"Few things in life worse than bad coffee. Life is too short to suffer it."

[hazlogs]

It is currently 18:56 Pacific Time on Sun May 11 2003.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is partly sunny. The temperature is 55 degrees Fahrenheit (12 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from variable directions at 7 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.83 and falling, and the relative humidity is 63 percent. The dewpoint is 43 degrees Fahrenheit (6 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waxing Gibbous Moon phase (71% 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.

K. C. knocks. Honestly. After parting ways with her watch-partner, and hiking for a bit, she knocks on the apartment door.

Salem opens it, casually dressed in t-shirt and sweats, both black, his hair unbound for once, _The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly_ playing in mute on the television behind him. He takes in the other Walker with a raised eyebrow, then steps aside and gestures her in. "Evening. Need a drink?"

K. C. takes the invitation without second thought and pads into the apartment saying, "Yes, please." She looks at Salem again, and her eyebrows rise. "You weren't .. I mean, I assumed you'd be up. Don't ask me why. Bad time, good time?"

Salem doesn't _look_ like a man just awakened, despite the dark circles under his eyes. He shakes his head as he closes the door behind K.C. "No, I'm up. Just relaxing. The time's as good as any." He starts toward the small kitchen area. "Coffee? Or something stronger?"

"Coffee's fine. Probably a good idea for me to stay up for a while." She shifts her weight to one leg, letting her hip bear the weight. "The Stone was right."

"Ah?" Salem pauses to look back at her, his eyes narrowing. "Do tell." He gestures toward the couch invitingly as he goes about getting her a cup of coffee.

K. C. takes a seat on the edge of the couch. "Yes. He was there. Well. He was there tonight, anyway. And the kid and Mrs. O'Ryan? They're in on it too, somehow. I just don't know exactly how." She wrinkles her nose. "And I will never again call my place a sty."

Salem grimaces. "Ghouled, perhaps? How do you want your coffee, by the way?"

K. C. says "Maybe. That's what Renee thinks, anyway. Oh. Um. Cream, or milk, and sugar, if you have it. Otherwise, I can do without. She's really the Elder of her tribe?"

Salem nods. "She is, odd as it seems. The only Gnawer who outranks her spends all his time frolicking in the woods and doesn't give a shit." He snorts, then sets the cup of fresh coffee on the boundry counter between the kitchen and living room, along with a caddy of sugar packets. "So, what happened?" he asks as he fetches the milk.

K. C. shakes her head, then climbs to her feet. "We sat across the street for a while, then the kids showed up. The girl, from the other day, and another one. Younger. So we started to follow them. Then Mrs. O'Ryan came out and headed the other way. So we split up." She takes a couple of sugar packets, shakes them down and tears them to dump into the coffee. "The kids went to panhandle outside this QuickieMart. Nothing exciting going on there, so I went back."

Salem sets the quart-carton of milk on the counter and then leans against the wall, arms folded. He listens with a slight frown, eyes narrowed. "Mm-hmm."

K. C. takes the milk and pours a cloud into her cup. "I figured, since everyone was out of the place, I'd check it out. The front door of the building wasn't locked, so I went up. And ... I'm telling you, Mr. Salem. That apartment of theirs really needs a visit from Child Protective Services or something. It was ... gross. And let's not even talk about the bathroom." She shudders, then picks up the coffee cup to sip.

Salem's lips twitch into a brief, humorless little smile. "Perhaps somebody _should_ call Child Services." He lifts an eyebrow at her. "Civic duty and all. Anyway. Go on."

"Right. Anyway. He's got a separate room in that apartment. Tidy as a monk's and about as much fun. Keeps the door barred from the inside. And, we were right about that, too. Not a window in the room. Turns out he was in there, though you could've fooled me. Well. He did," she admits with a little grimace. "That, or he can turn himself invisible."

Salem grimaces again, mouth thinning. "Some of them can. It's not uncommon. What happened then?"

K. C. sips again, and shrugs her shoulders as she does. When she's swallowed, she answers, "We talked. Well. We made thinly-veiled threats at one another. And the short version is, he's not willing to get any more information for us unless we can guarantee we won't kill him."

Salem grunts. "I'm willing to let him live if he gets out of town, along with the rest of them." His frown deepens a notch. "What's his angle, anyway? Why tell us _anything_?"

K. C. confesses, "I already told him to leave town once. And he did." More quietly, she adds, "He just came back." She shakes her head. "He says he didn't want to be one of them. Maybe that's why."

Salem purses his lips, considering this. "Do you have the gift for detecting lies?"

K. C. shakes her head again. "Though you'd think I would. It'd come in handy in a court room."

Salem rubs his chin. "I _do_ have the gift. It's not infallible, but..." The ex-Ronin grunts, folds his arms again. "What happened then?"

K. C. says "If I don't complete mess things up, maybe you'd teach it to me? When you have time, of course." She takes another breath. "Then, Mrs. O'Ryan came back. And Renee came with her." She frowns. "Behind her, anyway. She claims it's because she was worried about me, but if I'd been trying to hide, I would've been in real trouble."

Salem nods at mention of teaching -- time's something he has, apparantly... for that, at least. The rest brings about another thin grimace from the tall Walker. "Renee is not known for her subtlety."

"Understatement. I like that." K. C. drinks from her cup again. "That was pretty much it. Orion told me that if I got Renee out, he'd think about being our snitch. We left, and I came here. Renee opted out. Galliard moon, you know?"

Salem nods. "It's not especially pleasant for me, either," he says evenly. "Too much rage." He shrugs, pushes off from the counter, and prowls across the apartment, hands in pockets. "Hm. How'd he make contact with you, anyway?"

K. C. takes her coffee cup back to the couch and sits. "I caught him feeding on someone. A businessman. So I guess I made contact with him, first."

Salem wrinkles his nose. "He got lucky." He shakes his head, pausing near the bookcase and glancing absently over at the TV, where the Ugly and the Good are planting explosives on a bridge while Union and Confederate soldiers fight a lackluster battle all around them. "I want to meet him," the Elder says, turning back to K.C. "Neutral ground, and his safety assured... for the meeting, anyway, and presuming that he doesn't do anything foolish."

K. C. blinks. "You... really? I mean, I don't know whether he'll agree to it, but ... really." Color her impressed.

Salem grunts. "I'd hardly be the first Walker Elder to chat with a bloodsucker, would I?" He shakes his head slightly. "We'll see if he's on the level. If he's reluctant, remind him that as far as the city Garou are concerned, I _am_ the authority, and if he wants to live here, reside, whatever, he'll have to deal with me eventually." His chin lifts with more than a little of alpha-dog pride.

K. C. nods. "I'll let him know, then. I'm sure I'll see him again," she says, a little wryly. "This is going to sound ... completely wrong? But thanks."

Salem smiles crookedly. "You're welcome. Anything else I need to know about?"

K. C. shakes her head. "That's it, for now anyway." She climbs to her feet and gestures with the mug. "I'll just put this back in your kitchen. Thank you. It was good."

"Few things in life worse than bad coffee," Salem says dryly. "Life is too short to suffer it. Especially _our_ lives."

K. C. grins. "Amen, Mr. Salem. Amen. Have a good night, all right? I'll talk to you soon."

Salem walks the other Walker to the door and lets her out. "You, too, K.C. Be seeing you."



Later...

The sluggish knocking comes around midnight--a vague thump or two, followed by a thud against the wall.

Salem opens the door in black sweatpants and matching t-shirt, feet bare and hair unbound. Behind him, on the muted TV, the 'Man With No Name' spaghetti Western trilogy continues with _A Fistful of Dollars_.

Rina leans somewhat crookedly against the doorfame, watching him with faintly reddened eyes that just manage to focus. "C'n I come in?" she asks hoarsely. She has been crying; the traces of tears are still there, dull lines on her cheeks.

Salem's brow furrows with concern. "Of course..." He steps back to let her enter, mismatched eyes studying her carefully; a worried frown tugs at the corners of his mouth. "You all right?"

She can barely walk straight, as she comes into the apartment and weaves her way toward the couch. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fuckin' great," she mumbles.

Salem shakes his head and closes the door behind her, turning the latch. "Coffee?" he offers.

Rina leans on the arm of the couch, her head bowed. "I'm sorry," she says lamely. "I'm sorry..." Her speech slurs just a little.

Salem shrugs and says, with a wry note, "Don't apologize. Sit. Please?" Underneath the patience and the dry, indulgent humor, the beast paces restlessly. Gibbous moon and waxing. "How do you want your coffee?"

Rina shakes her head and drops to the couch. "No," she mumbles thickly. "No, I have to... I don' remember why. Got'n'y whiskey?" She slumps at one end of it, an arm stretched out on the upholstery, her head sheltering in it.

Salem studies her, head cocked to favor his good eye. "Will vodka do?"

"Sure," she murmurs, "whatever. I like black coffee, din'tcha know that?"

Salem pauses to study her again while, on the silent TV, a young Clint Eastwood shoots disreputable men in a dusty old-west street. Then he shakes his head again and pads barefoot into the kitchen. "I must have forgotten."

Rina's head leans dazedly onto her shoulders. "He's so tough," she mumbles.

Several sharp raps sound from the door. If knocks could convey emotion, these would say that whoever made them was rather tense.

Salem looks up sharply, eyes narrowing. With a grimace, he sets down the coffee pot and stalks across the apartment to answer the door.

Some time later--a second or two at least--Rina lifts her head to look reddishly toward the door.

Tobin is standing outside, eyes firmly set on Salem's feet when the Walker opens the door. "Elder," he says in greeting. His voice is very tight, almost like he's speaking through gritted teeth.

Salem regards the young Silver Fang rather dourly, then steps aside and gestures him in with a jerk of his head. "Got my message, then? Good. Be right back." He turns his heel and disappears into one of the bedrooms.

Rina's brow furrows. "Tobes?" Her voice is slurred, clumsy with liquor. "What'a you doin' here?"

Tobin steps inside and closes the door behind himself. He relaxes visibly when Salem is out of the room, and turns a curious, puzzled gaze on Rina. "I'm sorry," he says in a voice suddenly tinged with an upper class British accent. "But have we met?"

She bares her teeth in a vague, pretty smile. "Y'look good enough t'eat," she mumbles.

Tobin
Sharp, aquiline features dominate this pale young man's face, belying a pure blood-line many generations old. The occassional fine white scar can be seen on his face and hands if the light falls on it just right. One day, he will be very handsome, but now it looks like all the pieces don't fit quite right together. This situation might be helped if he smiled more, but smiling doesn't seem to be something Tobin is much interested in. Lank, shoulder-length black hair is tied up with a piece of black scallop-edged ribbon, but a few locks have broken out to frame clear blue eyes which are as sharp as the rest of his face. He looks to be about 18 now, though in truth he's a little older than that, and has gained some height and weight in the last two years, now standing at about five-foot seven and weighing perhaps 130 pounds. His added height, even just a few inches, only adds to the presence he brings to a room. He has a wiry build that's often held in a proud, straightbacked posture. More and more often he seems sure of himself and proud, carrying himself with a dignity not normally found in people his age.

He's dressed like a wannabe Victorian goth, except that he wears it so well he may as well have stepped out of that time period. He wears a ruffly white poet shirt under a sweeping cinch-waisted black opera coat, which is worn open. The shirt is tucked into a pair of medium-tight black pants, which are slightly shiny. The only thing throwing off the look is a pair of worn hiking boots on his feet.

Tobin looks politely confused and smiles faintly. "I'm sorry?" he says in the manner of an English noble who's suddenly found himself in a rather seedy alehouse instead of the ballroom party he expected. "You seem to have me at a disadvantage."

Rina tips her head back slightly, and her grin widens--somehow unsettling, with the pallor and the traces of tears, the dark unresting shadows under her eyes. "Oh good. That's just where I like you."

Salem clears his throat noisily. The Walker Elder is back from the bedroom, and to further interrupt the dangerous little scene that's budding, he holds up a small plastic pill bottle and shakes it slightly, making it rattle.

Tobin looks confused for a moment more, but then rallies his social forces and attempts to shore up a defense...by introducing himself. "Ah, I see. Well, allow me to introduce my name is...is..." he trails off in complete confusion, then jumps when Salem clears his throat and shakes the pill bottle. He blinks several times, then refocusses on Rina. "Oh, hello Rina," he says clearly. "Sorry if I was interrupting anything." He gives a half-bow towards her and turns towards Salem. He quickly looks at something else to avoid looking directly at the Walker Elder.

Rina blinks. "No," she murmurs slowly. "No, it's fine."

Salem, mouth thinned, grasps the Fang's wrist and places the pill bottle in his hand. "It's not much. A two-week supply, and it wasn't cheap." Releasing Tobin, he takes a step backward. "But we can discuss payment when you're more... together."

Tobin nods, looking grim now. "I am in your debt, Elder," he says somberly, pocketing the pills. "On my honor, it shall be repaid." His breathing is coming shallower and faster with the effort of will it's taking to hold back the memories, and by the time he's done talking, he /is/ speaking through gritted teeth.

"On your honor," Salem agrees, somewhat brusquely. He crosses the room behind the Fang and opens the door for him.

"I don't know how to make it stop, either," Rina murmurs.

Tobin bows once to Salem, gives a somewhat shallower bow to Rina, mutter something apologetic, and leaves. He doesn't run, or jog, but he's gone just about that fast, his coat filling and billowing briefly as he literally flees the presence of the Walker Elder.

She watches him, watches the door close--her eyes are almost focused, even. "The past," she slurs, "is a fucking curse."

"Fangs," Salem mutters under his breath, in Serbian, as he closes the door behind the fleeing Theurge. Then he glances over at the woman on the couch. "That it is," he says, reverting back to English. He crosses over toward the television and turns it off.

"The world's full of... full of the past," Rina mumbles. "Always waitin' for you..."

Salem moves back over toward the couch and rests a hand on her head, lightly. "Maybe I should just take you home," he says quietly, fingers moving delicately through her hair. "Cat'll be worried."

Rina shakes her head languidly, her eyes unfocused. "Tell him," she mumbles. "Tell him not to worry... not to..."

Salem exhales a breath. "You want to stay here tonight?"

Rina closes her eyes. "I won't be stayin'," she mumbles, with a drowsy shake of her head. The words are barely intelligible, thick-tongued and clumsy.

"You're not going anywhere by yourself." His eyes narrow; he kneels down by the couch and looks into her face. "What did you take tonight?"

She barely shapes the words. "Not stayin'..." Slow, and low, and slurred...and she doesn't speak again.

Wary and worried -- he knows the kinds of things she gets into, he presses two fingers under her jaw, then at her wrist, checking her pulse. "Rina?"

The beat is sluggish, a dull throb well under one per second. She makes a low, vagie sound, an effort to reply perhaps.

"Shit." Salem swears -- not in Serbian, thankfully -- and slaps her cheeks, lightly. "Rina? Come on, open your eyes and look at me. Come on."

Her eyelids flicker, and slit a little--but they do not truly open before closing entirely again. The slaps hardly make her head loll, and there is certainly no flinch.

Salem growls out another curse, this time in bastardized Garou, and hauls the woman to her feet. "Up. Can you walk? Of course you can't. Bloody Christ, Rina..."

There is another nonverbal sound, a whine of unmistakable protest. She is entirely limp, however, her murmurs notwithstanding.

Still grumbling, half-growling, at her lack of response, he sets her back down on the couch and goes for his boots, pulling them on without socks and lacing them hurriedly. "Most people just _drink_, you know, Rina," he remarks, keeping a wary eye on her.

She is still, her breathing slow and nearly inaudible.

Salem pulls on his coat, the big black leather duster, and hauls the girl to her feet again. "Going for a ride," he mutters. He keeps up a steady stream of Serbian as he walks -- or carries, if necessary -- her down the stairs to the Yugo; he curses non-stop as he buckles her into the passenger seat. And for once, he drives like a madman.

Hilliard Memorial Hospital - Emergency Room(#400RJ)

Austere white walls reflect the bright fluorescent light pouring from the ceiling. The smell of antiseptic permeates the air. A separate sense of electricity fills the room, like the calm before the storm. Metal doors lead off into surgery and triage. Nurses and aides wheeling gurneys rush past, heading through doors at a breakneck pace. Directly opposite the automatic doors, a nurse sits behind a receiving desk.

Automatic sliding doors open out onto a broad drive leading off of Beaugregory Boulevard. To the east, double doors open into a hallway.

You paged Rina with 'Does she wake at all on the ride over?'.
Rina pages: No. Her breathing isn't really going downhill /fast/, but it's enough that he notices a difference over the time of the drive.

Salem pushes into the ER with an unconscious Rina in his arms, looking like he might give the place twice as much business as it already has -- if he wasn't already burdened, of course. The Walker's boots are half-laced and his hair's unbound; the sweatpants and t-shirt under the long black coat are further signs that this was not on his list of Things To Do this evening.

A Sunday night, but close to midnight and close to the full moon; the ER is only moderately busy. A few of the people waiting in chairs glance toward the door, and then quickly look away--they don't want any part of the wild dark-haired dangerous-looking fellow. A few white coats half-run from place to place, and out in the hallway an elderly homeless man is strapped to a gurney, moaning incoherently.

One of those sitting in the waiting area is set slightly apart by dark clothes, dark sunglasses and an air of danger. Tatt's attention tracks the new arrivals closely, but silently. The Strider sinks low in her plastic chair, impassive beneath the harsh flourescent lights.

Fortunately for most of the people in the chairs, the wild, dark-haired, dangerous-looking fellow's attention is on the medics, but his eye falls on Tatt as he tracks his gaze across the waiting room and focusses on her. For a moment, he stops short, frowning like he's seen a ghost.

Her eyes are effectively hidden by the shades, but the lines around Tatt's mouth tighten slightly as Salem spots her. Scab-riddled hands gets shoved into the pockets of her hooded sweatshirt, and she slumps even lower. It's hard to tell exactly where her gaze is resting.

The sirens approach, the lights of an ambulance flash against the ambulance bay doors, and there is a bustle outside, voices on the intercom. A youngish doctor runs past at full speed, pulling on a pair of gloves on the way.

Salem's mouth twists into a grimace as he turns sharply away from Tatt, moving into the hapless doctor's way with a speed that belies his size and his burden. "You."

Tatt stays in her chair, eyes locked onto some spot on the floor. Only the tapping of a boot-heel belies her tension; the other hospital patrons are careful to give her w ide berth.

The spectacled young man runs straight into him, takes one look and snaps over his shoulder. "Dr. Croyden!" A tall, slim woman behind the desk looks up from a chart, startled, and then paces quickly toward them.

"I'll get the trauma," the older woman says coolly as she goes right past toward the ambulance bay--assessing Salem, the patient in his arms, and the situation with a single cold look. It's a cruel way to test a student, for damn sure.

The resident is already starting to stammer out an excuse to Salem, pushing up glasses on his nose and not quite looking up at the one-eyed man... but then the older woman's order cuts him shirt, and he immediately takes Rina's vitals. A preliminary effort, and then he is calling again, gesturing Salem urgently to follow him. "Do you know what she had? Esperanza, help him," gesturing to a nurse in splattery scrubs that look unpleasantly like blood.

"No idea," the Walker growls, following. "Wasn't there when she took... whatever the fuck it was." He casts another, brief, glance at Tatt as he passes her, then forgets -- or _seems_ to forget -- about the Strider in the face of other, more pressing matters.

In the waiting area, Tatt can't help but glance towards Salem and his unfortunate burden with a frown. Her jaw tenses and flexes subtly.

The young doctor keeps a hand on Rina's wrist as they shift her from Salem's arms onto the gurney. "Espe--thanks." The nurse is already drawing blood, when he speaks. "Take it and meet me in Trauma 3--and bring the char kit." He snaps another nurse over as the first one leaves, and the medical jargon spouts fast. "Thready at 52."

He watches as they do their work--starting to pump her stomach with activated charcoal immediately, a nauseating sight. There are people constantly moving around him, pushing him out of the way as politely and deferentially as possible... less deferential about it, when she stops breathing for a while. He's in a sea of jargon, but he understands that much at least, and it places a severe strain on self-control for a time as he watches them scramble and struggle with their pathetic technology. The blip of her heart on the monitors slow to a terrifying crawl, but they never lose it entirely. The young doctor has an expression of pale, reptilian fury, the entire time he's working on her; there is a cruel satisfaction to the line of his mouth, when he has to intubate her to force her to breathe. The room is quieter then, the sound of the heart monitor a good deal more reassuring now that it beeps at a pace approaching normal. The doctor is torn away for long minutes, to attend to an arriving trauma next door. Awful sounds leak in, as people pass through from time to time to fetch something.

Pathetic technology? Salem revises this mentally as Rina shows signs of improvement, remembering -- humans created this. Gifts of the Weaver. Arms folded, he stands with his back against the wall, concentrating on his own breathing and on keeping an iron grip on the beast.

The young doctor comes in again, white coat now spattered with blood and something darker. He mutters quietly as he reads lab results, and nearly bumps into Salem, glancing up with something fierce on his pallid, colorless face. "You should be waiting in chairs. We're going to move her anyway, now that she's reasonably stable."

Salem meets the doctor's eyes unblinkingly. "Where are you moving her to?"

"Wherever we can find the space," the man replies tersely. "I think one of the exam rooms might be open." He has that closed, hard expression again, when he looks back to the bed. "Excuse me, Mr..." A frown, and he looks back to Salem. "Who are you, anyway?"

Salem unfolds his arms and straightens up, looking less than civilized in his disheveled state. "Her cousin. And I need to be there when she wakes up." The Walker's flat tone of voice is not one that will accept resistance.

The young doctor purses his lips. "That's fine. Just fine. What's her name?"

Salem cocks his head, fixing the doctor with his good eye. "That important?" Stubborn.

A blink, almost snakelike--he has such nasty colorless eyes, and his face is devoid of expression. "It's important that we look at her file. So we know about any medical conditions or allergies."

"She doesn't have any," Salem replies, curtly. "How long until she wakes?"

"Probably a couple of hours," the doctor says, distaste coming to his face again as he glances over. "Difficult to tell with cases like this." The animosity remains, even when he looks back to Salem. "Do you have any reason to believe she would want to harm herself?"

"None at all," the Walker says, lying smoothly. "She does, however, tend to party with a bad crowd." He shrugs eloquently, as if to indicate that no, he doesn't approve of it and no, he hasn't been able to do much about it.

The doctor purses his lips slightly. "Well. Maybe this will scare some sense into--" He's interrupted as a nurse pokes her head through the doors. "Doctor, we need you in Trauma 3," she says quickly, and then is gone. Without so much as making an excuse, he turns and leaves, taking the hallway this time; seconds later a burly nurse comes in, a man who matches Salem in height but outweighs him by fifty pounds at least.

"Good mornin'," he says in a ridiculously deel Isaac Hayes bass. "We're just gonna re-locate, now." He seems to be talking to the deeply unconscious young woman, as well as to Salem.

Salem rolls his shoulders, hands vanishing into his coat pockets and mentally giving a sigh of relief as the objectionable doctor departs. He fishes around for his pocketwatch as he follows the big nurse, but the timepiece is back at Red Mill.

When they come to the new room, the nurse finds something in a cabinet--an odd cloth vest, used to bind the unconscious patient down without constriction. The strange man talks to her quietly the whole time: "There, now, you

When they come to the new room, the nurse finds something in a cabinet--an odd cloth vest, used to bind the unconscious patient down without constriction. The strange man talks to her quietly the whole time: "There, now, you're not gonna go anywhere on us, are you?" A glance over his shoulder, and he says sadly, "Sometimes they rip out IVs, cause all kinds of trouble. She'll be fine..." He replaces the monitor on her index finger.

Then there is a long, long wait; the big nurse asks Salem to ring the call button if Rina wakes up. Then he checks in every once in a while, to check on her. The hours tick by, announcements coming over the intercom from time to time, noise in the corridors outside.

Salem simply nods to the nurse, then settles down for the wait. He dozes occasionally -- eyelids drifting closed no more than a few minutes at a time -- half-slouched in an uncomfortable folding chair, arms folded across his chest. He does remember to call the studio to leave Cat a vague message about 'Mom's with me, don't worry, get some sleep.' Other than that... he simply waits, and watches.

A couple of hours later, he wakes and she is watching him above the intubation mask--her eyes bleary, not quite able to focus.

Salem shifts his weight and stretches, grimacing. Rubbing the side of his neck, he looks at her wearily. "Welcome back."

Her brow furrows, the expression pained; she turns her face away, and moves weakly--trying to free a hand, but unable to with the vest that secures her arms.

Salem unfolds himself from the chair. "Lie still," he tells her quietly. "It was a close thing." One side of his mouth quirks upward, but the wry humor doesn't reach his shadowed eyes. "Need to be more careful." He touches her shoulder, squeezes it lightly.

Belatedly, he remembers the call button and presses it.

The nurse isn't long in arriving, and the doctor follows shortly after, saying something quietly over his shoulder. "... up a psych consult for me? And tell them before tomorrow would be good, this time?"

The nurse steps over, and flattens out the half-reclined gurney. "Bet you'd like to get that durn thing out, huh?" he asks with a dazzlingly white smile. "We'll do that, little lady."

The doctor joins him a moment later. "Can you hear me?" His voice is rough, abrasive almost with dislike. "We're going to take out the tube now. I'm going to count to three and I want you to breathe out, hard as you can. Nod if you understand."

Though she can't quite focus on the man, Rina gives a small nod, closing her eyes.

Salem wrinkles his nose at the doctor but says nothing. He hovers close by, hands buried in coat pockets.

The doctor pulls out the tube without a hitch, and when she begins coughing a little he nods. "Don't talk," he says curtly. "It'll take a while. I'll be back to check on you."

The nurse helps quietly, perhaps catching some of the doctor's black mood--but when it is done he gives the half-conscious girl a smile and says, "You try and stay awake, now."

"She'll be all right, then?" Salem asks, gaze focussing on the doctor. Lack of sleep makes his eyes more intent, not less; with less energy available, he devotes none of it to softening the feral undertone.

"We'll see," the young man says flatly, turning at the door. "There may be... permanent damage." He matches savagery with coldness, sounding almost as if he /wishes/ her the worst possible consequences.

Salem's upper lip lifts, flashing a hint of teeth at the doctor's retreating back.

The nurse leaves as well, his hulking form taking up almost the entire doorway as he lumbers out.

"Fucking hellhole," Salem mutters. He shakes his head sharply and looks down at the kinswoman.

There's a sudden beeping alarm, as Rina succeeds in pulling the monitor from her hand somehow--she's still tangled in the vest. "W--" A cough breaks into her attempt to speak, but a moment later she tries again, thick-slurred words, her eyes not quite clear. "Why're you all cubist an'Picasho...?"

Salem's brow furrows. "Why am I _what_?" He helps her the rest of the way out of the vest.

She is remarkably weak and clumsy, still tranquilized by the massive overdose; her mouth is grey-black, from the charcoal. "All... Picasso," she mumbles. "Three heads and everything..."

Salem grunts. "You're still out of it." He tosses the vest onto the chair he was sitting on and goes to fetch her shirt and boots. "Think you can sit up?"

"Go home," she mumbles weakly. "My Jack. Shouldn't've... been there..."

Salem returns to her side, the shirt draped over his arm and her boots in hand. With his free hand, he brushes her bangs away from her forehead and looks into her face. "I can't leave you here."

"'S'where I belong," she says hoarsely, looking up at him vaguely. "Dead. Wyrm, destr--" She coughs again, turning her face away and wincing sharply.

"Don't." His voice is more tired than pained. He sets her boots down on the floor. "Try to sit up. We need to get you home."

It takes anger, and it takes actual physical contact and help--but eventually he sits her up, legs draped over the side of the bed. And that's about when the doctor's voice can be heard in the quiet hall. "Jim, where's my psych consult? Call them again."

Salem gives the door a quick, sharp glance, lips thinning. He turns back to Rina. "Home," he tells her, curtly. "Your own bed. And Cat, remember Cat? Kid's probably waiting up." As he talks, he works at getting the boots on her feet.

A rough, low voice exchanges a few words with the doctor outside. Seconds later, a rather familiar apparition enters the room: still in wraparound shades, Tatt steps in carefully, as though walking on glass.

There's noise on the intercom, an arriving multiple trauma from an accident involving an eighteen-wheeler... and the doctor has hardly touched the door before Tatt interrupts him. His voice is clipped and hostile, and he excuses himself to deal with the flood of arrivals.

Rina is listless, but there is something in her eyes, a shimmer of tears, a look of unfocused despair. She barely manages to stay sitting upright on her own.

Salem glances up as the door opens, sunken eyes fixing on the tattooed Strider. He straightens up and regards her critically for a moment... then arches a quizzical brow.

Tatt looks haggard, every thirty-odd years of her life showing plainly on her face. She adjusts her shades, leans an angular shoulder against the wall as she surveys the scene. "Nothin' like stomach-pumpin' to get yer day started, eh?" Her voice is even rougher than before, somehow toneless.

Rina doesn't speak, only winces slightly. There is noise in the halls outside, now... they're going to be busy, it seems.

Salem grunts. "Nice to see you, too." The brusque greeting is, perhaps, forgivable; he's gotten next to no sleep on a night he could have used it, badly. The Walker nods toward the bleak-eyed kinswoman on the gurney. "Help me with her? Sooner we're out of this place the better."

Rina looks quite charming with grey lips, really... it's the spill of the color around her mouth that's not so appealing. She is pale, and her eyes keep closing.

Tatt pauses, eyeing the kinswoman doubtfully for a moment. Shrugging one shoulder, she pushes away from the wall and runs a hand through hair that's now long enough to fall into her eyes. "Fine." The Strider hovers near the bed, waiting.

Salem puts an arm around Rina and lifts her off the gurney and onto her feet, saying briskly, "Up, up. Eyes open."

Tatt slides into place on Rina's other side, draping one of the woman's frail arms around her shoulder and stooping slightly. Silent, grim, and careful.

Rina gets that far, swaying unsteadily. "Fuckin' doctors," she mumbles.

Salem utters a grunt of agreement and -- slowly -- the two Garou steer Rina out of the room and toward the hospital exit. Salem gives the hallway a quick look up and down as they enter it, then concentrates on the task of getting Rina out.

The crowds of people, doctors and gurneys don't notice until they're near the door; there, an EMT takes one looks at them and averts his eyes. No, didn't see a thing. Nope. Not at all.

Tatt moves slow and steady, keeping her eyes on the linoleum floor as they pass the EMT.

Rina stumbles along weakly between them, tripping once or twice, kept on her feet by main force. The sky is just beginning to shift toward deep purple-blue, outside.

Salem stares straight ahead. The exit is all he cares about, and when they're through, his goal is the ugly rust-orange Yugo. "Lucky break," he mutters to Tatt. "How long've you been in town?"

Rina is asleep as soon as they set her down, her head lolling against the window. She never notices the bumps.

Salem drives in silence through the quiet, dead-of-night streets, blearly eyes fixed intently on the road. He asks no more questions, and the trip back to Rina's building is uneventful.

Tatt is equally silent, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette as she stares out the window.

Salem pulls into an empty spot alongside the curb outside the building and turns off the engine; the Yugo runs surprisingly smooth, all things considered. The Walker rubs a hand across his eyes tiredly for a moment, then drags himself out of the car. "Help me get her upstairs?" This to the uncharacteristically quiet Galliard.

Tatt is way ahead of him, already out of the car and opening the back door. She pulls the kinswoman upright with no difficulty, steadying her with both hands as she leads. She mutters something softly under her breath, but it's in Spanish.

Between the two of them, they get Rina up the stairs without difficulty, and the only pause is when Salem has to search the kinswoman's pockets for her keys; definitely not for the first time.

Rina half-wakes when they pull her out of the car, but she is far from totally conscious. The cards and keys are still in her pockets, happily enough: only the electronic key to the building, and the one to her apartment. No wallet, money, or anything else.

By the time Salem gets her inside she is limp in the man's arms. He gives curt directions--she needs to rest a while, and Cat should give her some water when she wakes up--and then he gets out in short order. It's clear from the mere presence of the man, as well as the taut tone of voice, that he maintains a supreme self-control to keep the beast in check. It's almost a relief when he goes, as if the air is clear all of a sudden.

Cat's been sitting in a small lake of half finished sketches, and all the paper and pencils are shoved as he hastily cleans up, makes room, nods to the instructions and stares at the weak woman, trying to follow the elder's orders quietly and at the same time, quickly. Water- water. He goes to the kitchen, hands fumbling as he fills one, two, six glasses with water- she might be thirsty, and more than enough was better than less...

She is unconscious for more than an hour, and it's unnerving--she hardly seems to be breathing, and there is still grey around her mouth and staining her lips, making her look even more pale and unhealthy.

Cat's kneeling at her side with a glass in his hands and another on the nearest flat surface, his impatient but silent waiting only broken by his blinking. Please wake up, he thinks desperately, please don't be sick please tell me it's okay. Please please please. Blue eyes focused on the pale face, waiting for the first sign, any sign that she's going to open her eyes and tell him it was all a joke.

Light slants in through the windows, the angle slowly changing. Her brow furrows a little, and the pattern of her breathing alters. She utters a wordless, thick confused sound.

He's leaning in, peering- "Miz Rina?" he whispers, clutching the water glass tightly. "Do you want water? You're home, you're safe- want water?"

Rina swallows thickly, and manages--with clear effort--to open her eyes. She doesn't quite focus on him. "Cat?" Her voice is weak, slurred. "Um... yeah, thirsty--"

It's a miracle he manages not to spill it, as he picks up her hands and presses her fingers around the cup, his own hands shaking a bit. "I was worried," Cat tries to say brightly, but his own relief making him sound like he's about to cry. "Mister Salem called and said you were sick but not to worry but I worried anyway..."

Her face is dark with despair, the morning light doing nothing to illuminate it. She doesn't take the glass from him, just lets her hand join his own for guidance as she drinks--several swallows to ease her hoarseness. When she lowers the glass, finally, eyes closed, she murmurs, "I'm sorry..."

"That's okay!" Forced cheerfulness, and his voice cracks as if to further insinuate that he's lying. Cat coughs, going on hastily, "Don't be sorry, be better an' get well. You wouldn't want to miss church on Sunday. I get to be an altar boy." He still has his hands pressed around hers as they mold themselves around the glass. "Did you break ribs? Did you get a cold?"

She closes her eyes tighter, and tears wet the lashes. A tiny shake of her head, and she drinks again to avoid speaking. "I'll come to church," she slurs. "I promise."

That pacifies the cub for a few moments, a hawklike-motherly instinct invading his common sense as he watches her drink. "Who hurt you?" he demands, voice cast low and soft, but the anger underneath the words...the sort of anger she saw when he fought Tabia. "Wazzit the Russians?"

Rina takes a careful breath, and shakes her head minutely. She relinquishes the glass to him, sagging weakly into the pillows. "Nobody. S'nothin' like that, caro. Shhh..."

The glass gets set aside carefully and true to her command, he quiets, although there's a curiosity that will surface again, later. "Salem left," he murmurs idly. "Said to give you water and let you rest. He'll prolly come back and check on you." Pause. "Cause he loves you," Cat adds, feeling this needed to be explained and impressed.

A choked sound comes from her throat, and she turns her face away. "He shouldn't," she mumbles. "Neither should you. Y'oughta find somewhere else to go. Go live with /him/."

Cat blinks, chewing on his lip for a moment as his thinks. "You don't want me anymore?" he mumbles, fingers beginning to pinch at his sleeves in agitation. "I -do- love you. I wanna stay with -you-."

She sinks limp against the pillows, her face turned from him to make the tears less obvious. "He'd take better care of you," she mumbles. "Wouldn't get you hurt..."

He shakes his head so emphatically curls fly. "He never cooked- well, um, once. He didn't take me to church. He didn't paint with me or take me on rides or take me to the library..." The cub trails off, confused and baffled and still strung-up from having an empty house. "You don't hurt me. You've never hit me."

A quiet, tangled sound of anguish comes from her, and this time she barely manages to speak. "I'm tired," she mumbles.

He scrambles to his feet, hunting down a blanket and lovingly tucking her in the way she does to him every night. "I'll be right here," he promises, sinking back down to kneel and then shift to lupus, muzzle presses up against the edge of the couch. A soft chuff- just sleep.

The sensitive ears of the wolf know the scents and sounds of pain. Rina cries herself to sleep, as silently as possible; she is nearly too exhausted for tears, but the despair remains.

It's a couple of hours after dawn by this time. It's now the 12th, Monday.

Salem's knock is quick and brief, a few sharp raps.

Cat's a golden wolf lying down next to the bed, ears pricking at the sound of the knocking. Still in lupus, he scrambles to his paws and lopes to the door, sniffing at the crack near the floor. He chuffs, shifting upwards and unlocking the door. "She's kinda sleeping," he tells the elder softly. "She had some water."

Salem is calmer than he was when he dropped Rina off, though the halfmoon still looks haggard and rumpled in his stay-at-home sweats, loosely-laced boots, and unbound hair. He's had a cigarette recently -- just finished it, by the smell, and there's blood drying on the knuckles of his right hand. Shadowed eyes fix on the cub; he nods once, then moves into the apartment. "She woke up, then?"

Rina's in bed where he laid her, still with charcoal staining her mouth. She's pale, unconscious.

Cat nods, moving behind the elder to close the door and lock the chain again. "Just for a little bit, she. She's kinda upset with herself, I think, so she went back to sleep. She got antsy when I asked what happened." A curious, sad glance gets shot towards Salem, unspoken question obvious.

Salem hesitates, then shakes his head slightly and instead of answering the cub, approaches the kin in the bed. His face is nearly expressionless, almost clinical as he lays a hand on her forehead, then feels under her jaw for her pulse.

It's not clear whether the voices rouse her, or the contact--but her brow furrows slightly. There are traces of tears on her skin, faint but visible.

Salem smooths her bangs down, then straightens up and rubs at his eyes, tiredly. He turns back to Cat. "Did she say or do anything odd when she left this evening?" he asks the cub, his voice flat and dull. "Mention where she was going? Anything that you remember?"

Cat shakes his head, watching the two of them carefully from the door. "Nothing really diff'rent. She was busy for awhile after mass, then we had a chatski and then bed. I didn't even know she was missing until you called." He looks sheepish and unhappy at that, as if he'd failed his duties.

Salem doesn't, however, seem angry with the cub; he simply nods, hands buried in his coat pockets. He stares at the still not-quite-conscious woman for a moment longer, lips pursed in thought.

Rina swallows thickly, and struggles for a moment with the blanket before her eyes flicker open. "What...?" She is bleary and dull, her speech still a little slurred.

"Morning," Salem rasps. "How're you feeling?"

Rina winces slightly, looking up and almost focusing on him for a moment. Then she and turns her face away. "Tired," she mumbles, closing her eyes again.

"Not surprised." There's no recrimination in Salem's voice; the edge of weariness in it is enough, even if he's not aware of it. "You need me to stay?"

"Y'oughta sleep," she mumbles. "I've done enough damage f'one night..." The despair is black, a deadness permeating everything around her.

Salem sighs. "Don't. Please." He rubs the back of his neck, glancing over at Cat for a moment. Then he turns back to Rina. "Get some sleep, take it easy. Call me later... I'll be at work until five or so, but my cell will be on. All right?"

"Just write it off already," she slurs. Her face remains turned away--she can't look at him.

Salem wrinkles his nose, mouth twisting into a distinctly sour expression... then he shakes his head. "Get some sleep," he says again, and turns to go.

Cat steps back out of the room, quiet as his namesake.

Rina rolls over onto her side and curls up, huddling into the blanket. She doesn't make a sound, as she cries.

"Keep an eye on her," Salem says to Cat quietly. Then he ruffles the boy's blond hair and leaves, closing the door behind him.

Headruffling aside, Cat chases after the elder, sticking his head out the door as the man makes his way down the hall. "Why is she like that?" he demands, voice still cast low so that the woman can't hear, hopefully. "Why does she cry all the time? What -happened-?"

Salem pauses, turning back. He shrugs, reaches into his coat, and pulls out the dark glasses. "Old wounds," he answers cryptically, putting the sunglasses on. "She's depressed." He shakes his head. "Not your fault. Not hers, either, really."

The boy looks crestfallen. "So now I have to start all over?"

Salem lifts an eyebrow at this. "Start all over? No. Just continue to be there for her." He sighs quietly, pushing his hands into his coat pockets. "Be there for her," he repeats.

Cat blinks back at the elder, mulling over that for a moment before disappearing back into the apartment...taking Salem's words quite literally.

Salem watches the door close. He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, then vanishes down the stairs to the car outside.