"I don't like games."

[hazlogs]

It is currently 10:57 Pacific Time on Wed Oct 1 2003.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is foggy. The temperature is 50 degrees Fahrenheit (10 degrees Celsius). The wind is calm today. The barometric pressure reading is 30.08 and steady, and the relative humidity is 100 percent. The dewpoint is 50 degrees Fahrenheit (10 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waxing Crescent Moon phase (37% full).

Cockroach Mansion -- Salem's Office

Salem's office is an extension of the same elegant display of wealth which characterizes the rest of the mansion. Most noticeable, from the doorway in the southern wall, is the large black-veined white marble fireplace taking up half of the northern part of the room, contrasting sharply with the ebony-paneled walls. A rug of forest green carpets the floor from wall to wall, while red velvet frames the wall of windows to the west.

The other decor is typical of the private office of a wealthy, old-world businessmen, from the ponderous mahogany desk along the eastern wall and the equally heavy chairs set before them, to the brass and glass chandelier dangling from the ceiling. A reproduction of Van Gogh's _Starry Night_ hangs above the fireplace, and the bookshelves behind the desk are, so far, nearly empty.

It's not yet lunch, but it's long past breakfast... especially for a crack-of-dawn early-riser like Jack. He's sitting behind the big mahogany desk, which is mostly empty but for some random papers, a tin of pens and pencils, and a new, but modest, computer. It's turned off. The Shadow Lord turned Glass Walker is reading a text book. Intro to Computer Science. He's on chapter one -- history.

'The idea of using machines to solve mathematical problems can be traced at least as far as the early 17th century. Mathematicians who designed and implemented calculators that were capable of addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division included Wilhelm Schickhard, Blaise Pascal...' blah blah, and so on the book reads. The silence of the room is broken by a sound that's hard to place; a soft scraping coming from the fireplace.

Salem glances up from the dry text, frowning. His eyes narrow, then shift toward the fireplace and focus. Unconsciously, his nostrils flare like a wolf scenting the air.

The sound is short, gone almost before it's finished registering in the concious mind. There's nothing to smell either, the scraping seemingly coming from thin air until it's source is pinpointed; the _Starry Night_. It's been tilted slightly, perhaps two or three degrees down on the left side, just enough to make it jarr the eye.

Salem's mouth thins. Very carefully, he closes the book and sets it down on the desk, then pushes back his chair and rises. Slowly he makes his way toward the fireplace and stands before the picture, frowning up at it warily.

There are no wires, no supports, nothing touching the pictureframe or fireplace at all. Everything is as it should be apart from the picture's angle. A moment's contemplation, and the silence is again broken by a soft noise behind you, the sound of a book falling over on it's shelf, just carelessly tipped.

Salem turns sharply. His wind's up now. He eyes the fallen book, then turns slowly, surveying the room. "I don't like games," the Walker says to the apparantly empty air.

Perhaps predictably there's no reply, and no more sounds either. The book remains fallen, the picture tilted, and that seems to be the end of the matter. Maybe someone let a stray breeze in.

Sure, and maybe he's the long-lost brother of King Albrecht. Salem shakes his head irritably, then goes to straighten the tilted picture.