"...I am getting fucking tired of people assuming that I'm some kind of god-damned puppet-master."

[hazlogs]

It is currently 09:06 Pacific Time on Sat Jul 19 2003.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is clear outside. The temperature is 49 degrees Fahrenheit (9 degrees Celsius). The wind is calm today. The barometric pressure reading is 30.14 and steady, and the relative humidity is 93 percent. The dewpoint is 47 degrees Fahrenheit (8 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning Gibbous Moon phase (66% full).

Long distance to Ebony: Salem answers the cell on the second ring. "Yes?"

Ebony pages: Yo, boss? S'Ebony. Need t'speak with y' 'bout Jeremy. Kinda worried.

Long distance to Ebony: Salem makes a concerned-sounding 'mm' noise. "Been meaning to speak to him myself. How is he?"

Ebony pages: He ain't firin' on all cylinders, boss. Can I come over an' talk t'you proper? Don't really feel right discussin' 'im while he could walk in.

Long distance to Ebony: Salem grunts. "After what Leonard did to him... Hmph. Yes, good. Come on over."

Ebony pages: Be there inna sec. *click*

--------------------------

There's a hazy-sounding knock on the door.

Salem opens the door, looking like he's been awake for hours already, and ushers the kin inside. "Been a while, Ebony. Can I get you anything?"

"Water'd be good," Ebony murmurs, ducking in and moving over to sit on whatever passes for a couch, gently displacing a few 'roaches from it's arm to do so, so he dosen't accidently squash one.

There are actually less roaches in the new place than the old, and overall the decor is homier. Cozy. And it 'matches' more -- the woman's touch, one supposes. Salem nods and goes into the kitchen to fetch a glass of ice water for his visitor. "So. Jeremy's not doing well, hm?"

Ebony shakes his head. "Nuh-uh. The boy is paranoid they're gonna come back for him," the englishman murmurs. "Carries a gun everywhere. Even just goin' from bedroom to bathroom. I know he knows 'ow t'use one, but it's a bit excessive, an' I'm scared 'e's gonna 'urt himself."

Salem grimaces. "There is no 'them'. Leonard acted on his own, and he's been judged for it." Crossing back over, he hands Ebony the glass. "Part of his punishment, by the way, is to make amends to Jeremy... in a way I see fit." He looks grimly satisfied with this.

Ebony takes the glass, lifting it to his lips and drinking a good half of it's contents before continuing, "Whoever. I don't know shit about the Wendigo, so..." he shrugs. "I jus' don't want the boy t'hurt 'imself, is all. First time I got home an' saw 'im, he was barricaded up in 'is room. Woulden't even let Renee in, an' they're good friends. Took me tellin' 'im to shower an' shave fer dinner t'get 'im out.

"Jesus," Salem mutters. He scowls, pacing slightly with hands in pockets. "Where is he now?"

Ebony spreads his hands. "I ain't heard anythin' this mornin'. Either he's out, or asleep. Don't know if he's been goin' t'work - been kinda run off my feet."

Salem sighs. "I'll talk to him." He mutters a short phrase in Serbian; the term 'Wendigo' is the only bit that's recognizable, and it doesn't sound complimentary at all. "He came over to visit Rina afterward and seemed... mm. A little tense, perhaps, but otherwise fine."

"He ain't fine," the kinsman asserts quietly. "I'ma take a couple' days holiday next week t'watch 'im an' make sure he ain't flippin' out."

Salem nods. "Good." He continues to pace, prowling restlessly back and forth in the apartment. "What did Renee say to him, did you hear?"

"She was just tryin' t'get him t'come out," Ebony replies. "Apparently one of 'em 'ad been over earlier."

"Aiyana?" Salem says, hazarding a guess. He pauses a moment, head cocked to eyeball the kinsman.

Ebony shakes his head. "Not a Gnawer. A Wendigo. Kin, I think," he clarifies.

Salem pauses at that, eyebrow rising. "Really." He purses his lips. "Did she give a name?"

Ebony shakes his head. "I weren't there," he observes. "This was all before I got home."

Salem nods slightly, his face closed and thoughtful. "Mm. I'll have to ask him, then."

Ebony rubs a hand over his cheek. "This was a good...what....six, seven days ago now? About a week, yeah. Poor boy's just a mess."

Salem grunts. "Yes, well..." He eyes the kinsman. "Between you and I, Jeremy's far from the most stable of individuals. Kin spirit to Roger in that way." He shakes his head.

Ebony grins crookedly. "I know," he replies. "I know. Bin' livin' with 'im fer what...seven, eight months now? But 'e is a good lad, even if 'e's a bit cracked. We all are."

Salem's lips twitch into a thin, wry little smile. "Runs in the blood." He rubs the side of his neck. "Anything else I should know about?"

Ebony shakes his head. "Don't think so." He drinks some more of his water, before wondering, "How's that Fianna cub doin', anyhow? Dan, is it?"

"Fianna cub?" Salem frowns, thinking a moment. "He introduced himself at the moot. I've never seen him before." He shrugs.

Ebony grins faintly. "He's th' one I brought in," the kinsman replies. "Jus' wonderin' how he was gettin' on."

Salem looks wry. "You'll have to ask one of the Fianna. I'd honestly never heard of him before the moot."

Ebony nods. "Not like I see any of 'em. Maybe I'll visit the farmhouse later," he decides, finishing his water and rising, heading for the kitchen to deposit the glass, making sure he dosen't tread on anyone en-route. "Think that was it, anyway, so 'nless you got some work you need me t'do, boss?"

Salem shakes his head after a moment's thought. "No... Just... keep an eye on Jeremy, and call me if he's about to do something... desperate." He exhales a quiet breath. "And if I'm not available, don't hesitate to grab someone else, even one of the Bone Gnawers."

"Don't say it like that, boss," Ebony requests faintly. "They're good people. Better'n you give 'em credit for. Truth be told, if Jer were in trouble an' there weren't no Walkers around, they'd be th' first people I'd go to."

Salem grunts. "I give them a great _deal_ of credit, these days." He sounds a bit dour at this, but then the moon's still rather fat. He rakes his fingers back through his hair, which isn't tied back like it normally is.

"Good." With that, Ebony doffs the hat he isn't wearing and heads for the door. "Gimme a call if y'think of somethin' y'need."

Salem smiles thinly and inclines his head. "Likewise. Be seeing you."

------------------------

Later that day...

Forgotten Church(#1801RAJLM)

The old church is dark, dimly lit by outside light coming in through scum-encrusted windows during the day, and tomblike during the night. There is a coatroom in the back of the nave, with separate doors leading off to mens' and womens' restrooms, and two staircases, one going up to the balcony and bell-tower, and the other leading down to the basement. The double doors leading out to the street are at the back of the coatroom.

The hard wooden pews in the sanctuary are, for the most part, still intact. There are even Bibles and hymnals left in the shelves along the back of each row, although many of them look rather chewed on. The altar on a dais at the front of the church is empty, and the lectern that once stood next to it has been knocked over. Rotting red cloth hangs at the very front of the church; there might once have been a design on it, but it has long since faded or been eaten away.

It's been a long night. Raul hasn't yet slept, too busy keeping an eye on his packmate whilst tinkering with what looks like part of a car's engine.

Four-Leaves- although, strangely, she hasn't been responding to that as of late -is curled up on the dais, half hidden by the altar. She'd gone to sleep the moment they'd arrived but since been drifting in and out of it. Somehow she got a hold of one of the churchdogs' toys (a stuffed clown doll) and it's resting against her carefully; a guarded possession.

In the middle of this Gnawer bliss, Salem raps hard on the church doors. Parked near the curb outside is his car, the ugly rust-orange Yugo. At his feet, a large cardboard carton.

The mutts have kept their distance from Lyra without needing to be told, even the one who formerly owned the clown. Raul shoots a dirty glare at the door before snapping an order to the alpha mutt to bark if his packmate wakes up, then turning towards the front and opening up, poking his head out. "Now ain't th-, oh, hey hombre," he greets, upon noting who it is. "Renee ain't in, I'm afraid."

"Actually," the Glass Walker says blandly, "I came here to see Lyra." He taps the box at his feet with the toe of his boot. "I brought some food. Nonperishables."

"Oh. She...uh...she's asleep at the moment. Don't really wanna wake 'er, but y'welcome t'come in," the Theurge murmurs, opening the door enough for the Alpha to slip in.

Raul is a grubby and rather averagely-proportioned example of the human race, standing at roughly 5'7" when upright. He's got naturally-tanned skin and /brightly/ bleached blonde hair, the colours contrasting each other all the more when not coated in the dirt of the streets, though that's rare. A pair of sharp blue eyes peer over the world from out of his grimy face, set over a slightly-too-large nose and expressive lips, a slight dimple appearing in the man's chin when he grins. His frame is limber and fit, his actions betraying the grace and ease of motion that comes with being totally at ease with oneself, though he's often hampered in part by his clothing.

Raul's torso is half-uncovered, revealing a lithe musculature and rather tight stomach, wiry strength coupling with the lean look of someone who dosen't eat quite as well as he should. Covering his legs are a pair of two-size-too-big blue courdroy pants that have definitely seen better days, as evidenced by the wear on the seat, thighs and knees and the ragged hems that trail about his mismatched shoes. One seems to be a muddy white sneaker, in relatively good condition if one ignores the lack of tongue, while the other is a black leather shoe, missing it's usual laces and instead tied with washing line. Over all this is an unnusual-looking coat (+detail), covered in used car license-plates and festooned with badges, so tightly-packed that they don't rattle.

Even with the door opening the red Gnawer doesn't stir from her place on dais, although she is actually awake. The voices make her open her eyes to blearily confirm that, and the dog Raul had set guarding starts barking wildly. Up up up! She bares her teeth halfheartedly at the dog and curls tighter around her doll.

Salem glances past Raul toward the source of the commotion, and his mouth thins slightly. Then, with a grunt, he lifts the box and carries it -- and himself -- inside. "Where do you want this?" he asks Raul.

"Shut it!" Raul calls back into the church, quieting the guard dog. "Guess she ain't asleep any more. Uh...anywhere's good, on one'a the pews. Thanks." The door is closed behind the Walker, and Raul crosses over to ruffle the ears of the guarding mutt, a silent thankyou. "'ey chica," he murmurs also, to Lyra. "How y'feelin'?"

Lyra's green eyes look Raul over, trying to decide if he's going to take the doll away. When he doesn't, she relaxes a little, letting her snarl fade out. Tired. I want to leave.

Salem sets the box down on the nearest pew -- thank Gaia it didn't break; canned food is _heavy_ -- and stalks over to join Lyra and Raul. He ignores the church dogs, not even to give off the usual snarl.

"Mr Salem, d'you mind keepin' an eye on 'er while I nip out t'get some stuff?" Raul inquires, looking now to the Walker.

Kaz, who has a plastic bag slung over her shoulder, pushes in the front doors of the church and blinks at Salem.

The lupus'd Gnawer squints and sniffs as Salem approaches, ears flattening back when she recognizes him. With some effort, she gets to her paws and nips up the doll, sidestepping a foot or two away from the sept alpha and then resettling.

"Not a problem," Salem says, answering Raul. He glances at Kaz, nods, then turns his attention down to Lyra... and frowns minutely when she skulks away from him. "Hello to you too, Lyra." His tone is dry, only mildly dour.

Raul nods, eyeing Lyra worriedly and exhibiting relief as Kaz steps in, tipping a salute to the Metis as he slips out.

The red wolf doesn't greet him, just curls protectively around the doll and licks the face of it. For all the world she looks like she's taking care of a baby.

Kaz ambles closer, muttering, "Hullo t'/you/, an' /you/, an', she adds, to the doll, "/you/. 'Sup?"

"Hm," says Salem. "Jeremy's gone insane, and Lyra has as well, it seems." He slips his hands into his pockets, his voice still light and dry. "And Renee and I had a long chat and didn't come to blows or insults. I suspect that the Apocalypse truly is near."

Four-Leaves just pingpongs her gaze from philodox to galliard. A day earlier she would have snarling and snapping but one can only have the energy for that for so long...one ear flickers and she makes a noise in her throat, something akin to a whine, resting her head on her paw.

Kaz says, "Whoa. Sounds like." She lets the bag down with a thump. "What's up with /Jer/?"

"Thinks the Wendigo are coming to get him. According to Ebony, at least." Salem shakes his head, glances at the noncommunicative Lyra, then looks back at Kaz. "Is this _all_ about Quentin?" he asks, indicating the Chinese (half) Philodox.

Kaz sighs. "Fucking /asshole/," she says, clearly about Leonard. She stops to look at Lyra, and then shrugs. Her tone is wry. "I dunno, she ain't gotten around to telling me yet. I'm assumin' so, but I mean, it's been hard findin' /out/, specially since the first time my back was turned, she cut out on me."

The wolf's ears flick back and she focuses tired eyes on Salem, like Quentin's name was a bad word not to be said in good company.

Salem shakes his head again and turns a mild frown down on the younger Philodox. "Lyra, do you honestly think that you're the _only_ person in the world who's had someone break up with them?"

Usually elders don't give permission and then try to separate a couple behind their back, the Gnawer halfmoon retorts rather sweetly, voice at odds with the ragged appearance. Usually your -mate- doesn't choose his -rank- over you.

Kaz blinks, and flops onto her bag. (It would seem to involve at least one pillow.) Her attention sharpens.

"Bullshit," the Sept Alpha says curtly. "Quentin's personal relationships had _no_ bearing on whether or not he became Cliath. He earned his rank fairly. I did _nothing_ to separate you two. I didn't introduce Quentin to Sarah. I didn't make him like her. I didn't make _her_ like _him_. And, frankly speaking, I am getting fucking tired of people assuming that I'm some kind of god-damned puppet-master."

You and Sees-True both, Four-Leaves snarls, hackles rising. And he -did- choose his rank over me. 'Now that we're both cliath.' When I was Rited it never made a difference! We never made any -agreement-, this wasn't some sort of airheaded fling. He hid from me, wouldn't come see me, and the first time I see him in weeks it's so he can...he can... She starts grinding her jaws, a visible effort not to reach out and snap at the closest available thing.

Salem visibly reins in his temper. "And, as I _said_... Quentin getting rank had _nothing_ to do with whether or not he was involved in a relationship that could easily have ruined you both." He grimaces. "You're both cliath. That means you're both adults. That _means_ that you're both fully accountable to the Law, and to punishments for breaking it. Do you really want to be in a relationship that you can never acknowledge in public? Where you have to watch yourself, always, because you don't dare give yourself away, or give anyone a hint that would make them suspicious? This isn't New York, Lyra... this isn't a Bone Gnawer Sept. Quentin's done what's best... for himself _and_ for you. Because, you silly little girl, he _loves_ you."

Kaz says, "There wasn't nothin' airheaded about it. Ever. As f'th' rest of it..." She trails off once Salem starts talking. Then, quietly, "Me an' Max, we din' advertise nothin'. But we was also both of us girls, an' Gnawers. We could kinda go under the radar. It ain't that easy f'het folks."

"No Black Fury would have convicted you," Salem mutters, as an aside to Kaz.

Kaz says, slightly grimly, "They ain't in charge of the world."

Salem grunts agreement, then turns his eye back down to Lyra.

It's the last of the philodox's words that cut out the anger from under Lyra, and she shuffles sideways again, taking the doll with her. You think I don't know that? she chuffs desperately. You think I never understood any of those things? I knew and I still wanted it. I knew it couldn't last forever...but... She whines, nosing at the doll. Not like -this-. There weren't any nice memories to make it easier. He disappeared, when I found him he was in a bad mood and wouldn't talk, wouldn't smile. I couldn't talk to him at the moot. My last memories of him are him holding another -girl-. Her words start losing coherency as she cries; as much as a wolf -can- cry.

Kaz watches her, swallowing. Then, "You make new memories. You go on, being who you are, /both/ of you, and make new ones."

Salem's gaze follows Lyra, his expression tight and outwardly dispassionate. Almost stern, even. But he nods in agreement with Kaz.

He has Beauty to take the Beast's place. He has someone to love and to console. I have -no one-. The wolf noses at the doll fondly. He was angry because I wanted to be a mother someday. I knew we couldn't have children, I -knew- that and I never asked him otherwise. And then I found a child and for a moment everything seemed like... the wolf tosses her head, ruff shaking. And then I lost -him- too. Sees-True took him away.

Salem's eyes narrow. "What child?"

Kaz, helpful. "Yeah. Sometimes life /ain't/ fair. Sometimes you have this great big ol' jealousy thing goin', an' you just gotta... live through it." It's not that she's not interested in Salem's question, it's just he already asked it.

I went back...where I killed him, the halfmoon says tiredly, laying her head on the floor and staring out into space. Some girl, about to abandon her baby. She saw me and ran away. I wanted to kill her. Sees-True said that...I had to comfort the baby. A grumble in her throat, the beginnings of a snarl. I wanted it. She was throwing it away- I found him. He was mine.

"A human baby?" Salem passes a hand back over his head, smoothing back what stray hair has escaped the usual ponytail. "It wouldn't have worked out, Lyra..." He glances sidelong at Kaz for a second. "But then, I suspect that you've already been told that."

Kaz says, wryly, "Probably about 5,000 times by now."

The stupid little halfbreed has a penchant for wanting what she cannot have, the wolf grunts, pulling up the doll so it's between her paws. Twice bereaved. He -promised-. He promised not to walk away from me. Lyra closes her eyes, pained. Not like this. Not a gaping hole that's sucking everything out. No more names.

Salem exhales a breath. Schooling his voice to patience, he says, "_No_ relationship ends well, Lyra. Not if you give a damn about each other."

"Yeah," Kaz says, quietly. "It sucks shit, Lyra. Sucks large amounts of sewage grade /pestilence/. I been there. You just... work through it. Sometimes," she adds, with a slight tinge of pain, "better than others."

The wolf trembles, tail tucking around her hind legs. But...just... She sounds very young, and peers up at the Galliard, then Philodox balefully, pleading. Just...one more day? Please? One n...nice day?

Kaz ducks her head. "You've got more've a chance've that th'n I do," she says, voice hoarse.

"Sometimes," Salem says quietly, "you don't get one nice day." He actually sounds... sympathetic, there. "As Kaz says... it sucks. It's painful. It hurts. But you go on."

Raul slips back in from outside, lugging a pair of shopping bags with him and trying to make as little noise as possible.

Lyra pauses, watching them both, but neither will say what she wants to hear...so with a weak snarl, she snaps up the doll and stalks into the very corner of the stage, curling up there with her back to them so she can tend to the clown.

Raul deposits his stuff on one of the pews and sits, watching the by-play and concentrating on Lyra.

Salem's patience only goes so far, and his mouth thins. "You're being a child, Lyra. And your Mother is still in pain."

Kaz looks down at her hands for a moment, though for a moment she can't quite see them, then back up. "Look, kid. You got called Miracle Worker for a long time because you were determined to /try/. To be fuckin' stubborn and keep going even if it was the least probable thing in the world, right? So fuckin' /keep doin' that/. With this. /Be/ who you are, /stay/ who you are, and work for what you need to work for. Right now," she adds, with no glance to Salem, "All you wanna do is bite shit. So go with that. Work with that. But when you can, when you got the strength, work f'th' miracles. 'Cause that's who you goddam are."

"I don't think y'helping, guys," Raul observes mildly from his perch on one of the pews. "She ain't in the mood f'bein' told what t'do, even if it's best for 'er."

The lupus doesn't look back, but her hackles raise again. No more names! she repeats angrily, and the sound of cloth tearing suggests she is ripping the clown doll. Miracle-Worker thought she could get away with dancing on the edge of the Litany. I am not Lucky, I am not a flower girl, and I always make the wrong choices. I'm a Miracle-Eater.

Kaz says, "Whatever," at Raul, before sitting straight up and staring at Lyra. "No. You ain't. If you don' wanna be any of those, don' be any of those, but you ain't no miracle eater. You're in pain and you're wantin' life different. That... I understand that. Hell, I /lived/ that. But I will not /ever/ call you something that /gives in/ to every single little fucking insult you ever gave yourself, that will help you believe the shit you're piling on yourself. I just won't."

Salem glances over at Raul and makes a sour-sounding noise of agreement, then turns back at the sound of dismembered doll. He frowns, but keeps his peace for now, arms folded across his chest.

She keeps tearing at the doll, and with a squeak an arm is tossed over her shoulder. If I cannot make a miracle for myself, I cannot make one for others, she says softly, lying her head down on the remains of the clown. I don't care anymore. Leave me alone.

Raul shrinks down into lupus now, trotting across the church floor towards the stage and hopping up onto it. He dosen't say anything, just lays down within Lyra's line of sight and rests his read on his forepaws, eyes focused on her.

"My point exactly," Kaz says, standing up. "Make one f'y'self. Takes time. Takes effort. Takes pain and grit. But make one. Of /whatever/ kind."

The Gnawer halfmoon's narrowed eyes glance over to the theurge. What is it. She is clearly not in the mood to play.

Kaz says, "He's just bein' there for you. Me, I gotta go. But I'll catch you aroun'." She slides a glance to Salem, and then is out the front doors.

Fixes-Stuff dosen't seem to want to play, beginning to crawl forwards a little bit on his belly, ears swivelling. I'm sorry, is all he offers vocally, watching his packmate closely.

Salem rubs the back of his neck. "Likewise." He meets Kaz's look with a wry expression and a faint shrug, then turns back toward Lyra. "Gaia still needs you," he tells her, quiet but firm. "And so does the Sept. Remember that." With a nod to Raul, he, also, heads out of the church.

Four-Leaves snorts, closing her eyes and tucking her muzzle in. Gaia needs me. The Sept needs me. My mate doesn't need me. And yes, she really doesn't care how selfish or stupid that sounds. She's almost trying to say the things that will get people most upset.

You forgot your packmates, Fixes-Stuff chuffs softly, coming to a halt a foot or so away from the grieving halfmoon. We need you too, maybe more than the Sept does. More than we need anyone else.

You pull open one of the two doors and walk down the stone steps to the street.

Jermantown Avenue, Industrial Sector

From warehouses a few blocks away from the river, across a chunk of city more than a dozen blocks wide, factories brood over the streets like dark dragons over their piles of treasure, greedy and all-encompassing. Huddling around the factories are smaller, less imposing buildings that are probably warehouses, or storage locations for trucks. The factories spill fumes into the air, darkening the area and blanketing it in a stench to mark humankind's domination over the world. Some of the warehouses stand empty, some are boarded over, and some, on the northern and western fringes of the area, have been converted to bars, with bizarre lighting, frequent brawls, and music that blares loudly at all hours of the night. There are no residences here for anyone to complain, and the factory workers populate the bars thickly. Throughout the area, trash and oil mingle together on alleyway streets, impeding the paths to the dumpsters at the ends of many of the alleys.

--------------------

It is currently 21:10 Pacific Time on Sat Jul 19 2003.

Currently the moon is in the waning Gibbous Moon phase (61% full).

Currently in Saint Claire, it is clear outside. The temperature is 80 degrees Fahrenheit (26 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the west at 8 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.07 and rising, and the relative humidity is 26 percent. The dewpoint is 43 degrees Fahrenheit (6 degrees Celsius.)

Regan Avenue West, Downtown

For two or three blocks, between Thirteenth and Fifteenth Streets, red-brick apartment buildings alternate with the occasional small, struggling side garden or a small business. A pizza parlor decorates the corner of one intersection, and a relatively prosperous deli takes up space at another. Along one street, a fire station interrupts the other buildings, small but obviously in good condition from frequent need. Graffiti shows on sidewalks and on a few of the buildings, but is not prevalent. The road has been paved sometime within the last few years, to judge by the lack of potholes.

Konstantin emerges from McDonald's, a paper sack held tightly in one hand. The other hand is jingling a set of keys. He's crossing the street toward a very old, very large Pontiac.

Salem stalks down the street, hands in pockets and his expression pensive. He'd be just another passerby if it weren't for the noticable scarring all down the left side of his face, or the way people tend to avoid him. He doesn't step out of anyone's way; they step out of his.

The kid's still jingling his keys when a couple of kids step down off a stoop. "Hey," one of them, a Latino boy says toward Konstantin. The young Russian ignores the call and keeps walking. So a couple more plus the first start to intercept. "Hey... asshole. What? You deaf or somethin'? Too good to talk to me?" Konstantin pauses, his eyes narrowing a touch, his mouth pressing together. He slips his keys into his pocket and stands there. Silent.

Konstantin is a young man with a lean, wiry build. He has a generally unruly collection of close cropped sandy brown hair, long, almost delicate fingers and a definite, although not unattractive Slavic look about his facial features. He's dressed like a typical teenager, wearing a pair of hiking boots, a beat up pair of designer fashion blue jeans and a t-shirt. On the t-shirt is the logo for The Vines. Maybe they're a band of somekind. Around his neck is a simple woven leather rope with what seems to be a raven charm.

Salem glances over, almost unconsciously alert to such signs of possible trouble, but his expression is disinterested at first. He continues walking, even and steady, his path taking him closer to the teenager and the local boys.

The leader let's call him, stands off about three feet from Konstantin. His two friends flank. "What'd you get us?" the Latino kid asks, eyeing the bag of fast food. One of his friends starts to make a couple of fists, smacking them against his open palm. Konstantin still doesn't say anything, but he's developing a world class slavic scowl. The leader steps forward another foot. "You retarded or something? I'm talking to /you/, dickhead."

Salem's voice carries clearly toward the local boys, authoritative, stern, and completely uninterested in taking any shit. "Jorge. Don't you and your friends have something _better_ to do?"

Konstantin's eyes shift toward the voice, but that's about the only immediately perceptable reaction. Jorge and his friends, on the other hand, wheel around toward the voice's origin. "Oh," he begins to offer a nervous laugh. "We ain't doin' nothing. Just havin' some fun... you know. Bored and shit." He hits one of his buddies' shoulders. "Hey, let's go down to the video store and try to rent some pornos..." The other boys crack up. "OK, Jefe, we out. Peace," he says, making a peace sign with two fingers. Despite the show of good faith, there are a couple of exchanged glances between Konstantin and the departing trio. That doesn't seem to faze him any. Salem, on the other hand, that's different. It's surreptitous surveillance, sidelong looks and glances from the corners of his perception. Konstantin instinctively clears off to one side in front of the scarred, older man in black. "Sorry," he mutters.

You paged Konstantin with 'Out of state plates, I assume?'.
Konstantin pages: No, they're WA plates. The car's his grandmothers.

Salem watches Jorge and his friends wander off, his expression bland and dour, then turns a dark brown eye onto Konstantin. One eyebrow rises. "Apology accepted, but why are you apologizing?"

Konstantin lifts a shoulder in a half shrug. "I -- I don't really know," he admits with a faint look of confusion. "Appreciate the help with the punks," he says, blinking a bit. "I probably could've handled 'em, though." He takes a hesistant glance up toward the devilish man.

Salem looks the sandy-haired youth up and down critically, his expression dubious. "I imagine so," he says -- politely enough, but with a hint that he rather doubts it. "Still, it was easier this way."

Konstantin's expression hardens; he frowns faintly at Salem. "Yeah," he agrees, the word laced with a heaping dose of bad attitude. "I suppose it was." He smiles pleasantly, then, visible traces of his irritation seeming to melt away. "So you the local gang counselor or something?"

Salem folds his arms across his chest, returning the smile with a thin, tight one of his own. "You might say that. Mainly, I counsel them to go somewhere else when they're feeling restless."

A few blocks away, Jorge & Co. pause in front of the porn store on the corner and exchange amiable words with a tall, darkclad figure. Much handshaking and knuckle bumping ensues, as well as a few raucuous greetings in Spanish.

"Yeah?" The young teen starts to pull out his keys from his pocket. "That sounds like good advice coming from ... someone like you." He wanders nearer the car, putting a key in the door to unlock it. "Not totally sure," he says, over his shoulder with a smirk. "I think /I/ might be feeling restless."

A black nylon jacket, blue-dyed hair; chances are, Quentin blends in fairly well with most of the other kind of people openly roaming the streets at this late hour. A pair of head-phones dangles around his throat, as with a frown on his lips he works at replacing the batteries into a CD-Walkman without slowing down.

Salem's smile widens slightly, showing the edge of straight white teeth... an expression that does not touch his eyes. "Lovely. Be sure to watch yourself, though. Jorge and his friends are amoung the least of the unforgiving." He glances over toward the sound of the boys' voices and the raspier older one mingling with theirs. His eyes narrow, focussing on the tallest of the four figures by the porn store.

Konstantin opens the door to the car, tossing the sack of McDonald's inside, and going into the street to unlock the driver's side door. He glances down the street as well, more curious than concerned.

In front of the porn store, the young men loiter restlessly as the tall figure, sweatshirt hood pulled up, converses with Jorge in Spanish. One arm draped casually about the man's shoulder's, the figure leads him into the shelter of an adjacent alleyway, out of sight.

Salem watches for a moment, his mouth thinned into a line, then glances at Konstantin. "Excuse me," he says to the younger man, blandly polite, and then heads back down the street toward the alley Tatt and Jorge disappeared into.

"Just yell if you need some help," Konstantin offers, quite cheerfully. He lingers, watching from the shelter of the space between the driver's door and the interior of the car. He leans on this with his arms casually, the faint aroma of his rather fresh french fries wafting out into the street.

"...You tryin' ta /fuck/ me, hombre? Hell no. Your ass still owes me double Benjamins." Tatt's distinctive, scarred voice is irritated. The conversation descends into rapidfire Spanish again; the tall woman has her back turned to the mouth of the alleyway. Jorge is skulking at the dead end, looking sour and insistent.

At the yelling, even if he can't catch or understand the words, Quentin's steps on the other side of the street slow; head raising, he pauses completely as green eyes catch sight of Salem's scarred, darksome form stalking alley-wards. Hm.

Salem, unsurprisingly, ignores Konstantin's remark, and he gives only a passing glance at Jorge's two friends. He stops at the mouth of the alleyway, arms folded, still somewhat visible from the street.

"I said I'll /get/ you the money, aright?" Jorge's voice cracks a little, involuntarily. "Jus' put me down for two dimes till next Thursday, chica. Gimme a fuckin' break!"

Konstantin uses the open car door as a ledge, climbing up to try to get a better view. All he's missing is some popcorn and a soda.

Tatt growls in the back of her throat. "I'll put you down fer somethin', cabron." She takes a step towards the young man, then catches his glance over her shoulder. She pulls up short, half turns to see Salem. The anger in her eyes falters, but not much. She grunts.

Quentin, still on the other side of the street, tucks the CD-Walkman away into one of the pockets of his jacket; one hand raking back through strands of recently-dyed cerulean hair as he considers the situation for a few moments before moving to cross the road. Not near the alley, but not far, either.

Salem's voice is quiet, his words strictly for the tall, scarred woman in dark clothing. He's got his temper under control, but he's not happy. "How long have you been dealing drugs on my block?"

Making her way down the street is Alicia, wearing a very short leather skirt that reveals the extent of her muscled legs. Her upper body weilds a butterfly shirt with pink and blue fabric, and a trench coat sways about the rest of her. She is in a good mood for a change, eyes raising at the sight of the two punks hanging out by a porn store. "Hey boys." She says as she approaches them, flipping her hair back with a smirk on her face.

Tatt darts a glance back at Jorge, who's trying to put up a macho front despite being cornered. The woman narrows her eyes. "Thought we were /pack/, Cicatriz."

"Heeyya chica," one of the gutterboys says toward Alicia, grabbing his crotch. He smacks his friend on the arm. They mutter to each other in Spanish, for a while, leering and snickering. "Hey, Jorge, dude. What's takin' so long? Are we set up or /what?/"

Salem grimaces at Tatt, then shoots a significant look over at Jorge. "Piss off," he tells the boy. "You and your friends. Make some distance."

"Hey.. nice. Whatcha grabbing down there, the sock thats stuffing your wenis?" Alicia asks with a smirk on her face. "You shouldn't boast whatcha don't got, lil bitch." She glances past them, raising up a brow as she hears Salem, then peers into the alley.

Jorge happily makes a run for it; Tatt's a little faster than him, unfortunately. One hand shoots out to grab front of his jacket, pinning him roughly against the wall. She transfers her yellow glare from Jorge to Salem, baring teeth. "Don't you got some /alpha/ shit to do, Jack?"

"Shut the fuck up, biatch," Gutterboy #2 says. He says something to the other and they start to wander toward the alley. "Jorge. What the FUCK, man? Did you /die/ in there?" The two hoodlum patsies peer into the alley, but seeing their leader pinned against bricks like a bug makes them decide to seek their entertainment elsewhere.

And entertainment is walking toward all of this, from somewhere to the south. Two hot visions in one night--it's a windfall. The young woman's attention is nowhere; her eyes look distant, focused somewhere on the sidewalk ahead, unseeing. But she walks with confident strides, a stalking that eats up the pavement.

Salem vanishes into the alleyway as he stalks closer to Tatt and the very-unlucky Jorge. Poor kid, to be caught between two pissy werewolves. "Watch your fucking language, Tatt. One. I don't want _any_ drug dealing on this block. Not from you. Not from _anyone_. Two. /Pack/ is something we have to talk about, so let go of the boy." He meets her stare directly. "Now."

Jorge squirms a little in Tatt's iron grip. "Chica, shit... fuck fuck," he says as Salem closes in on the both of them. "Let me go," he says with increasing urgency. "He's gonna fucking kill us both," he half-screams. In the distance a dog starts barking loudly.

"Hey, I think you two need to run off. You don't want to mix shit up here." Alicia pauses for a moment. "An like the man said... you bring your drugs up here again, you'll get an ass kick sandwich." She gives the pair of boys a brooding glare, then shoves herself past them inbetween the two, into the alley. "Jack, Tatt. Word up?" She asks, glancing to Jorge. "Who's the pussy?"

It's about a building down the block from the alley that Quentin comes to a halt, leaning against the long-closed down wall of a chinese restaurant; arms folding loosely over his chest, he listens to the frantic cries of the unfortunate trapped between Tatt and Salem with a bit of a smirk, and waits for the latter to re-surface. Or for the real screaming to begin. As Alicia heads alley-wards, he tips his chin up in a nod her way, though she might not notice.

Konstantin's still standing on the edge of his car's interior, the weak dome light from the old car casting off a faint and totally forgotten halo around the car. He appears to be rather enjoying what little of the show he can see and hear.

Tatt's dull gold eyes reflect streetlamps in simmering anger. As Alicia makes her appearance, the Strider snarls to herself and leans in, long white teeth snapping dangerously close to Jorge's ear. "Guess who just got lucky, /puta/?" With that, she roughly releases him.

She's no beauty, conventional or otherwise. Standing somewhere above six-foot, she moves loose and easy in coffee-colored skin. Her apparent age shifts with her moods, but usually falls in the late 30's. Features are a study in sharpness: all prominent angles and time-weathered planes. Her androgynous figure is no gentler: She has the rangy, raw-boned build of a hungry dog, with a loping stride to match. Oddly light amber eyes anchor her features, flashing topaz above a mouth given to long-toothed grins.

Hair is inky-dark, unwashed, and shaggy, falling into her eyes in an untamed shock. One of her more prominent tattoos is a feather design encircling her left eye-socket, bringing to mind the facial plumage of a hawk or falcon. The brown canvas of her skin is etched with stories: some tattoos are faded, and others inked in fresh, raw indigo. They cover every exposed limb like milemarkers, measuring the distance she's travelled.

There is no attempt to hide her obvious scars: a broad slash of long-healed tissue across her throat, and little more than a stub where the cartilage of her right ear should be. Scarred and calloused hands bear letters inked across the knuckles: 'HARD LUCK'.

Clothing is dark, and well-worn: black cargo jeans with reinforced knees hang low around narrow hips, held by a metal-studded belt. Steeltoed boots, and a stained grey t-shirt: the garment's arms are ripped off to reveal full, vivid tattoo 'sleeves' and an array of scarred muscle when she's not wearing a hooded black sweatshirt.

Here we have Alicia Jackson, a young woman who just turned 18, but has that hard look in her eyes which could easily be mistaken for older. Slender in form, her body is composed of lean, compacted muscle. She looks quick, with new budded muscle which has formed on her upperbody. Her eyes are a dark brown, curious and wandering, lit up playfully most of the time. She stands of average height, perhaps about 5'6 or so, carrying herself well when she moves. Her flesh is lightly tanned, kissed by the sun from the many years of running with the gangs on the street. Four ear rings adorn her left ear, two more upon the right, composed of small, goldeny hoops. The Galliard's hair falls down just past her shoulders. Once brown and red streaked to those who's seen her before. Now, pale blonde with slightly darkened roots.

Her clothing consists of a pair of baggy, over sized camouflage pants. Black, green, and brown patterns splashed along the fabric. A tight fitting sports bra hug her upper frame, revealing the curves of her upper body, flat stomach and lean arms. She wears a golden hoop in her navel. Knee high boots travel up her legs, firmly laced in each hole. Finishing off, she has a worn, dusty old black trench coat which hangs just below her knees. Her tongue ring is almost always seen, clicking in thought, or when she speaks with that ghetto accent of hers.

That's probably about the same time Tatt notices she's standing in a small, but growing puddle of liquid. As he's released, Jorge tears out of the alley, across the street and into the comforting, obscuring darkness of the night. The other boys, both of them, run off in a different direction, rushing past Rina with hardly a second glance.

Salem turns his head to watch Jorge run off, then focusses on Alicia, gesturing her over. "We need to talk. All of us ideally, but the three of us will do." He glances down, grimaces at the fresh piss, and steps away from it.

"Sure. Whats up big guy?" Alicia asks as she glances between the pair. "Hola Tatt. Long time no see."

Tatt curses under her breath at the urine on her boots, and shakes her head. Scarred hands get shoved into the pocket of her sweatshirt. "I got nothin' to say." She won't quite look at either of them.

Konstantin climbs down off his car and hops into the driver's seat. He cranks over the engine -- this takes a moment or three and then roars into the street, making a high speed turn around the corner nearest the alley.

Salem nods once, as if Tatt's words were exactly what he was expecting to hear. "Precisely." He looks at each of the two Galliards in turn and then, arms folded, lays it out bluntly. "I think we should disband Synthesis."

Quentin, not quite in range to hear what they're saying in the alley, lets his gaze wander after the punks heading off at warp-speed through the urban wasteland with a look of wry amusement. He pauses, then blinks as the car streaks by.. and in its wake, notices another form on the sidewalk. About to call out a greeting, something gives him pause as he regards Rina.. then moves to head her way.

Alicia blinks her eyes a few times. "Fuck that." She says, simply, shaking her head. "No... I.. I don't think that'd be a good idea. What the fuck Salem?" She says, her features falling slowly.

The Strider sniffs once, leans a lazy shoulder against the brick wall where she had pinned Jorge. Her yellow eyes narrow in something like a wince.

Salem's expression remains flat and neutral. "Then tell me why it should remain. I've been thinking about this for at least a month and looking for some sign why the pack should remain. And I can see _nothing_. No purpose. No common ground." His voice lightens subtly, softening its next blows. "This was John's pack. John's and Roger's. And both are dead. It's time the pack died with them."

"Because, regardless, we are still pack, we are still family. Just cuz' they died, doesn't mean the spirit of the pack they created needs to die too. I didn't sign up for a losing team, Jack. Thats what happened to Pathfinders. Look, I love you guys ya'know? Even if Frankie is on hiatus, even if Roger an John are dead, even if Leala is tied to her job.. it doesn't mean we just kick the bucket an give up. If you don't want to try, then I'll step forward since I'm Beta an I'll give it a shot. If you got too much on your plate, then let me try, but I do not like giving up. I'd rather die, then watch us walk away." The Gaian looks frustrated, not expecting this to hit her in the gut. "I just challenged Jarred for Fostern. I don't want to be packless. I want a family to come home to when I kick his ass in."

"Listen to yourself," Salem says, a touch sharply. "Francisco is _gone_. If he comes back at all, it'll be for a visit, nothing more. Leala has been tied to her job for over a _year_. Yi would be better off with Renee's pack, and they with her. Tatt..." He turns mismatched eyes onto the Silent Strider. He sighs. "I value your wisdom, when you're not polluting yourself, but you're here and gone. And dealing drugs." He shakes his head and looks at Alicia again. "No, we're not family, Alicia, as much as it pains me to say it. It's time we moved on."

Tatt shrugs once, grimacing at some spot on the concrete by her feet. "As far as I'm concerned, I'm out." She shakes her head, pulls out a cigarette. "Outta the whole fuckin' burrito. Fuck the War." Strange talk... even for the nonconformist Galliard.

Rina gives a distant look toward the screeching car, the low voices of the alley--and then she catches sight of bright-blue hair, and she stops, blinking at Quentin for a moment before a faint, distracted smile comes to her lips. "Hi."

Salem smiles humorlessly at Tatt's words and looks back at Alicia.

Alicia shakes her head, feeling her heart wrench deeply in her heart. She runs a hand back through her hair, then strikes the wall, hard, cracking flesh and knuckles, coming back with a smear of red. "Fuck that bullshit." She says, gritting her teeth. "So fucking what Slame? Huh? Ok? Fuck Tatt then. If she wants out, fine. You think Yi an I are fucking quitters? Quentin just rited. We got.. tons of unpacked Garou. Geezus H fucking Christ Salem. I don't want to just toss it all in. To -me-, you are family.. you aren't just... faces. You are people I fought along side with, watched our friends and family die. To me, this is more then just a name.. You are my big brother, Tatt and Yi are my sisters. Frankie will /always/ be my brother." She swallows, then shakes her head, feeling her eyes sting fiercly. "Fuck that.. I don't want to give up just cuz' -you- think we should. What 'bout this Sept Salem? How you ganna lead this Sept, if you can't even lead a pack? Why? Cuz we got nothing in common an shit. This Sept was someone else's dream once also you know. You ganna tell us to disband the Sept all cuz' of stupid shit too one day? Fuck that. I'm not a quitter." She turns and punches Tatt hard in the shoulder. "An you shouldn't be either! Dammit."

Tatt leans back heavier against the wall, exhaling a blue curl of smoke. "Preach it, girl," she drawls, with considerable sarcasm.

"Hi," Quentin replies quietly to the greeting, his hands tucked away in his pockets and a cord dangling from his neck and the head-phones around it to one of those pockets, coming up to the kinswoman and observing bluntly, "You look like someone just ran over your life with a Mack Truck. What's up, Rina?"

Salem's lip curls. "A Sept's different from a pack. I'm alpha because I _have_ to be. Because there's no one else, no one who cares to take the fucking responsibility. Not Robert, not Luke... Jamethon was the only one who even challenged, and he lost." His arms remain folded as he stares directly at Alicia. "Times change. Packs form and disband... and new packs form. There are, as you say, plenty of unpacked Garou. Go form a new one. One with a _purpose_, one that's something more than a habit, one that's getting by on more than mere inertia." His jaw firms. "As far as I'm concerned, Synthesis is dead. Our lack of it mocks the pack's very name. We are apart, not together."

Rina gives him a raw, ragged echo of a smile, one that doesn't reach her eyes. "They did."

"Thanks to our buddy Mister Smith," Tatt interjects, under her breath as she smokes.

Gritting her teeth together hard, Alicia shakes her head and glances away. A bloody hand lifts up to wipe across her eyes as she turns and walks away from the pair and out of the alley, taking a deep breath. She doesn't know what to say now, it seems the fight just got sucked right out of her.

"Yeah, well," Quentin says with a softer tone, his expression echoing a sympathy of that pain even as he reaches out to brush the front of her hair out of her eyes, "They didn't drive over /you/. What're you doin' walking around like that tonight, anyway?"

A shadow of a watcher pokes out over the rooftop of the very building Tatt leans against. Dark eyes gaze calmly down at the argument, soaking in what feels like rage swirling up into the air. Only the creaking of a nearby fire escape reveals the Gnawer newmoon's location, and even then she approaches the gang of Garou and family like a ghost. Should she even ask what's going on? Her darkened expression will do it for her.

Salem watches the Gaian go, his expression still a carefully crafted neutral mask. Then he turns those flat, mismatched eyes of his onto Tatt.

Tatt's scowl is unrecognizable; no expression so bitter or twisted has touched her features before. She looks back at Walker with dark, dilated eyes. "The fucker /left/ us, Jack," she rasps. "Fucking macho /deserter/."

Rina lifts a shoulder. "Just... nothing." Her gaze flickers past him, to the movement of Alicia storming out of the alleyway. "Leesh?" She steps past Quentin, sudden concern touching her expression.

Blood streaks across the Gaian's face as Alicia runs her hands back through her hair again, tears trickling down her cheeks. She looks devestated, her body trembling as if she was about to blow up. Blinking her eyes a bit, she peers at Rina and Quentin, then hitches up a shoulder, heading back down the dark sidewalk. She seems to be singing, softly, under her breath in a gentle murmur.

Salem's jaw tightens at Tatt's remark. "Don't start." He glances to the side, sensing movement, and spots Yi. He regards the Gnawer with the same flat expression. "How much did you hear?"

At the sight of the concern on Rina's face, Quentin twists to look back; one hand raising to touch the kinswoman's shoulder as he watches Alicia glance their way and then head away, a worried frown slowly curving his lips.

"What's going on?" Rina says numbly.

Yi adjusts a section of her jacket, stepping out from the shadows with a glance after Alicia. "Enough to have heard what you all think." She turns to Tatt and in a controlled manner, she points a finger at the Strider. "No matter what you think, John kept fighting - even to the end. He didn't give up. He didn't give Us up." The Gnawer turns back to Salem, her hand lowering. She just gazes at the Walker elder, as if she expects him to say more.

"Not sure," Quentin admits quietly, the tip of his tongue briefly moistening his lips as he glances towards the alley-way, "Salem went down that way.. bunch of punks came running out.."

"He didn't know when to /lay low/, that's what." The Strider crosses both arms across her chest, narrowing eyes at Yi listlessly.

"Tell me you wouldn't rather pack with Rough and Tumble," Salem says to the Chinese Bone Gnawer. "Tell me that Renee's pack wouldn't be better for you. Tell me how we're a synthesis, something that's brought together to form something solid." He snorts. "This isn't giving up the war. This is disbanding a pack that is no longer _viable_."

Rina gives Quentin a look, her brow furrowing in concern. Then she walks toward the alleyway.

Yi folds her hands over her chest, eyeing the halfmoon. "No doubt, the reasons why Synthesis is not solid are partly because you, her," she tilts her head to Tatt, "and others have decided this group is no longer 'viable'." She looks upwards towards the rooftops, specifically aiming her eyes at a certain point. "As for Rough and Tumble..." she fades there, eyes and ears focusing somewhere else.

There's some scuffling on the rooftop as Yi starts scanning; something... or someone seems to be up there.

Quentin hesitates - only a moment - before following just behind Rina, not letting her get further than arm's reach away from him. Protective? Yes.

"Now _there's_ circular logic," Salem says sourly, before glancing upward. He frowns.

Tatt grunts, pushes away from the wall. "Fuck this, hombres," she rasps, tugging her hood up again. "The War is /won/. And it ain't by us." Shaking her head, the Strider moves to push past Salem and out of the alleyway.

Salem lets the Strider go without a word, though his jaw tightens subtly. He scans the rooftop for another moment or two.

There's definitely something moving up there. A shape. A shadow just barely silouhetted against the pale moonlight.

Having slumped herself against the wall of a building, Alicia sinks down to it, pulling a knee to her chest and leaning against it. She stares out into the inky black that is the streets, her mind racing, trying to will herself to calm down and think rationally.

Yi returns her gaze back down to the group, particularly to Tatt's leaving. "If you believe that, someone will decide you are a problem. One that could turn sides." Then, she nods to Salem, motioning with a tilt of her head upwards towards the roof.

"Fuck _me_," the scarred Glass Walker growls, and is suddenly in quick motion, toward the fire escape and pulling himself up with quick athleticism.

The open sound of rapid footfalls reply to Salem's frantic climbing. They sound for a while. Then... silence.

Rina comes almost face to face with Tatt, reaching the alley. She stops, blinks, her expression going clear. "Still in town?" she asks, in a decidedly flatter voice.

Tatt stops up short, focuses on the kinswoman with a flash of bared teeth. "Die with the rest, bitch," she grunts, shoving past.

Salem, tense, has little trouble channelling his rage and makes a quick ascent to the roof of the building. There he pauses to scan the area, lips pared to display bared teeth.

Yi is then following Tatt quickly out of the alleyway. She stops as she hears Tatt's words, and the newmoon audibly growls from her throat.

Quentin's brow knits slightly at the Strider's words.. shifting slightly to step 'tween her and Rina even as she shoves past, as much to protect her from the kinswoman as vice versa. "Th'fuck?"

Rina's eyes widen slightly, and she turns to make a grab for Tatt, as she calls out sharply, "Jack!"

Head bobbing slightly as Alicia continues to sing, one hand lifting up to make a few swiping motions. As Rina shouts out, she jerks her chin upwards, snapping out of her trance. Eyes refocus slowly, then soon enough, she's on her feet. With that, she is starting back down towards them at a quick pace. "... Q!?" She shouts over quickly.

Tatt steps back, swings a look at her surroundings... and drops to all fours in a blur. The lupus'd Strider dodges out into the street, causing an onrushing car to swerve and blare its horn loudly.

On the rooftop, there's a metallic noise, followed rather closely by a hushed, but still audible swear word -- Russian probably.

On the rooftop, Salem's head turns slightly toward Rina's yell, and then he stiffens. Teeth bared in a predatory un-grin, the Walker turns toward the sound and stalks swiftly toward Konstantin's hiding place; a hand reaches in to grab the youth by the collar and haul him out.

"Get her!" Rina calls out, making a clear gesture to Quentin to go after the Strider. "Jack, we got company, the IVAN kind!" She is already backing toward the alley, hand reaching into her jacket for a gun.

Yi holds up a hand to quiet the Walker kin. "He's fine, so far." Pointing upwards, she indicates somewhat enigmatically that she's going up. To the roofs that is. The Gnawer is then disappearing rather quickly around the building, scaling a fire escape ladder that's just conveniently dropped down. Up on the rooftop, the newmoon ducks behind a shed and blurs down to lupus, turning to travel over and aid Salem.

Konstantin tries to evade the Walker's grasp, but there's just no way. He's caught. He looks at the tall ahroun unashamedly.

Wildcard breaks into a dead run, long limbs moving in an unnatural blur as she sprints down the median line, headed east. She's out of sight in seconds.

"Get her? How th'fuck do you expect.." Quentin's first step after the 'Strider isn't until she's across the street, moving like greased lightning in the urban environment-- his jaw tensing as he snarls out, "I can't exactly shift to chase her in the middle of the city, Rina." A flickered look towards the Gaian, as Alicia calls out his name, then back towards the street.

Upon reaching the alley, Alicia gets there in time to see the Strider go into warp drive, then glances at the walker pair before her. Eyes squint as she then heads back down into the alley and follows after Yi up the fire escape. "Fucking night keeps getting better an better."

Salem pulls Konstantin up so that he and the stranger are eyeball to eyeball, and the Glass Walker is very obviously Not Happy. "Who are you, and who are you working for?"

"I'm not working for anyone," Konstantin says, straight off. He doesn't shrink away from the glare, but he knows he's skating on thin ice. "As for my identity..." He swallows. "We're all family here," he says, quietly.

Three-Blades leaps over from the nearby rooftop, claws clicking lightly against the grainy cement texture. The Gnawer newmoon whuffs aloud, signalling her presence to the Walker philodox and Konstantin.

Salem tightens his grip, clearly not satisfied with evasive answers. "Be more specific. I'm in an _extremely_ poor mood tonight."

Another growl echos from the darkness as Guards-The-Flame joins her sister's side, slinking up along her, fur pitch as black. Eyes glow brighty beneath the waning Gibbous mood, fur raised on her back.

Three-Blades glances briefly at Guards, passing a faint grin to the Child before turning back to Salem and then Slord. Someone who likes to watch, she chuffs lightly. Closer now, she has a better look at the teen she had watched on the rooftops.

"Duly noted," the young man answers without any hint of attitude; his tone is rather matter of fact. Cool. "My name is Konstantin Radolenko. I'm a cliath Shadow Lord from the Sept of the Shattered Oak in Milwaukee..." He trails off sparing a look over toward the other two Garou. "Look, if I'm on your turf, I can leave. Didn't mean any harm to you." He half-smiles, and adds, "Sir."

Rina edges into the alley, calling over her shoulder. "Jack?"

Quentin's gaze sweeps the busy street as he backs up slowly after Rina, lips pursed in a tight frown as he calls up after the kinswoman's words, "Hey boss, we got a bit've a problem.."

"A Shadow Lord." Salem's scowls and releases Konstantin -- rather roughly, in fact. "You are, in fact, but more than you know. Jack Salem, Glass Walker Philodox and Alpha of the Sept of the Hidden Walk." The introduction given, and curtly too, he stalks over toward the edge of the building and calls down sharply, "Up here."

Rina tips her head back to look up, and winces. "Aw, /fuck/," she groans. Resignedly, she heads for the fire escape and starts rattling up it.

Guards-Flame snorts through her nostrils as her tail flicks side to side, sizing up the Shadow Lord up and down. Her haunches fold backwards as she sits, baring her teeth towards the other. Its rude to pry into one's buisness.

"Whoa," the young teen answers, ala Keanu Reeves. His eyes get wide with the revelation, and he takes a step back from Salem, adjusting his t-shirt a bit.

Alas, as Quentin follows Rina up the ladder, the mood is thus that he can't enjoy the opportunity to stare at a hot chick's lass. Really, fate is so cruel.

Three-Blades licks the side of her muzzle. You should make sure no one is watching you next time you travel through my rooftops, notes the Gnawer newmoon. An ear turns towards the fire escape creaking again, the other swiveling to night sounds.

Salem turns back to the group that's rapidly growing to surround the young Shadow Lord; he prowls in a circle around behind Kon, frowning deeply.

"I'll be more careful next time," the Shadow Lord nods toward the other ragabash. "As for being rude? Well, I'm just the curious sort. For better or worse. Usually for the worst."

Rina pushes herself up from the last stretch of ladder, and stalks onto the rooftop, taking the .50 from her jacket as she approaches the stranger. "Jack? Fill me in, here..." There's almost a note of warning in it.

Salem grunts. "Nothing worse than a distant cousin who's too nosy for sense." He paces back over toward Rina and Quentin. "Shadow Lord."

Guards-Flame snaps an ear forward, then glances over towards Three-Blades. She sniffs lightly at the air, then peers over the rooftop, gruffing.

Three-Blades coughs in a laugh. A no-moon. The Gnawer ragabash steps back to blur back into her birthform after a check around of the neighboring rooftops and building windows. After a brief raking of her fingers through her hair, she assesses the gathering. "Quiet as it may be up here, I suggest we climb down before we have other unwanted visitors - ones that wear blue uniforms and gun belts."

"Hi," Quentin offers in a rather dead-pan sort of greeting, sizing Konstantin up for a moment before offering tersely to Salem, "Tatt just shifted pretty much on the sidewalk and took off warp-speed across the street. Thought you should know."

Rina lowers the muzzle of the hand cannon; at her side, with her build, the gun looks even more disproportionately large, like soething out of anime. "There was somethin' wrong with her," she mutters darkly, eyes on the Russian. "Seriously wrong."

Konstantin eyes the gun and the woman holding it with rapt attention.

Salem growls something under his breath in Serbian. "She can run, but she can't hide... not forever." He looks over the small gathering. "We ought to split up, meet elsewhere and elsewhen. And someone should contact the Gnawers and let them know to watch for Tatt."

After shifting back up and following Yi's lead, Alicia furrows her brows slightly, then lets out another breath. She gazes off over the rooftops some more, feeling her hair blow along behind her. "So..Yi... still with me?" She asks softly. "Thick an thin?"

"Sounds smart to me," the young ragabash agrees, nodding after Salem finishes speaking. "Well, good night to you!" Insufferably cheerful he is. Konstantin waves pleasantly and starts to move toward the edge of the rooftop.

Salem says, "Hold." This is clearly directed at Konstantin. He even snaps his fingers and points at the Shadow Lord. "I strongly suggest you make your way to the bawn and introduce yourself _properly_. Tonight would be ideal. Tomorrow or the day after would be acceptable."

"And why don't we get some contact info." Rina's voice makes it a firm request, rather than a hypothetical question.

Yi's humor dries up a bit at mention of Tatt. "All she can do is run," she utters softly. "The Chain will keep us updated." Watching Konstantin move off, the Gnawer breathes out. Her gaze flickers back to Alicia. "Ask me when we get downstairs, ok?"

Konstantin obediently stops and looks appropriately confused. "I'm afraid I don't know where that is, sir. But I'd be happy to give you a lift out there if you like."

Alicia dips her head towards the Gnawer, then reaches out, sliding her hand into hers. She gives a faint squeeze, then starts back for the ladder.

Salem smiles, not particularly pleasantly. "Quentin, would you like to do the honors of driving our friend? You can take my car." One hand dips into his pocket for the keys to the Yugo.

"Damn it," Quentin mutters under his breath, turning his head to look out over the city's skyline, "..I liked her, too. She'd better not go.." At the offer, he pauses, blinking back to Salem, to the car-keys, back to Salem again. "..um, boss? I've never driven so much as ten feet in my entire life. I don't think you want to -kill- the guy."

Alicia calls over her shoulder. "I'll drive 'em home." She says, then swings a leg over, followed by the next. "C'mon dude."

Rina re-holsters the gun, and glances to Alicia. "Get an address and a number, 'Leesh?"

Salem bares his teeth at Kon, giving the Shadow Lord another highly unpleasant smile. He nods as Alicia takes charge of the newcomer and only says, to Quentin, "We need to fix that."

"Quentin.." Alicia pauses at the top of the stairs, staring at him. "You coming home ta'night? That is, if you still consider my place home."

Yi moves off and crouches at the edge of the building, watching the group's surroundings. The Gnawer remains silent, but listening.

Rina lets out a breath, and massages the bridge of her nose with one hand.

"If there's still room with Cath there," Quentin replies, offering over a questioning brow's lift towards Alicia.. tipping his head to Salem once, affirming that.

"Of course there is. I once housed four cubs at once at the same time." Alicai says as she climbs down the stairs, then hops onto the cement of the alley.

Salem says to Konstantin: Follow this really hot chick. She'll even drive you around town. If there is a saint for teenage boys, one can take comfort in knowing that he's pulled through for the young Shadow Lord. Without hesistation, he follows behind Alicia. "Nice skirt," he comments, idly.

Salem doesn't make a move toward the fire escape, but inside takes out a pocket mirror, clearly intending to step sideways. First, though, he moves over toward Rina. "It's under control. More or less." He grimaces, grumbles another short phrase in Serbian. "I'll see you later," he adds; this is as much to Quentin as to the kinswoman.

Quentin, with a parting nod after his elder, heads down towards street-level himself; and then home, whether with Konstantin and Alicia, or on foot.

Alicia glances over at Kon and raises up a brow. "Thanks." She shifts her shoulder, then slides her hands down into her trench coat pockets. "An don't stare at my ass, or I'll kick yours."

Rina gives Salem a quick nod, and murmurs, "Try to find the Strider." She heads for the fire escape.

Konstantin looks vaguely offended. "I'd... I'd never do such a thing. I respect and value my female Garou brethren. So, are you both driving me home? Or to the bawn? I got a place to sleep, but I have no idea where your sept's caern is located."

"I can take you there, an tell my sister Helen, who happens to be a Black Fury, who also happens to be the Guardian there, to keep an eye on you. You should get yourself friendly with the locals here." Alicia says as she heads down the street. "My car is parked a few blocks down. Yi, Q, you coming?"

Yi growls again, at the mention of the Strider. Then she pushes off the edge, turning around and facing the group again. She shakes her head at Alicia's offer. "Take the Shadow Lord. I have things I need to do."

Salem sees the others off, then focusses on his reflection in the pocket mirror, steeling himself. He vanishes into the Umbra.

"I don't want to be a burden," Konstantin says. "Sounds like you have enough to deal with as is."