"Some dead Italian noblewoman decided to go walkies in your body."

[hazlogs]

28 November 2003, morning. Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving.

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.

The scent of coffee and the whine of pressurizedd steam wake him from an alcohol-restless sleep; either Rina is awake, or the espresso machine is on a timer.

Eventually he concludes it must be the latter. Sleep-delirious mumbling still comes from the other side of the canvas wall, where the Kin no doubt tosses in the grip of some dream. After his mind begins to wake up, he might note that the incoherent words sound like Italian; odd, that.

Fifteen shots of pure, straight vodka do not make for a pleasant morning after. Salem opens his eyes, winces, and closes them again. He lies there on Rina's couch under the tangled blanket, listening to Rina talk in her sleep.

Only after he's gathered his will does he open his eyes again and, grimacing, lever himself to his feet. "Motherfuck," he whispers, hoarsely.

"--ai, Numi-- per pieta, non posso..." Her breathing is quick, the low voice almost unfamiliar. Faint whimpering comes between the bursts of jumbled speech.

In socks and rumpled clothes, Salem stumbles over toward the canvas partition and, somewhat warily if truth be told, glances around it to check on the dream-gripped kinswoman.

Sunlight gleams on a sheen of sweat. She is surprisingly tense in the dream's grip, her back arching, body tangled in the sheets. At least she's sleeping in something--a wifebeater and men's green plaid pajama pants, huge on her small frame.

Salem passes a hand back over his scalp, then leans down with one knee on the bed to touch her shoulder. "Rina." Quietly, of course. "Rina, shh, it's all right." He's not necessarily trying to wake her; shifting her from what appears to be a nightmare will do.

The contact does wake her, dark eyes flashing open without recognition, a thin hand coming up to close around his wrist. "Chi--" It's the same word in French and a few other languages, but after that things go quickly downhill, as far as his comprehension. She flings his hand away, staring at him with wide eyes. "Non mi tocca!" she says fiercely, regarding him with a defensive glare.

Salem winces at the exclamation, teeth baring in a pained grimace. Stepping back, he glowers at her with a bloodshot stare. "Rina." He speaks slowly, deliberately. And carefully, mindful of his pounding head. "It's just me. Jack. Remember?"

She seems to notice her surroundings for the first time--and her brow furrows for a moment. A flicker of fear awakens in the dark eyes, and she looks over to him more guardedly. Noting her state of undress, she snatches the sheet up and wraps herself in it, watching him as if he might spring on her at any moment. Of course, with his polled head and scars and hung-over red eyes, he probably looks rather dastardly.

When she speaks, her English is totally unfamiliar: halting and formal, with a pronounced Italian accent. "I do not believe I have mad-e your acquaintance, signore?" she says rather pointedly.

Long distance to Rina: Salem . o O ( Oh fuck me with a chainsaw, she's gone completely insane. )
From afar, Rina pets. :>
Rina pages: She's kind of... haughty, too. Like a duchess trying to pull together composure and dignity in a very odd situation.

Salem stares at her for a moment with a long-suffering expression of 'oh gaia, why _me_', then closes his eyes, one hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "It's too early for this," he rasps. Not that he's certain what time it is, but it certainly _feels_ too early.

When his hand drops away and he looks at her again, it's with weary exasperation. "Jack. Jack Salem. And if you're not Rina Vencenzo, kindly piss off to whatever plane of existence or psychotic delusion that birthed you."

Her eyes narrow for a moment in righteous anger, and she lifts her chin at him, about to speak. Then something beyond him catches her eyes, the windows overlooking the street, the bright sun, the tall downtown skyscrapers visible beyond the lower buildings of the Montrose district. She goes white, and her expression turns to stark, bleak realization. "Non vivo--" The whisper falls from her without volition, a stunned realization. Then the black eyes shift to him, guarded yet frightened, her composure suddenly very, very serious. "I should'e no be here," she says quietly.

Salem folds his arms across his chest, his mismatched eyes looking bruised and half-lidded. "No," he says flatly. "You really shouldn't."

The woman swallows, and turns from him to swing both legs over the edge of the bed--wrapping the sheet about her like a robe, as she rises. Her posture is arrow-straight, her carrriage that of the trained dancer or actress, a far cry from Rina's twentieth-century slouch. The tense pacing, though, is familiar. She gives the place a cursory once over, and walks out into the apartment proper, crossing the back of the new painting first, her expression that of a mathematician solving a problem.

Salem mumbles a short curse in Serbian and stalks after her. He pauses to squint the painting, then -- eventually -- turns back to Rina-not-Rina. "Who are you?" he asks, and not in a friendly manner.

Rina pauses, turning to look to him, her head high. "You are... a friend, of this ...Rina?"

Salem nods his head gingerly. "I am, yes."

She turns away from him crisply. "I am ... no longer living," she says, her voice soft and slightly uncomfortable. "It does no' matter."

Salem grunts and drops back onto the couch, leaning forward with a hand over his eyes. "You're dead," he rasps. "Lovely." He looks up balefully. "Rina is still alive, however." The meaning is clear: Go away. Whoever this Rina person is, he's apparantly quite protective of her.

She swallows, bowing her head slightly, turning from him to pace around to the front of the canvas, out of his sight. "I am," she says softly, "or... I was? Baroneta Renate Conti-Ventacenso, di Fioren--" Then she sees the painting in its full glory, and the words are lost to a choked gasp. "Dio," she breathes, a moment before passing out.

Salem looks up sharply -- too sharply, and closes his eyes against a spike of pain ramming through his skull. Teeth gritted, he pushes to his feet again and goes to her. He's not quick enough to catch her before she hits the floor, but he's there only a moment after she does, patting her cheeks and trying to revive her.

She isn't out long--maybe half a minute, before he brings her around. Her eyes flicker open, hazy, a little confused as she looks up at him.

Salem's haggard face looks down at her. "Rina?"

"How-- how did I get here?" she mumbles vaguely.

Salem grunts. "Some dead Italian noblewoman decided to go walkies in your body. My fault, probably... you looked like you were having a nightmare." He shakes his head and stands, offering her his hand to help her up.

Rina swallows, taking his hand and getting up unsteadily. "I... been dreaming, yeah." She blinks at him, frowning. "Jesus. How d'you feel?"

"Like shit," the Walker says bluntly. He rubs his head and gestures toward the bathroom. "I'm going to splash some water on my face. Or something."

"I'll... I'll getcha some breakfast and stuff," she says quietly. Scrubbing her hair with one hand, she heads for the kitchen.

Salem murmurs his thanks. Near the bathroom, he turns back to watch her for a moment, his brow furrowed, though more in concern than because of the dull, thudding pain banging at the inside of his skull. Then, muttering under his breath in Serbian ("The dead should stay dead, dammit.") he vanishes into the bathroom.