing and smile fading. "bad..." Pause. Inspecting his face. Murmuring very softly, "Dream."

Salem pushes his hands into his pockets and gets a rueful look on his saturnine face. "Wasn't all a dream." For a moment, an apologetic expression flickers across his eyes, there and gone.

The colour drains out of her face, and she shivers, lying back. Looking for all the world like she'd been suddenly punched in the gut. After mere moments of that reclining, she hops out of the bed and advances quickly towards him, and past. Out the door and for the toilet... where she throws up.

Salem adroitly moves out of the way of the charging redhead. Listening to the sounds coming from the bathroom, he sighs again and paces out, through the living room and into the kitchen, where he prepares a glass of cold water.

Mel's not terribly noisy, but he is treated to faint mournful moans, of vague, all-purpose denial. After a while, she crawls to simply lie against the bathroom wall - legs extended and one arm across her waist. Her head falls back against the wall and she closes her eyes. Trying not to pant or hyperventilate.

Salem appears at the bathroom door with the glass of water. He offers it to her with a murmured, "Here." After a beat he adds, "If you'd like something stronger, it can be arranged." Deadpan.

Mel looks up at him, in disbelief, brows crinkling. "You're joking, right?" she murmurs faintly. "You're absofuckinglutely joking." Leaning forward tiredly, the woman just eyes him. Lost.

Salem lifts an eyebrow. "About what I said earlier, you mean?" When she doesn't take the water right away, he places it on the edge of the sink.

Slumping back against the wall, Mel half-lids her eyes and looks at him out of the corners. "Everything." She takes her breaths slowly, swallowing and looking to the bathroom tiles dully. "Start talking," she whispers. "Explain."

Salem folds his arms and leans against the doorframe. He considers her for a moment. "Do you remember when we talked about good and evil?"

"Yeah," she grunts. "I remember you speakin'." She looks back up to him, with the detached air of a patient discussing their newly-discovered terminal disease.

Salem nods. "There's a war going on," he says. "Between the planet and the corruption that threatens to choke all the life from Her." The redhead can hear the capital letter there, almost. "We, werewolves that is, and our kin, are Her soldiers. Her protectors. Guardians over Herself and Her creation. We call ourselves Garou."

'How do you get away with it?" she whispers, looking up at him.

"By keeping secret," he answers. "And... we're helped, a little. Humans, normal humans that is, don't remember seeing us in the half-wolf form. The one I showed you. A human that sees one of us in this form will later remember... just about anything else. A man in a suit. A vicious dog." He pauses significantly. "Or a couple of bears fighting in the park."

She swallows, letting her head fall back, as she mumbles under her breath, "Fuck." A pause, and she whispers to the ceiling, "How did he die?" Keeping her eyes shut, now.

Salem glances down at the floor. "Fighting monsters." He looks back at her. "_True_ monsters."

"Shut up," she mumbles, and rubs her forehead. "What were... you, Rina, Renee, Quentin, the cop... you're all...?"

Salem's brow furrows. "Which cop?"

"Rhiannon." Her replies are dull. Not getting bogged down.

"Ah." He rubs his chin. "Quentin, Renee, and I are Garou. Rina and Rhiannon are kinfolk. They have the wolf's blood in them and can see us as we are. They're family. But they can't change forms."

"Why... the scars?" she asks quietly.

Salem's fingers trail upwards, then his hand falls away and he folds his arms again. Broad shoulders move in a slight shrug. "Some wounds don't heal completely."

Mel stares dully at the toilet. "When do you find out? Why wasn't I told?"

Salem purses his lips. "For Garou, we usually learn when the first transformation hits in adolescence. I was fifteen." He shifts his weight. "Kin... it depends. Their immediate family usually takes care of it. For you... that would have been your mother."

Distracted, Mel murmurs, "So many scars..." And hangs her head. "What... Shit. Tell me something else."

Salem tilts his head, eyeballing her. Then, "Mm. Most of the things you've seen in movies is wrong. Wolfsbane has no effect on us. And you have to be born like this. A bite or scratch won't do anything except bleed."

Mel nods a few times. She nods a few more times. "What kills you?"

"Other werewolves, for one," he answers, after the slightest pause. "Just about anything supernatural will cause damage that we can't heal quickly enough. Anything non-supernatural that causes massive damage... mm, decapitation, say." Another pause. "And silver."

"Rina's got silver," she murmurs. It's possibly a guess, but so very certain.

Salem nods. "She does. So does Rhiannon, I believe."

Mel opens her eyes. "Smart women." She swallows, and looks over to Salem. After a while she looks back to the floor, and narrows her eyes, rising slowly. And then launching into him with fists at the chest, and screaming, "YOU BASTARDS!"

Salem bares his teeth in a reflexive snarl, catching the girl's wrists in his hands. "Calm down!" he snaps, holding her firmly.

"NO! What's WRONG with you? WHY?! WHY DIDN'T HE TELL ME?! WHY =YOU=?" She squirms and struggles, fighting him. Weak, and losing the battle against tears. "Why? Why didn't he trust me? I'd have done anything... kept any secret..." Losing the fight to struggle against him, too. Sagging.

Salem's face tightens. He continues to hold her wrists. Holding her up. "I don't know. Most likely, he didn't know that you were kin." He shakes his head. "Or perhaps he was waiting for the proper time to tell you," he adds, more quietly.

She gives another sudden, vicious shaking, an attempt to break free, glaring at him in confusion and nervousness. "Let GO of me, you JERK."

Salem's mouth twitches into the beginnings of a scowl, but he does so, and steps back, and folds his arms across his chest. She's free. And free to flee the bathroom, if she chooses, though it'll mean brushing past him.

She does. Heading for the kitchen, where she paces, and runs her hands through her hair, anxiously. Just pacing, and fidgeting. "Fuck. Fuck. /Shit/. WhaddoIdo, whaddoIdo... Oh God." She glares at the bathroom doorway, and barks out, "Hey. You. Get out here." Tight-jawed.

Salem wrinkles his nose at her tone, then takes in a breath and schools his features into a more neutral expression. Reaching for patience; he _did_ just turn her paradigm upside-down, after all. Once he's gotten his temper back under control, he heads out and into the living room. "Yes?"

Mel's gripping the edge of the kitchen counter with her hands white-knuckled, as she takes a breath and grunts, "Do it again. Prove it." Pale-faced and bracing herself, evidently, the woman just watches him with hardened green eyes.

"If you insist," Salem says.

Again, she witnesses that twist and warp of form, apparantly effortless, and a few seconds later, the nine-foot beast stands before her again, staring down at her.

This bestial, violent-looking hybrid of wolf and man stands well over nine feet tall. Except for an indistinct, irregular patch of medium gray on his chest, the thick pelt is almost entirely black, covering the werewolf from lupine head to digitigrade legs. One feral golden eye, deep-set, glares from underneath the wolfish brow, partially obscured by the long, wild mane that tumbles around his upright ears and long neck. The other eye is a blind white, lost within the tangled jungle of scar tissue that covers the left side of his face. Broad of shoulder and long of limb, he appears able to move about as easily on two legs as on four, though he seems to prefer the former. Long fingers and large hindpaws are equally armed with evil-looking black claws, and when he snarls, the sharp white teeth all but gleam against the midnight background of ebony fur. To Garou eyes, he has the look of nobility, and it's clear that Shadow Lord blood runs strongly through his veins.

Rarely at rest, the werewolf's motions bristle with rage, his violence held back only by a near-iron control. There's a secondary scarred area on his right shoulderblade that looks like it might once have been some kind of glyph, but it's been long since obscured. With claws. A nightingale charm hangs from a cord around his neck, nestled close to the fur.

She's trying hard... but the reality of it, the lumbering, shifting, moving and breathing muscles and joints, fur and fangs and scars and smell... Mel starts to quiver, clenching her teeth so very tightly and gripping the bench with all her strength. She can't keep her eyes from widening a little, and eventually she breathes, "Put it away. Please, God, put it away."

Salem does so. "We have a true wolf form, too," he remarks, rolling his shoulders as he settles back into the shape of his birth. "It's a good deal less intimidating."

Mel keeps her eyes closed, turning her head once it's 'safe' to take her eyes off him. She remains silent.

Salem cocks his head, studying her intently, as if looking for something. "You certain that you don't want that drink?"

Mel replies with a faintly choking snort/laugh hybrid, staring at the kitchen counter. "Vodka, if anything," she chokes, attempting light-hearted amusement.

The bottle's already out, interestingly enough; it's sitting on the coffee table next to a glass filled with the melted remains of some ice. One corner of Salem's mouth twitches upward as he turns to fetch it. He gets one of the smaller glasses down from the cabinet and pours a shot for her, straight.

Mel slumps, hanging her head and running a hand through her hair. Shuddering, she mumbles, "Oh God, Jack." Ignoring the shot.

Salem sets it on the counter near her. "It's... a lot to take in, I know."

"No fucking kidding, Einstein," she whispers softly. Shuddering again. A deep, shaky breath later, and she murmurs, "I... I tried to make you a little more human, but I guess I know why I failed, now. You're not."

He doesn't wince, but his mouth tightens a little. "No," he says quietly. "I'm not." He pauses a beat, looking away, then back at her. "Do you still want to stay?"

Mel looks up at him, frowning a little with a distant concern and sadness. "I don't know. ...Do you kill people? Are you in control? Am I in danger?" She swallows. "Can you live with me being afraid of you?"

Salem opens his mouth to answer just before she asks that last question. He hesitates, then straightens up from a lean against the counter, shaking his head. "If you're afraid of me, you shouldn't stay," he says flatly.

"You spend a lot of time pretending to be human, Jack," she murmurs, looking down. "Can you... just pretend a little for me, now? I... I don't have many friends." Mel reaches for the shot and sips at it, quietly, shivering. And murmuring softly, "I could really kind of do with one." She wets her lips, qualifying with a shrug, "Just for a little while."

Salem looks at her for a moment, then nods slowly. "So could I," he admits. "Do with a friend, that is."

Mel swallows and nods a few times, taking another deep breath and swallowing the rest of her drink. "I need sleep," she murmurs. "More. Too many nights on that damn couch," she adds wryly, smiling until she seems to think of something and frowns. Looking over to him. "You better tell me where you're out to, now. Even if it's to Her place. Otherwise I'll never get to godamn sleep."

Salem smiles crookedly. "Fair enough." He nods toward the bedroom. "Go get some rest. I have to go out for a bit and check on the park, but I'll be back in a couple of hours."

Mel nods, still, pulling herself straight and erect, gathering up poise for a slow progression towards the bedroom. As she moves to pass him, the woman frowns very slightly and reaches out cautiously. Just to touch him lightly - as if checking to see that he's real.

Possibly to overcome a certain fear.

He's solid, flesh and bone, and he doesn't bite. He tilts his head instead, regarding her a little quizzically.

Still a little uncertain, the girl nods a few more times on her way past - a distracted, absent look in her eyes as she shivers and hunches over, padding silently to her room.

Salem watches her go, on the verge of saying something. What, exactly, is uncertain... even to himself. She's disappeared into the bedroom before he's anywhere near deciding. He sighs, then goes to get his coat.

(This is where he goes out and runs into Renee.)

---

A few hours later - when he gets back - she's sitting on a stool at the counter again, hair down and still in the baggier clothing (which still doesn't manage to hide some of the nicer curves). Mel's face is... not good. She looks haggard, tired, and a little ill. And she's studying her portfolio, again, whilst gripping a glass of water in one hand, and resting her forehead on the other. Fingers are tightened in a few curls of hair.

Salem, returning, pockets his keys. "Couldn't sleep?" he guesses, regarding her in that intent, serious way of his.

Mel wrinkles her nose, and hitches one shoulder in a bit of a shrug. "I napped," she replies, deadpan.

Salem makes a little 'mm' noise in acknowledgement and goes to put his coat away. Footsteps on the floor, heavy, retreating... then returning. "Hungry at all?" he asks, moving past her toward the fridge.

"Probably." Mel stares dully at the photos, flipping a page and looking over at her water. "Threw up a little more, so... yeah. Empty, now."

Salem pours himself a glass of water. He glances at his watch. "Can your stomach handle Chinese, or would you prefer something else?" He's treating her delicately, like he's afraid of breaking her. Breaking her more, that is.

Mel closes her eyes and just sits there quietly, head lowered and breathing deeply. "Chinese is good," she murmurs, rubbing her eyes. "Can you maybe... talk a little more? Lemme know how much of life's a sham?"

Salem lifts an eyebrow at that, then grunts. "There's a lot," he says, setting down the glass and pacing over toward the phone. "Do you want the grand cosmic themes, or the more detailed, practical information?" He picks up the take-out menu, glances at it, then looks at her. "And would you rather get the chicken or the pork?" Touch of the usual dry humor.

She considers him, looking over her shoulder blankly. For a while, before taking a breath and murmuring with resignation, "I'll have grand cosmic themes and both chicken and pork, please."

Salem nods. He orders the food first, speaking businesslike into the phone and arranging for delivery. This mundane task accomplished, he takes a seat at the other side of the counter and leans on it, arms folded. Not _quite_ relaxed.

"The universe," Salem says, "is governed by three underlying forces, collectively known as the Triat. They consist of a force of raw creation and chaos, called the Wyld, a force of form and order, called the Weaver, and a third force called the Wyrm that was, in the beginning, a balance between the two."

Swallowing, Mel frowns and lifts a finger to stall him. "Uhm. Actually... I dunno if this ties in or not, but.... If these things exist, and the monsters and all that, too, and you guys... where are they? How do they get away without being seen? Can entities like those hide in human form, too? Or is there all sorts of shit under the sewers that we're not meant to know about?"

Salem rubs his chin. "All of the above. Some can hide in human form. Others simply stay out of view, and the sewers are a favorite place for that. Others... don't stay here all the time." He shifts his weight, leans forward. "There's another world that exists parallel to this one, a spiritual mirror. They're separated by a... wall of reality, you might say. Some... full-blooded werewolves and the more powerful spirits, can cross this barrier, or effect things on the other side."

Mel blinks a few times, brow furrowing slightly in confusion. "Uh. OK..."

"Take my word for it," he says. "I'd show it to you, but I can't. Not won't... can't. Normal humans can't cross over, even if they're kin."

"Well... go on," Mel decides, frowning and looking back to her water in concern.

Salem rubs the back of his neck, then gets up and paces, restlessly. "Back to the Triat. It became unbalanced. No one truly knows the reason why, but the general belief is that the Weaver went mad." His speech shifts into a smooth lecturing mode; he's gone over this before, given this lesson more than once. "She could no longer stand to see the things She'd given form decay and change and die. A seer I know back east says that She'd created the laws of physics, including the law of entropy, but then forgot why She'd done so, and that She couldn't see the point anymore in Her creation." He shrugs, adds wryly, "That's probably a bit too anthropomorphic, but at least it's something one can get one's head around."

Mel eyes the Walker warily, with a wryly twisted mouth. "Uh-huh," she states, doubtfully.

Salem gives her a 'well, you _asked_' sort of look, then continues. "The point is that the Weaver decided to stop entropy. She needed the Wyld because She couldn't create anything, just give creation form and meaning. So She turned on the Wyrm, whose job it was to break down form, and trapped it. Think of a spider, with a web. That's how the Weaver is usually pictured... convenient, since the web does exist and is visible on the other side." He begins pacing again. "The Weaver could not control the Wyrm, couldn't bring entropy under Her will. Neither was She able to destroy it. But She was able to keep it trapped, though the effort weakened Her and drove her further into insanity. And the Wyrm, fighting back, became corrupted, and split. In short, it went insane as well." He takes a breath. "Trapped or not, it's still able to effect the universe. The Triat still works, but... badly. Entropy and stasis fight each other, and _our_ little spot of existence, the planet and its neighbors, is caught in the middle." Dark eyebrows lift. "Is that grand enough for you?"

Mel blinks a few times and gets a sour, dubious look. "So the universe has gone mad. What's the Wyld, again... just chaotic energy?"

"Chaos and creation," Salem says with a nod. "Just as dangerous in its raw form as the other two, though places on earth where it's strong are rare, so we do our best to protect them. A strong Wyld presence weakens the barrier between this world and its spiritual reflection, but too strong a presence has been known to have... ill effects. We're mortal, after all, and require form. Body, mind... mind _especially_... are things of the Weaver."

Mel looks pensively at the counter, arranging the cosmos in her head. "So..." she murmurs quietly. "These... 'triat'. They're, uhm. Like Gods? And I'm assuming they're huge and off someplace, uh... cosmic, or else people'd have talked them around by now? Or...? I don't get it. What's things meant to be like? How long's the Weaver been mad, and... Wyrm, evil?"

Salem brushes back a lock of hair that's escaped the loose ponytail. "You could call them gods. They're off in the spirit-realm somewhere." He considers for a moment, then crosses back over toward the counter and grabs a piece of paper from the scratchpad and a pencil. "You have the earth," he says, drawing a rough circle. "Both the, quote, _real_, unquote, world and its spiritual reflection. The reflection, where we go when we cross over _here_, is called the Near Umbra. If you're adventurous, you can travel further out, deeper into the Umbra, further from reality, the material." He taps the paper with the eraser end of the pencil, as if for emphasis. "There are other realms out there, pocket realities. You could even travel to other planets, though it's rarely done."

He starts drawing again, sketchy figures at three corners of the paper. Warming to the subject.

Mel just watches him for a while, dubiously, before frowning and growling lowly, "I should slap you," in annoyance. "You're enjoying this too much." She can't help but frown expecantly at the paper, though.

Salem glances up and arches an eyebrow at her. Then he smirks and continues. The figures are simple -- one's a crosshatch of lines, the second's a messy tangle, and the third spirals in on itself. "Deep in the Umbra, and I do mean _deep_, is where the three members of the Triat exist. Nobody's been there. Nothing but They can survive. The Weaver's realm, for example, is one of pure, unchanging stasis. If you tried to go there, you'd be... frozen... long before you got anywhere near. _If_ you managed to survive the journey at all with your mind and sanity intact." He straightens. "Now, as for what the cosmos is _meant_ to be like, what it should be is balanced. The Wyrm's corruption and the Weaver's insanity has destroyed that. And it's been going on for a long time. We, the Garou, were made _because_ of the inbalance." He taps the circle in the middle of the paper with the pencil. "Spirits of the Wyrm, spirits of corruption and decay, started attacking the cosmos soon after the Wyrm went bad. The spirit of the earth, whom we call Gaia -- no Captain Planet jokes, please -- created the Garou to fight this corruption. We're a race of white blood cells fighting a disease. Part wolf, part human, part spirit. In terms of history... humanity had just learned to stand upright."

Mel frowns a little more, expression largely unchanged. "So... technically, for order to be restored, the earth - Gaia - needs to be destroyed by a healthy Wyrm, and returned to, uh... nothingness and energy?"

Salem grimaces. "No. The destruction of Gaia is the very thing we're trying to _prevent_." He brushes back that lock of hair again. "Ideally, what's needed is for the Wyrm to be healed, or for it to be destroyed and a 'new' Wyrm, an uncorrupted one, to replace it." He exhales. "That's a bit beyond us, though. There's a pack out there that's looking, chasing legends of the uncorrupted Wyrm. Most of us, though, focus on keeping our own spot clean... as clean as possible, anyway."

The redhead eyes the Walker shrewdly. "So how's it going? This 'battle'?"

"On the whole? Badly," he answers, truthfully. Salem pulls out a stool and sits. "It's been going badly for a long time. Eventually, or so it's believed, things are going to go completely to shit. The battle to end all battles. No one really knows when. On a cosmic scale... soon." He shrugs. "Which could be twenty years or could be two hundred. Half of the Garou I know thought the Apocalypse, as it's called, would happen when the century changed. As you can see, the planet's still ticking." He taps the pencil against the paper absently. "On a local scale... the city has some bad points and we need more people in it rather than hiding out in the woods, but it could be worse. A lot worse. There are spots of power, places that remain pure. There are enough of us to deal with an invasion... as we found out last summer. We could hold on for quite a long time."

Mel looks down suddenly, expression turning blank. Reserved. "Oh. That was what happened."

"You remember the explosion?" Salem tilts his head slightly, regarding her.

Mel blinks a few times, looking up. "What? No... I mean, just... OH. Yes. John's place. Yeah..." Her voice softens and she rubs at her face. "He spent lots of nights out. Pushed me to watch a lot. Got angry a lot. Was hurting people. People he thought might know things." She sighs, shoulders slumping. "I thought maybe it'd been... I dunno. Someone threatening Rina again, or something. But bad. Worse."

Salem nods, his expression dark. "Much worse than that. We lost a good friend of ours in that. The enemy came up from the sewers and set up a sniper outside. It was ugly." He shakes his head. "Some Garou go over to the Wyrm. There are no more in this city, however."

"Oh." Mel swallows, resting her hands in her lap, and leaning sideways against the counter. "He didn't have many friends. But he didn't say anything... Guess that's why. He was.... really, /really/ mad. S'some people just straight-out left town, cause'a that."

Salem makes a thoughtful little 'mmm' sound. "I'm not surprised. A lot of us have something of a temp--"

He's cut off by a knock at the door. Must be the Chinese.

The girl looks over at Salem with dull, neutral eyes, and watches him for a moment before murmuring, "Y'gonna get that?"

Salem grunts an affirmative, crumpling the paper as he gets up and stalking over toward the door. Cash is exchanged for food in little white cartons, and the delivery boy doesn't linger; he almost drops his change, in fact. "Dinner," the Walker says, carrying the bags back to the counter, "is served." He starts setting things out.

"This is like being high," the woman mutters. "But worse." She sits and simply folds her hands in front of her as she waits for Salem to do his thing.

"Tell me what you want to drink, first," he replies, setting down the last carton and heading for the fridge.

Mel mutters darkly but firm, "/Water/. Body isn't in the best of shape right now."

Salem's mouth quirks into a brief half-smile. "Wise choice." He returns with a couple of forks and plates, then two glasses of water. "Where were we?"

Mel scowls, grunting tersely, "Turning my fucking life upside-down, that's where! Anything else important happen in the few years that he happened to keep me in the dark on?"

Salem snorts. "You're _hardly_ the first person he kept in the dark. You know _now_, however."

Mel starts, brow wrinkling, "Yeahbut..." And she sort of simply deflates, after that. "Yeah, whatever. I know. I just... Nevermind." She moves to start picking the containers of food open, eyes dull and tired.

Salem frowns, watching her, his gaze concerned. After a few moments of silent eating, he says, gently, "If he didn't know you were kin to us, he _couldn't_ have told you. We have a law against it. We keep secret."

"Yeah, I figured as much," Mel murmurs tonelessly, eating. "So why'd /you/, then?"

Salem helps himself to some chicken and fried rice before answering. "Before I answer that, describe what you saw when I changed."

Mel passes a hand over her face, wearily, lifting it again to massage her temples. "I dunno. A werewolf, I guess. You turned into a fucking huge monster. It wasn't you. At all. Just... the eye. Was the same." She looks over to him with that same tired expression and murmurs faintly, "What's it got to do with anything? I'll be happy if I never see it again in my life."

Salem exhales softly and nods a little to himself. "I told you because you wanted to know about my life... but I _also_ told you, I was _able_ to tell you, because I'd done some research into your background, and your parents' backgrounds, not long after I realized that you intended to stay here for good." His voice is calm and neutral, no hint of apology in it.

Mel just gives him the wary look of a cornered animal, watching his face and frowning. Not getting it, obviously.

Salem looks at her, and -- seeing that she hasn't put the pieces together -- continues. "Your mother is kinfolk. She has the blood, if not the shifting ability. And she passed it to you." He toys with his food. "You have a lot of family out in Boston, and some of them can turn into... what you saw."

Mel blinks and frowns, narrowing her eyes at Salem. "Back up a sec, buddy," she notes sharply, stiffening a little. "I have... /family/?"

Salem nods. "A very Irish one." He tilts his head, focussing his good eye on her. "I could arrange a meeting, if you wished."

She just sits there watching him impassively for a while before exploding into a sudden, "What the FUCK?!" hands rising in a shaking gesture, tightening into fists near her face as she controls herself. And stares intensely at the table. Slowly opening fists and letting the fingertips lightly rest against her head, the girl mutters tensely, "Great. Just great."

Salem tenses at the verbal explosion, fingers tightening on his fork, jaw clenching. His gaze flickers, sharpens with something startled and snarly, then steadies again. Uncoiling, calming himself -- it all takes place in less than handful of seconds -- he forks up another mouthful of Chinese food. "Or not," he says evenly. "Being kinfolk does offer you some protection, you know."

Looking at Salem in disbelief, Mel mumbles through clenched teeth, "Mom always said she was an orphan. Fucking figures. /Fuck/. So what else is a lie? Can we please have all the lies out in the open so I know what's what?"

Salem squints at the redhead a little. "I think I've covered just about all of it, apart from the lies of omission."

Mel holds his gaze for a moment, challengingly and almost... distrustful? And then she breaks it, looking down to her food. "Tell me 'bout this 'protection'."

Salem returns her stare evenly, his expression and eyes flat until she looks away. Then he shifts his weight. "Simply speaking, you're family, whatever happens. And we take care of our own."

"And your family are the ones I've been told to watch every now and then? The freaks we met when we went out for pizza, an eternity ago?" Mel eyes Salem warily.

Salem nods. "Jeremy, the obnoxious goth, is kin like yourself. The others..." He pauses, sifting through his memory of that evening.

"Spoiled little shit," Mel comments neutrally, with a shrug. "Some biker guy, Quentin and his girlfriend, the lady with the awesome dreads, and... uh. I forget."

Salem nods again. "The biker, if you mean the grinning man with the glove, was Eamon. He comes from the same branch of the family that you do." He pauses. "There are bloodlines, not many, but significant. Not all werewolves are created alike." He declines to add further explanation. "Quentin's family, Garou like myself. The girl, Lyra, isn't really his girlfriend... or at least," the halfmoon says with an arched eyebrow and a wry look. "They're not allowed to be. Lyra's from another branch. The lady with the dreadlocks is with Quentin and myself." He forks up some more Chinese. "I'm head of our particular branch, as John was before me."

Mel's head tips slowly upwards, a certain light of recognition in her eyes as another piece of a jigsaw slides into place. She lowers her head and starts picking at the food again. "Not allowed to be? Don't tell me it's some kind of Romeo/Juliet thing with bloodlines..."

"Mmm, no. Though things like that do happen..." He takes a drink of water. His tone's so damn conversational. "Garou by themselves aren't really a true species. We don't breed true." He lets that hang in the air while he takes another bite. "The offspring of two Garou ends up deformed in some way, and sterile. So such relationships are officially forbidden."

The girl only has to think about that for a little while, before eyeing the Walker wryly. "So what're we kin? Breeding stock? No wonder Rina's a hard case."

Salem manages a light, brief chuckle. "Rina left Chicago to escape that. In any case, while it's true that some Garou do see kinfolk in just that light, we're not _all_ unenlightened. The truth is," he adds, candidly, "there are more of you than us. Only one in ten births is a Garou. Also, you can get into places we can't, deal with things that we're simply not able to. Vampires, for example, can often detect a werewolf. They cannot detect a werewolf's kin. You don't have a... temper... that people can sense and be afraid of." He pauses, then adds, "I speak of human kin, of course. Wolf kin, of course, pretty much _are_ just breeding stock."

Mel looks to one side and mutters drily, "Lovely," before chowing down unenthusiastically.

"Don't worry," Salem says, just as dryly. "Nobody's going to force you to play brood mare."

Mel sends the Walker a look with daggers in it, then goes back to her food, silently.

The silence stretches for a time with little more than the sound of forks on plates and the like. Salem keeps glancing at the redhead, keeping an eye on her mood. Letting her digest information; there's been a lot of it in too short a time.

After a some time has passed, the girl mutters vaguely, "You owe me."

She puts her cutlery down, looking up and leaning back with a resigned look on her face.

Salem cocks his head and considers this for a moment, studying her. Then he dips his head in acquiescence. "All right." Voice neutral.

Mel rises, taking her plate and cutlery to the sink with her and rinsing them off. "Gonna go for a walk, 'kay?" After drying her hands off and wandering past him, she reaches out - just to touch him on the shoulder, a light almost-poke. Just checking to make sure he's real. And human, for the moment. He can see it in the faint frown, marring the skin of her forehead.

Salem lofts an eyebrow. As before, he remains real and solid and just as human -- in appearance, anyway -- as she always thought he was. As she always thought _John_ was. "I'll be here."