"Y'don't know much about humans, do ya?"

[hazlogs]

It is currently 14:05 Pacific Time on Sat May 17 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 waning Full Moon phase (90% full).

Harbor Park -- Fountain

Situated in the center of a large, open meadow is a clustering of six trees, a flower bed, a few steel-and-wood benches set firmly into concrete, and a flagstone courtyard that is dominated by a large fountain.

The fountain is a wide circular pool of water some fifty feet across and about five feet deep in most places. The sculpture in the center is a mix of old and new, traditional and modern: eight concrete-and-stainless-steel slabs about six feet high are set in a rough Stonehenge-like circle around the center of the fountain. Water flows from their tops, cascading in bright mesmerizing sheets to the pool below. Rising above the steel circle is a large marble statue of the Water Bearer, an androgynous figure draped in robes of flowing water. It bears a large jug carved with various Greek symbols, from which pours a seething torrent of water into the pool at its feet.

Cars on the nearby street have an excellent view of the park as do any residents of the tall buildings which line the waterfront.

The murky waters of the Columbia River flow swiftly along the east side of the park. Bracketing the park to the west is First Street and the city of St. Claire. Recent construction work is creating an earthen berm several feet high all along the borders of the park in all directions.

Salem watches the park from the dubious comfort of a bench near the fountain, arms folded across his chest and sunglasses obscuring his eyes. A handrolled cigarette dangles from his mouth, half-smoked.

Tatt's boot-soles don't make a sound as she approaches slowly, nearly matching in black clothes, shades, and cigarette. She hesitates as she recognizes the Walker, and scans the surrounding park with some expectancy.

As usual, Harbor Park is somewhat sparcely populated; the place still has something of a poor reputation. There's certainly nobody near the Walker himself; _his_ reputation is even worse. He doesn't notice the Strider's stealthy approach.

Soundlessly, she slips into his peripheral vision as she takes a place on the opposite end of his bench, chewing thoughtfully on her near-finished cigarette. No words; she simply lifts her chin and stares out at the river.

Salem turns his head slightly and studies Tatt's profile for a moment. Then he nods, takes the cigarette from his mouth, and says, "Well."

"Your girl's in bad shape," she rasps, voice characteristically rough and low. The Strider won't look at him, and her scab-encrusted hands toy idly with a metal lighter. If possible, it looks like she's lost even more weight from her already-gaunt frame.

Salem grunts. "No shit." His mouth twitches into a grimace, briefly. Then his expression settles back into a flat mask as he shrugs. "She has good days sometimes. Sometimes."

Tatt shakes her head once. "Not enough." She glances aside at him, gaze veiled by the shades. "She been seein' anyone? A shrink?"

"No." The Walker's voice is still flat. He examines the length of ash at the end of his cigarette, flicks it off onto the ground, then brings it to his lips. "I've given her a name. Kin, medically trained." He exhales heavily. "Thought she was getting better."

Tatt frowns slightly, mouth twisting in disapproval. "You can't fight this enemy that's hurting her, _hermano_," she points out. "It's /in/ her."

Salem grimaces again, staring toward the river. "What do you suggest?"

"Force her," the Strider answers simply. "Chica's independent, but all she really needs right now is a grown-up tellin' her what to do. How to heal." Tatt falls silent for a moment, flicking away some ash. "It's what Icewalker used t'do."

Salem's lips compress into a thin line. "Careless motherfucker," he mutters, but nods reluctantly. After taking another drag off his cigarette, he sighs softly. "Until last week, I thought she'd gotten better. One of the reasons I put Cat in with her, to keep an eye on her. Kid adores her."

Tatt snorts sharply, with a disapproving glance towards the Walker. "You put a greenback /kid/ in the apartment to look after a basket-case? Even /I/ know better'n that, _Cicatriz_." Despite the harsh words, her tone is somehow gentle.

Tatt pages: FYI, 'cicatriz' means 'Scar'.

Salem turns his head to look at her. "It was for both their benefit. Cat gets a mother-figure, and Rina gets someone to take care of and to keep her company." One shoulder lifts and falls listlessly, and he looks away again. "That was the theory."

The dark-skinned woman shakes her head slowly, slumping back against the bench. "Y'don't know much about humans, do ya?" The finished cigarette is tossed to the pavement, ground out with a heavy boot.

Salem answers with a grunt and another shrug. He takes another drag off his cigarette, still staring pensively out toward the river.

Tatt lights another, sighs out a deep cloud of smoke. "Lesson one," she rasps, holding up an ink-marked finger. "...Their self-destructive drive overrides all other urges. No matter how rational."

The Glass Walker grunts again. "And this is different from us how?" His voice has a bitter, sarcastic edge.

Tatt chuckles dryly. "They don't think they've got anything worth fightin' for. None of our martyrs-saving-the-world bullshit." She looks over at him, removes the shades. Those strange dark-yellow eyes are the same, though more tired--and noticably dilated. "All they've got is their own miserable song. It don't fit into any larger soundtrack."

"Ought to send her away," Salem says, voice low. He looks down at the filterless roll of paper and tobacco in his hand, then flicks excess ash off the end of it. "Would be the rational thing." He shakes his head slightly. "Thought she'd be over it by now. At least enough to deal. Every time, she seems fine, acts fine. Acts like she's gotten things _together_, enough to cope. Then she shows up half-conscious at my door. Christ. Fucking _Christ_." His temper edges closer to the surface as he speaks; it _is_ full moon time, after all. At the end, though, he just grimaces and inhales another lungful of smoke.

"Watch y'self, amigo," the Strider murmurs, leaning forward with elbows propped on knees as she pockets the sunglasses. "You're startin' to care too much."

"I know," he replies sourly. "Not good for my health."

Tatt smiles darkly, without humor. "I'm serious, Jack. They've got the life span of a fruit fly."

"Mmf." Salem shifts his weight a bit, stretching his legs restlessly. "Where've you been?"

The Strider shrugs a shoulder, perhaps a touch uncomfortably. "Around," she answers cryptically, with a careful glance over her shoulder towards the rest of the park. As though on cue, a new arrival comes into view--high heels clicking conspicuously, the gaudily-dressed woman seems nervous and jumpy as a frightened hare. She's alone.

"Hold up, amigo," Tatt mutters quietly, rising from the bench to pace towards the woman with a silent wave.

Salem glances up, turning to regard the newcomer from behind dark lenses, his expression as warm as winter. He watches her and the Strider blandly, smoking his cigarette.

The woman shifts her weight nervously as she exchanges low words with Tatt, one hand tugging at the hem of her black miniskirt and the other stroking absently at her long, tousled hair. She seems impatient to finish the conversation and exit the park; Tatt is calm, her back turned towards Salem and blocking most of his view. Eventually, they shake hands and the tawdry young woman pulls Tatt into a brief, grateful hug. As the Strider turns away, the clicking of heels takes the girl out into the night.

Salem waits until Tatt's returned to the bench. "You were saying?" he prompts, stubbing his cigarette out on the arm of the bench.

Tatt shoves both hands into her pockets, letting out a long stream of smoke. "Business," she grunts. "Odd jobs. City stuff." She shrugs vaguely, her features falling sadly for a split second. "Any word from Sepdet, these days?" She tries to make it sound casual, but barely pulls it off.

Salem shakes his head. "No. No word for months. She's vanished." He flicks the cigarette butt toward a nearby trash can, expertly. "Ouro's going to be vanishing, too. Announced it this week, at moot. Andrea and her whole group." He snorts, folds his arms across his chest.

"/Fuck/," the Strider hisses with a grimace. "That's, what? Two-thirds of the sept elders gone?"

"Most of our Fostern. All of our Adren except for Nightfire. Alpha, Ritemaster... shit." He wrinkles his nose, upper lip curling slightly. "They'll be around for another week or so, at least. If that."

Tatt shakes her head, raking a hand through messy dark hair. "Just when I thought the shit-hole couldn't sink any deeper," she mutters. After a moment of gazing at the river, she rasps hoarsely, "Looks like I'm gonna have to move up to Fostern, after all."

Salem bares his teeth in a brief, humorless grin. "I'm ahead of you. Already Challenged." The feral smile vanishes. "Fortunately, no Dancers are involved."

Tatt grunts. She doesn't look too pleased about the prospect of challenging. "Almost forty, and I'm still a fucking cliath," she mutters, with a bitter shake of her head.

Salem shrugs. "Shit happens. To some of us more than others." He reaches into his coat, taking out a slim black case and removing another handrolled cigarette from it.