"Curse it some more. That always helps."

[hazlogs]

It is currently 20:13 Pacific Time on Thu Oct 2 2003.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 58 degrees Fahrenheit (14 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the west at 6 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.99 and falling, and the relative humidity is 84 percent. The dewpoint is 53 degrees Fahrenheit (11 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waxing Half Moon phase (46% 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.

The mansion is too damned quiet sometimes -- far too big for the number of people living in it. A clock ticks quietly, and the office is dark. Salem sits facing the windows, legs stretched out in front of him, arms folded. The only light comes from outside, from the half-full moon and the security lights that have been set along the estate walls.

Languidly, a cloud drifts over the half-moon, casting shadows into the office corners where the security beams don't reach. Only when it's darkened and somewhat spooky does a cold chill come across the room, quite unnatural-seeming and passing within a moment, but followed by the clap of books as they fall over; a line of three, all just deciding to come off their shelf behind you.

Salem shifts his weight at the chill feeling, the hackle-rising prickle drawing him out of his thoughts. When the books fall, the Philodox stiffens in the act of sitting up. For a moment he's perfectly still, and then he gets slowly to his feet.

Silence, an almost eerie lack of noice is the only thing that greets the ears, no new information coming to eyes or nose either. Then again, books do overbalence sometimes...

Certainly. There aren't enough books for the shelves, after all. Not enough books for the shelves, not enough Walkers for the house, not enough high-ranked Garou for the defense of the Sept... It's such things that keep an Alpha awake in the dark, thinking.

Perhaps he's just being paranoid. It's happened. Then again... Salem closes his eyes, concentrating for a moment. When he opens them, a brief flicker of static flashes across the pupil of the good eye; he's activated his one tribal gift and made his eyes mimic night-vision goggles.

The room looks a lot greener than it did before; dark shades of that colour on the walls, floor and furniture, shading to paler colours on smaller objects such as fallen books and papers. There's nothing enlightening about it, however - the room is the same dispite the hue, no reason for the books to simply have tipped over presenting itself.

"You're going senile," Salem murmurs to himself, in Serbian. Shaking his head and trying to dispell the feeling of unease, he moves toward the shelf to right the fallen books. He keeps the night-vision up rather than switch on the desk lamp.

The books feel...cold. Chilly, almost as if they were made of stone, or had spent some time in the fridge. They don't act any different however, nor are the pages stiff. As they're set down however, another couple on the next shelf fall off.

Salem freezes. Then, slowly, step by step, he backs away from the shelf. His nostrils are flaring, and his upper lip lifts in a snarl that turns sharper and nastier as he shifts upward into Crinos. Wolfish ears twist and turn, and a wolfish nose sniffs the air, while static occasionally flashes across one wolfishly gold eye. He's not growling... not yet, anyway.

It could be a trick of the mind, or your paranoia getting the best of you, but you could swear you hear maniacal cackling in the distance. The books don't move from where they are, and the cloud over the moon sails off, revealing the full sight of Luna's glory.

A low, thundery noise rumbles out of the Crinos' chest. He crouches down, resisting the urge to claw at the carpet.

No answer to the growl, though the carpet does look awfully inviting and claw-able. Would it really hurt to take it out on something inanimate? Or is that just the rage talking? Either way, the room doesn't respond at all.

It's the rage talking. And he's a Glass Walker, dammit, not some slavering brute out in the woods. Getting control over himself, Salem straightens up and shifts back to breed form, his mood still thundery and tense; his hands keep wanting to clench into fists. "Dammit," he mutters, and stalks out of the office, grabbing his coat on the way out.

A walk. Cold air. It'll do him good.


Interstate 90, Near 13th Avenue

Made of concrete and metal, Interstate 90 is maintained by the state taxes which keeps it in fairly excellent condition. Some trash does line the side of the roadway, mostly bits of tires or hubcaps. The remains of a recent accident can be seen along the northern side of the Interstate. Shiny pieces of glass litter the asphalt and black lines mar the white concrete wall. White signs along the side of the freeway state:

Speed Limit

55

Vehicles rush past at top speed, some definitely exceeding the speed limit. The raised freeway allows for a wonderful view of the city. Rising up in the north are the shining glass-and-metal skyscrapers of the prosperous financial district. Off to the south, red brick alternates with brownstone in the middle class commercial sector. Further south, the poverty-stricken down area can be seen and farther beyond, black plumes of smoke can be seen rising up from the plants of the industrial sector.

Interstate 90 runs east-west across the city. A green sign indicates that 13th Avenue runs below the freeway at this point.

Viggo enters from I-90, pushing a smouldering ex-motorcycle. The front forks and wheel of the bike are bent, so the whole creaking assembly wobbles as it rolls. The tank is crushed, and various fluids drain in little drips behind the bike. By the expression on his face, Viggo looks like a walking thunderhead - full of hard rain and lightning.

There's a hitchhiker at the ramp to 13th avenue, only Viggo doesn't notice him until a monster-sized SUV blares past and the ultra-bright headlights wash over the scene. Long black coat, shoulder-length black hair... a real tall dour-looking bastard with an unlit cigarette hanging off his lip and his hands buried in the pockets of his coat.

Maybe he's _not_ hitching; he doesn't seem to be paying much attention to the vehicles zipping past.

Viggo slows a bit as he approaches the 'hitcher'. When he gets close, he stops and leans the weight of the bike against his thigh. "Hey, man, you got an extra smoke?"

Salem's been watching the kid with the dead bike approach. He considers for a moment, regarding Viggo in a critical kind of way, then grunts and reaches for the inside pocket of his coat. "Gave it up months ago," he says irritably, as if the kid somehow had something to do with his lapse. He comes out with an old-fashioned cigarette case, flicks it open, and passes one over. The cigarette's filterless, handrolled. "You need a light, too, I suspect?"

Viggo reaches out to take the cig, nodding his thanks as he does so. He starts to say something, then stops short. He nods again, this time in a world-weary fashion. "Yeah. Thanks." He and the bike smell strongly of gasoline and hot metal.

Salem trades the cigarette case for a book of matches with the logo from a local gas station. He hands this over; it's only missing a couple of matches. "Shame about your motorcycle," he remarks, but there's no real feeling behind it.

Viggo lights up and closes his eyes for a second as he takes his first drag. He shrugs and exhales "Not mine." He turns his head to scan the city, as if noticing the buildings for the first time.

Viggo pages: I imagine Salem has pretty good perception. He'd notice the Gypsy Jokers markings on the bike. Viggo's jacket has a thrashed picture of a black-and-white painted clown face and the word 'Juggalo' underneath. Not Gypsy Jokers colors.
You paged Viggo with 'Average perception, actually. Gypsy Jokers?'.
Viggo pages: Biker gang. Sorry.
You paged Viggo with 'Does the bike have a Washington plate? Or any plate at all?'.
Viggo pages: Arizona plates.
Viggo pages: Er, 'plate'.

Viggo coughs lightly, wincing around a pain in his chest. He spits a bit of tobacco from the tip of his tongue, then takes another drag.

Salem arches an eyebrow at this, and studies the kid and the motorcycle a bit more closely. Then, as he finally gets around to lighting his own cigarette, he asks, "Hmn. Well. Welcome to St. Claire, home of... well. Nothing in particular." He follows this up with a humorless smile, thin-lipped.

Viggo nods, glancing back at Salem. "Thanks." The kid looks like he doesn't really know where he's going or what to do next. He looks down the offramp. "You know anyplace with cheap food?"

Salem nods. "McDonald's." He glances at the bike again, then back to the kid. "I can offer you a lift, but you'll have to leave the bike."

Viggo's face scrunches at the mention of McDonalds. He looks around, as if slightly curious how a hitchhiker could offer him a lift. "Nah, man, I'm cool. This bike is my ticket out of here. Thanks anyway." He sticks the smoke in the corner of his mouth and heaves the bike level with both hands on the twisted handlebars. It takes some effort to get the hulk moving again.

The kid never did see the guy with his thumb out. But who else would just be standing around on an interstate ramp watching the trucks go by?

Salem shrugs faintly, hands vanishing into his pockets as he watches Viggo. His scarred face is flat and cold; though he offered to help the kid and even gave him a smoke and a light, he doesn't seem particularly compassionate. "Fine."

Viggo slows a few feet past Salem with an odd look on his face. "The hell you doin' out here, anyway?"

"Thinking," is the reply, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world.

Viggo cops an 'Oh Kaaay...' look, turns back around, and heads down the ramp. He's almost to the street when his 'bike' makes a small *ping* noise and the front wheel twists violently. The wreck lists away from Viggo, then comes crashing down. He manages a comical dance over the dead metal heap, ending up on the other side. He curses a blue streak and shakes a sting out of his right hand.

Viggo says "Fuck! Son of a motherfuckin' pig whore. Gawddammit..."

Viggo kicks the wreck, then howls in rage. He stalks in a circle, at the end of his rope.

Salem wrinkles his nose, mouth tightening into a grimace. He shakes his head and starts toward Viggo, looking not the least bit concerned that a snarling bike-ganger looks ready to take bites out of the concrete. "Curse it some more," he says, deadpan. "That always helps."

Viggo returns to the bike with murderous intent. He reaches into the mass of junk, finds grips, then strains to pick the junk off the street. He manages to slide it to the railing of the offramp, then muscles it up and over the edge. He seems to take great satisfaction in watching the ex-motorcycle drop. A crash resounds from below.

Salem watches, hawklike, as he takes another drag off his cigarette. "Enjoy that, did you? You're sure you don't want that lift?"

Viggo leans with both hands on the railing, chewing his cigarette and breathing hard. "Yeah, I guess I do."

Salem grunts and takes the cigarette from his mouth, flicking it onto the ground with a careless gesture and crushing it lifeless underfoot. "Come on, then," gesturing for the kid to follow. He heads down toward the entrance of the ramp without bothering to look back to see if Viggo's following.

Off the side of the road sits a rust-orange Yugo, and this is what Salem heads towards, keys jingling from his pocket as he approaches. "Do you have a name?" he asks, off-handedly.

Viggo nods, fighting off a smirk when he notices the econobox. "Viggo."

A well-cared-for econobox at that. Salem gets in, reaches over, and unlocks the other door. He gives the kid an arched eyebrow. "'Viggo'?"

Viggo gets in. "Yeah, like the actor dude. You got a problem?"

Salem cocks his head, meeting the other's gaze with mismatched eyes. "If I did?"

Viggo grins. "I'd have to kick your shaggy ass, bitch. My dad gave me that name. Sorta."

The way he shows teeth somewhat resembles a grin, but there's no humor in it. "Really." He starts the car and pulls off onto the road, heading into the city, fast. "What brings you to Washington?"

Viggo, deadpan, says "That bike you saw me draggin'."

Salem snorts. "Smartass. Fine. Do you have a place to stay, or do you need directions for that, too?"

Viggo leans back in the plush econo-seats and squints like Clint at the scenery. "Well, I was gonna find a Four Seasons, but if you've got a better suggestion..."

Salem navigates the streets with the familiarity of long-time residency, turning south after getting off the ramp. Clearly, it's the un-affluent area of town. "Hmnf. There's a place on Regan Street you could go to. Run by a man named Buick. Shelter-type place. Or there's a hostel if you've got cash but not much of it."

Viggo looks like he'd rather stay at the hostel, but he says "Yeah, I guess the shelter will work. You know this guy Buick?"

"A bit. We've exchanged words." With that resounding recommendation, Salem takes a hard right, heading toward the Regan Hope Project.

Viggo is dropped at the shelter. He thanks Salem and hobbles off to find a bed.


Studio

The studio is airy, elegantly modern and full of light: a large, high-ceilinged square room with almost an entire wall of windows. It still smells of paint, though there is no evidence of current painting. Rolled canvases lean in one of the corners, and a few finished pieces adorn the walls. A six-foot length of pipe hangs a painting behind the couch, creating a slightly more personal space that evidently serves as a bedroom; the piece is a dark, strange cityscape, an oddly skewed view of the world beyond the glass seen through otherworldly eyes. The edge of a futon can be seen beyond it; the walls around the bed bear swirling patterns of colors, calming shades of undersea blue and green. These patterns gradually soften as they grow out into the rest of the room, where walls are visible; angles replace curves, until the mural becomes a mix of ocean and circuitry. The sofa is quirky and curving, a work of modern art upholstered in green velvet. A Turkish rug in vibrant tribal colors occupies much of the hardwood floor; the coffee table, a sculpture of recycled blue and green circuit-board and shiny aluminum, rests on it in front of the couch.

Opposite the windows, a compact kitchen is marked off by a crisp stainless steel counter. The west wall nearby has doors to a closet and to a small, sparsely-appointed bathroom. The east wall holds bookshelves of pale wood, supporting a small stereo, collections of pictures and found objects, and a good number of books; the corner between shelving and the wall of windows holds a plain wooden desk with a slim notebook computer and phone atop it, and an elegant mesh rolling chair.

Salem's knock comes past midnight, close to one in the morning. By all appearances, the halfmoon's had a less-than-stellar evening -- hair unkempt, face tight and dour, body language tense. Oh, and he smells like cigarettes, and that surely isn't a good sign.

The lights are still on, inside, and she is painting--until she hears the knock, through the noise of Linkin Park. "Justasec..." Moments later the volume drops, and the door opens abruptly, revealing the artist--dressed in paint-spattered black leggings and a droopy, equally stained sweatshirt that has been stripped of its neck and cuff ribbing.

Her expression shifts, from startlement to concern. "C'mon in... um. What time is it?"

Salem manages a twitch of a smile, answering with a shake of his head. "One-ish," he says as he enters, stalking, into the studio. "I saw your light on, so."

Rina closes the door carefully, turning to lean her back against it. Dark eyes follow his movements. "What's up?" she asks.

Salem doesn't answer right away. His gaze roams over her work instead. His hands push deeper into his coat pockets, and even standing still he continues to seem restless, almost uneasy. "Nothing, probably. Just... mm." He shrugs, glancing over at her. "It's an old house, after all. Things _shift_ in old houses, and it's perfectly natural."

Rina tips her head. "Is he talking to you, too?" she whispers. Her eyes are exhausted, touched with grief--even working on the painting of Sepdet, the pain will not leave her.

Salem snorts, then drops down onto the couch, pulling his arms out of his coat as he does so. "No... not unless he's taken to dropping books and making pictures go tilt on the walls." Freed of the big leather garment, the Walker slouches back and rubs his eyes. "I'm jumping at shadows, probably. The moon's at half."

Rina lifts one shoulder slightly, and glances away. "I wouldn't put it past him," she murmurs. "He's been a troublemaker sometimes..." Her gaze returns to him. "Tea? Coffee? Booze?"

Salem snorts, almost a laugh, at the third choice, and shakes his head with a sour little half-smile. "No, thanks. I don't want to interrupt your work, I just needed someplace to, hm, come to ground. If that makes sense." He looks wry. "The Dominion's a big place. It feels... empty, sometimes."

Rina nods. "I can understand that," she murmurs, lowering her gaze. "I-- it gets lonely here, when Cat isn't around."

"I suppose it does, at that," he murmurs, rubbing his jaw absently. "I'm sorry."

Bemusement comes to her expression, and she gives him an odd look as she paces over to the easel and begins cleaning out brushes. "Why? It's not your fault... he needs to get out on his own soon, I've been practically pushing him to get his own space..."

Salem shifts around on the couch to watch her. "Little Cat-bird taking short flights from the nest..." One side of his mouth twitches upward a moment. "Yes." The half-smile fades, his eyes flicking away, fingers picking absently at a bit of the couch-fabric.

Rina watches her work--her eyes lowered, shadowed. "Yeah," she says softly. "I-- i want him to turn out okay. I don't know what to do, though."

"He'll be fine," Salem says dismissively, distractedly. Cat's not what's on his mind right now, clearly. "He might even Rite sometime this year. Before next summer, certainly."

"I need him to live, y'know?" she says softly. "There isn't-- there isn't a lot holding me down."

"He'll live." He shifts around on the couch again, sitting back with his arms loosely folded across his chest. His expression turns distant, brooding.

Rina glances to him, a rinsed brush in her hand, fingers absently smoothing it out. He can smell the thinner. "What is it?"

Salem rubs at his mouth, looking, well, vaguely embarrassed. "The... incident tonight. I don't know what it was, or if it was anything..." He looks quickly at her, just for a second. "If it was, I doubt it was John. It didn't feel... right. Like something was... toying with me." He grunts. "I'm being overly paranoid, I suppose, but..."

Rina shakes her head minutely. "There could easily be somethin' in that house. Plenty went on there, I think."

Salem eyes her warily. "Oh?"

Her expression shifts, a vagueness coming to it. "Given who used to live there, yeah. Probably a few discontented spirits around who'd fuck with you."

Salem exhales a sighing breath. "I'm an idiot."

Rina chews on her lower lip, and glances to him. "What is it?"

Salem is about to claim that it's nothing -- she's heard that plenty of times from him; she can see it in his eyes -- but then changes his mind and meets her eyes, his expression rueful and strangely vulnerable underneath the masks and control. "Would you, ah, mind terribly if I spend the rest of the night here? In wolf form, of course."

Rina's brow furrows. "No... but what does that hafta do with you being an idiot?" She leaves the brushes bristle-up to dry, and makes her way over to the couch to sit with him.

Salem grunts, looking vaguely uncomfortable. "Jumping at shadows."

She sits down beside him. "Not if they're real," she murmurs. "And you and I both know they can be." A swallow, and she looks over to him, uncertain and oddly vulnerable. "Mine is. I think he is."

Salem tilts his head, favoring his good eye as he studies her face. "Halloween's this month," he says, summoning up some of the characteristic dry humor. "I wouldn't be surprised if he _is_ real, at that."

Rina takes a careful breath, and then curls up against his shoulder, leaning into him. "I don't know what's real anymore."

Salem grunts, a curt and pensive sound. "The rules of the world don't make sense anymore... if they ever did. We think we know what's out there, but in some cases we're as blind as the people who think werewolves are a myth."

Leaning her head on his shoulder, she looks out into the dim room. "Do you think the end is coming?" she says softly.

"The end's _been_ coming," Salem says. "Sometimes I think it's nothing... the collapse of human civilization, plague and war and chaos perhaps, but... understandable chaos, you know? The planet continues. Other times... mmf." He grimaces. "Oblivion. Or, as the Asian shifters put it, the turning into a new age. Capital 'A' age, that is."

Rina swallows. "Whatever it is," she murmurs hoarsely, "it scares the hell outta me. The dreams... /him/... everything. But then when he--doesn't come to me, I miss him..."

Salem's gaze is distant, the set of his mouth pensive. For a second or two, he's quiet. Then, "If I could bring him back to you, I would."

Rina closes her eyes tightly, and ducks her head against his shoulder. "He always says 'help, help me,' and I don't know /how/--" Softer, more fragile, her voice betrays the threat of tears and grief. "I don't know what I'm supposed to /do/."

"This is probably a stupid question," he says slowly, shifting around enough so he can look at her. "But have you, er, _asked_ him?"

Eyes lowered, she draws back from him. When did she get so pale? Her skin was always sun-kissed Mediterranean olive, glowing; now she has that haggard, pallid look he has only seen when she is hurt or ill. "I've tried. He-- can't tell me, or there isn't time... I try to hold on and it all... slides away."

In some sense, she _is_ hurt and ill... has been since. God, has it been almost a year? Already? Silent, he unfolds his arms and puts one around her shoulders. And nods.

"It's been so long since he talked to me," she whispers. "I know he's here, watching, but I wish he'd talk to me again. Come to me again. I need him. Even if it's all in my head I *need* him--" She feels small, fragile in the curve of his arm, her head bent, shoulders hunched with shame and grief.

"It's all right," Salem murmurs. "Tell me more about the dreams. He asks for help...?"

Rina nods minutely. "Sometimes.... it's hard for him to get through. And once--once I came to him, and he-- didn't understand how I was there, like I-- wasn't supposed to be." Tears slide down her cheeks. "At first I dreamt he was--locked up, somewhere, they were hurting him--but then he got away, I think. Or maybe he just--gets away sometimes."

Salem nods slightly, his eyes half-lidded, mouth thinned. "How long since he... spoke to you?" he asks after a moment.

"For a couple of weeks," she says softly, "it's been... memories. Stories playing out in my head. Never... him. Only the past."

Salem nods. He's quiet for a moment again, one hand rubbing her shoulder absently. "They say that dreams are necessary for your health," the halfmoon says at last, rather sourly. "To be honest, I'd be happy to do without them."

"Yeah, me too," she whispers. She cuddles closer, then, like a child seeking comfort from a parent.

One corner of his mouth tugs upward wanly. "Insomniacs unite. Down with... hrm, which god is it again? Whichever Greek git's in charge of dreams."

"Oneiros? Somethin' like that. I think." She rests her head against his shoulder, and closes her eyes.

Salem cocks his head and glances down at her. "Dozing off?"

Rina shakes her head. "I should try," she whispers. Tears still run slowly down her cheeks. "I haven't slept in a couple days."

"Here," he says, sitting up and extracting his arm from around her. The transformation is swift enough that the couch is barely finished creaking in protest of Crinos mass before he's gone past that to the other end of the man-wolf spectrum, and a cold Lupus nose touches her wet cheek.

Rina draws a shaking breath, and leans away from him to turn out the lamp. Then she curls up on the couch, tugging Cat's favorite blanket over her and trusting to the wolf to keep her warm. She rests her head between his forepaws, a hand settling over one of them.

A warm, wet canine tongue washes the tear-trails off her face, and then his head settles down next to her own. He takes a moment to settle; she can feel his ribs expand as the wolf takes in a deep breath and hear the huff of air as he exhales.

Slowly, inevitably, her breathing synchronizes with his own as she sinks into a deep sleep.