It is currently 19:38 Pacific Time on Sat Jan 10 2004.
Currently the moon is in the waning Gibbous Moon phase (76% full).
Weather: 31 degrees and foggy.
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 constantly smells
of paint. 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 wall behind the couch is dominated by a huge canvas, the framing large
enough that the painting is cantilevered forward at the top--so that it
overhangs the room slightly and draws one in even more. The painting
depicts a futuristic city, all spires and crystalline forms, almost like
something out of one of the Matrix films or a cyberpunk novel. The city
of light and metal and glass grows on a planed surface, webbed with light
and spiderwebs and strange lines like circuitry--paths, almost, all of
them converging on the city and drawing the eye to its gleaming
complexity. Metallic paints, flake and mica accentuate the surfaces; in
places the oils and gesso have been mixed with silver, or powdered glass.
The easel once again stands near the light-filtering canvas divider that
splits off the bedroom; it is in a good spot to catch both natural sun,
and the track lighting mounted on the ceiling.
Rina laughs, her head still tipped back. "It's wonderful. Jesus, I haven't made
fresh since I was home with Dad."
Rina pages: The painting is up. :>
Rina pages: It's like you walk in and WELCOME TO THE GLASS WALKER HOMELAND.
Cutter wanders back out into the main room. "So long as it makes you happy,
then it's all good with me. I still think it's weird."
Rina rolls to her feet, and begins clearing the table with a rattle of
silverware and dishes. "Heathen 'merragan." Piling up dishes in the sink,
she runs the water briefly to rinse them. "You want anything to drink? I
think I got Weinhard's..."
A brief, businesslike sort of knock is heard on the door, the sound breaking
into the cozy little scene.
Cutter leans against the window, peering up at the moon thoughtfully. "Mmm.
Hank's. That should do just--hrrh?" He looks back over his shoulder.
"Expecting anybody?"
Rina turns, eyeing the door with narrowed eyes. "Never," she says, the
lightness gone from her voice. She paces over and puts a hand above her
eyes, to peer through the lens. Then she slumps, crestfallen. "Ah, fuck,"
she murmurs under her breath. Then, squaring her shoulders, she opens the
door. Her posture is tense, her expression trained to neutrality. "Yeah?"
Cutter moves to stand ready, one hand drifting toward his inside jacket pocket
as he moves someplace with a better view of the door.
Salem stands there at her door, bundled up in the big black leather duster, ski
cap covering his stubbled scalp, gloved hands buried in his pockets, and
a red scarf wrapped around his neck and tucked into the coat. His gaze
takes in Rina, then shifts past her toward Cutter; his face is all
business, rigidly bland. "I came to apologize for the other night," he
says quietly, as he looks back at her, the high-pitched, grating voice
solemn. "But we can discuss it some other time."
The kitchen has strings crossing above head-height, like laundry lines, from
cabinet to cabinet; loops of drying pasta hang overhead, a fringe of soft
yellowed-ivory. To add to the aura of domesticity, the smells of rich
Italian cooking fill the air, with an odd undertone of painters' solvents.
Rina's nostrils flare slightly at the irksome sound of the Jackal-voice. "Is
there something to discuss?" Her tone stays chilly, her expression taut.
Cutter purses his lips, surprised and takes an involuntary step back as Salem
approaches.
Cutter does his best to look inoffensive, and lets his hand fall again.
There's a wall in front of the Walker's eyes; he seems more cold than angry --
the steady undercurrent of controlled rage notwithstanding. "Perhaps not.
My apology still stands." Rigidly formal, he inclines his head to her in
something akin to a bow, glances past her to give Cutter a nod as well,
then turns to go.
Something twists across Rina's expression, seen only by the Shadow Lord--a
moment of pain and desperation. "Salem--" Her voice is quiet, and she
manages to school her expression a little; the shadow of pain remains.
Cutter clears his throat. "I was just going. I can catch you two later, when we
talk about the ghosts, okay?" He moves to grab up his hat.
Salem glances back, looking from Rina to Cutter; he frowns slightly.
Rina glances to Cutter for a moment, sober. "If y'sure," she says quietly.
"Thanks f'the present."
Cutter pauses, behind Rina. "That's code for 'you two should quit pretending
there's nothing wrong and work it out already, I'll go away and leave you
alone if it'll help'. Okay?"
Rina's attention returns to Salem, guarded, the dark eyes narrowed.
Salem's mouth thins into a dour, tight line. "If you insist," he says, rather
curtly.
Cutter shakes his head. "Nah. I don't. If you two are determined to be sour and
sulk at each other, then I'm not gonna knock myself out. I just thought
I'd be helpful in case..." He shrugs. "What the fuck ever."
Rina's expression tightens further. "We can do this now," she says to Salem,
"or we can come up with a time and place, and do it later."
"Now, then," Salem grates. He walks into the apartment -- presuming that Rina
allows it.
Rina steps aside, to let him in. She glances to Cutter. "You can just take a
walk, if you wanna come back... or whatever you'd rather. If you wanna go
home f'the night, I'll call you or somethin'."
Salem loosens his scarf and undoes the buttons of his coat. His eye wanders the
studio, pausing to linger on the futuristic cityscape for a moment. Then
he looks back at the other two, his face unreadable.
Cutter shrugs and leans forward to kiss whatever part of Rina is convenient.
"Give me a call if this gets hammered out before dawn," he says casually
as if it's a class science project being researched.
Rina touches a chaste kiss to Cutter's cheek. "Aright. Thanks, babe."
Salem looks away again and busies himself with removing his gloves.
"And if you get blood on my new door you're both in trouble." He slips past her
and out into the hall.
Rina murmurs something unflattering under her breath in Italian, as she closes
the door and locks the bolt. By the time she turns to face Salem, her
expression is clear again, her eyes veiled.
Cutter leaves the apartment.
"There really isn't any need to make a mountain out of this," Salem says. He
clasps his hands behind his back, the gloves held in one. Formal, oh so
formal, and he's clearly making an effort to pretend that the Jackal
voice doesn't exist. "My lapse the other night was inexcusable, as was my
behavior leading up to it."
"By 'lapse' you'd be referring to drinkin' that bottle of vodka, I guess?" At
least she doesn't have those ice-blue eyes; hers are black, with a
thinly-veiled fierceness.
Salem's are almost as dark -- the one that wasn't crippled in Vegas, anyway.
His jaw tightens subtly, but he gives her a stiff nod. "Yes."
Her mouth tightens a fraction; she gives a curt nod and turns, pacing a couple
of steps before returning her attention to him. There's a silence, before
she asks, quietly, "Why?"
Salem watches her move, his expression still tight and bland, all walls and
iron. Broad shoulders move in a faint shrug. "I was weak."
She is slowly fading, becoming flesh and blood rather than stony indifference;
the pain is a shadow across her expression.
"What d'you want me to do?" she asks, quiet and weary.
"What you've been doing," he replies; the distance he keeps between them is
painful. "Help me with the tribe. The family needs you, if it isn't
obvious."
"They need you more," she says with brutal candor. She turns away again, pacing
a step and then returning, hard eyes lowered in thought. "I'd go. If it
wasn't for him. And Cat. Let you be your own person. I can't fuck it up
if I'm not here."
Salem exhales a sharp breath, exasperation leaking out through a crack in the
walls he's built. "Truthfully," he squeaks, then grimaces and forces some
ounce of control into his voice. "_Truthfully_, they need us _both_. We
_both_ have a job to do, but I've been too wrapped up in... in
self-indulged angst to properly _do_ it."
Dark eyes lift to look up at him. "If I stay," she says quietly, "then what am
I?"
"What do you want to be?" he asks, after a moment.
"Street boss," she says succinctly. Her expression is sober, the dark eyes
intent on his single one. "You run the tribe. I run the business. You're
Elder, and I'm Don. And if we disagree on somethin', God f'bid, we take
care of it in private."
"Done," he says, sounding definite if not particularly dignified.
Rina wets her lips, and then presses them together. The pain flickers across
her expression again, and she takes a slow step closer. "You don't hafta
talk, y'know," she whispers. The pity in her eyes is almost unbearable.
Salem looks away from her rather than face that pity, clutching the gloves
behind his back. He shrugs again, tightly. "I can't lead the tribe with
scribbled notes."
"Aright," she says quietly. "But you can talk t'me however you want." Another
step forward, and she reaches up, cautiously, to touch his back. A long
silence, an effort of will, and eventually she pushes out the difficult
words. "I'm sorry too."
Salem glances warily back at her, his brow furrowing. "What--" His voice
cracks; he grits his teeth. "What for?"
She keeps her eyes down. "All that stuff I said. I was over the line, and I--"
She has to stop, and swallow.
Salem shakes his head. "Don't apologize. You were right to say them."
Rina shakes her head quickly, and lets her hand fall away. "Not like that," she
says quietly. "Not in anger, and under the full moon." Somehow that hand
tugs at one of his, gloves notwithstanding. Slow and careful, she steps
around him, tipping her head to peer up into his face. "Not to my friend."
Salem lets her tug his hand, letting the other one hold his gloves and remain
behind his back. Returning her gaze, he seems, for a moment, at something
of a loss for words, and it probably comes as a relief to her to see the
walls developing cracks, the iron bars rusting. Finally, quietly, he
murmurs, "Apology accepted, then."
Rina gives his hand a little squeeze; the barest hint of a half-smile softens
her face. "Thanks," she says, and then he is assaulted by a swift,
clinging hug.
Salem utters a squeaky grunt; he remains stiff for a heartbeat or two, then
surrenders with a rueful sigh and briefly hugs her back.
When she draws back, she tips her head a little. "I'll be by tomorrow
morning... I'll take Cat to Mass, and bring some peppers and eggs." That
smile comes, tugging one corner of her mouth upward.
Salem nods. "That would be... good." Though his manner still remains rather
formal, it's no longer cold. Tugging on his gloves, he prepares to leave.
"I'll see you then."
"Yeah. Hope so." She walks him to the door. "I'll be around after Mass, if
y'not up in the morning. I know your hours."
Salem snorts, his expression wry. "I'll be up." He pauses at the door to look
at her again, then nods. "Good night."
The smile even reaches her eyes. "Night, Jack."
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