"And what brings you to St. Claire?"

[hazlogs]

It is currently 18:04 Pacific Time on Wed Feb 11 2004.
Currently in Saint Claire, it is clear outside. The temperature is 54 degrees
      Fahrenheit (12 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the 
      north at 3 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.22 and falling, and 
      the relative humidity is 36 percent. The dewpoint is 28 degrees 
      Fahrenheit (-2 degrees Celsius.)
Currently the moon is in the waning Gibbous Moon phase (60% full).

Dominion Estate
The Dominion estate spreads out over a small hill, giving the mansion built at
      the peak a view of the surrounding suburban countryside. The grassy lawn 
      is dotted with statuary and encircled by hedges grown up to hide the 
      stone wall which surrounds the estate. A gravel driveway snakes 
      elliptically up from the front gate northward to the house, east from 
      there to the garage, then back towards the front gate. Preparations for 
      some sort of garden have been made on the western slope of the hill.
The house itself is old and appears to have had had work done it over the
      years. The original, main part of the house is made of gray stone and 
      reaches four stories high with the tower. The east and west wings appear 
      newer and are made of brick and wood. The previous decay and disrepair 
      can still be seen, but there also seems to have been some effort put into 
      fixing the place up.

Shreds of light still cling to the sky, but brighter are the streetlights of
      Fifteenth Avenue and the security lights mounted on the wall that 
      surrounds the stately Dominion Estate. A security camera and an intercom 
      greets visitors outside the black metal gate, and through it can be seen 
      the long, winding driveway and the mansion itself... and a tall figure 
      sitting on the front porch, wrapped in a long black coat.
A pair of headlights sweep up to the gate and just past; a small dark pickup
      parks under the closest of the streetlights. The woman who gets out takes 
      a moment to zip up her coat before shoving the door closed, then eyes the 
      nearby buildings before focusing on the Dominion gate. She checks 
      something pulled from one pocket before approaching, the intercom given a 
      quick bzzt. Perhaps she doesn't notice the figure outside.
Salem gets up from his seat and strolls down the driveway toward the gate,
      taking his time, his manner full of the confidence of one who's 
      comfortable in his kin and is on his home turf. The tails of his leather 
      duster sweep around faded jeans and battered boots -- all three various 
      shades of black. Natalie has plenty of time to notice him by the time he 
      reaches the gate.
And notice him she does - but not until he's more than halfway there. The woman
      rocks backward, almost but not quite taking a step before recovering 
      herself and slipping into a more balanced stance. Knees bent, chin jerked 
      up and resettled, hands at her sides she merely waits, watching the man's 
      approach. "Sorry I'm late. Forgot to add getting lost time."

Nat's an inch or two over average height for a woman, perhaps 5'7" or 5'8".
      She's built rather reminscent of a brick, with a square face and jaw, and 
      broad shoulders that have no need of padding. Nondescript brownish hair 
      is only a few inches long, and the ten-dollar cut makes her face look 
      even wider. Blue-green eyes are widely set under a pair of thickly 
      stroked eyebrows; her nose and lips are proportionately large. She 
      wouldn't catch any eyes if it weren't for the eerie way she has of 
      staring, or the suggestion of incipient fist-fights in the small scars 
      pocked across her face and hands. Her accent is flat Midwestern 
      unobtrusive.
Her clothes are pure practicality: blue jeans faded at knee and thigh, navy
      sweatshirt advertising the 'Half-Time Bar', and nondescript once-white 
      sneakers. She usually has a battered leather bomber jacket slung over a 
      shoulder if it isn't being worn.

Salem takes a moment to look her up and down, head cocked. Then he smiles
      tightly, brings out a small black device, and presses a button. As the 
      gate swings slowly open, the tall, scarred man steps back, gesturing her 
      in without a word.
Natalie steps out of the way of the gate, a hand brushing hair back from one
      ear. "You, um, must be Jack? Salem?" she wonders, stepping through once 
      the gate's opened wide enough for her to enter. "I'm... Natalie Baker? 
      Jeremy told you about me?"
Salem glances back and nods. He lets her catch up to him, and then speaks
      quietly, in a grating, nasal voice that's pitched too high for a man his 
      size. "He did. Pardon my... affliction." He gestures in the direction of 
      his throat. "It'll be over within the next day or two."
By the time he's finished speaking, the gate has finished opening and is now
      beginning to swing slowly closed.
Natalie twitches away from the voice as if you'd just pulled nails down a
      chalkboard. "Uh... yeah." She uses the moment it takes to regather 
      composure to instead study the house, giving the grounds only a fleeting 
      look. "...Sorry. Um. So that's why Jeremy said voice mail or text, huh? 
      Is he... here?" Another chin jerk, this time toward the house. "Nice 
      place. 1890s?"
"I think so..." Salem starts toward the house again, trusting the newcomer will
      follow. "Jeremy's not here, actually. The kin generally don't choose to 
      live here. But he knows you're stopping by, so he might be over later."
Newcomer does indeed follow, situating herself so she's just to the side and
      perhaps half a step behind the taller man. "You guys have done some work 
      on it, huh? It'll be interesting to meet him, instead of just sending 
      emails."
Salem smiles tightly. "Mostly basic maintenence, though Jeremy set up the
      in-house network. The former owner did most of the restoration that you 
      can see, however." He shrugs, fishing for his keys as they reach the 
      front door.
Natalie's quite clearly itching for a tour, but she's polite enough not to ask.
      Quite yet. "So, um... nice weather, huh? Lots warmer than it is back 
      home. Minnesota, I mean." The true Curse of the Garou is thus revealed: 
      small talk.
Horrors. Salem smirks, eyeing her intently for a moment. "It's even warmer
      inside," he says in that grating whine. "You can introduce yourself 
      properly... and, later, I'll show you the house." With that, he unlocks 
      the door, opens it, and gestures her inside.
Natalie doesn't go any farther than just inside the door - and out of Salem's
      way. Coat unzipped she looks around at the house with a practiced eye. 
      Not until the door closes does she look back, head tipped to one side to 
      display throat. "Holds-the-Line. Galliard, and cliath."
Salem shows her where the front hall closet is and offers her a wooden hanger.
      "Scar. Philodox and Fostern. And Elder." She gets a nod of approval at 
      the throat-baring and turns away briefly to hang up his coat. "Parlor's 
      through there," he says, with a nod toward a doorless arch. "Have a 
      seat... and you can tell me about yourself."
Natalie wriggles out of her coat, gets it hung, and heads into the parlor,
      fingers trailing along the wall behind her.
Natalie's over at the bookshelves examining not the contents, but the shelves
      themselves. She turns at a sound with a wry smirk. "Sorry," she 
      apologizes again. "I love old houses. Professional hobby, y'might say. I 
      love these builtins. Really gives a house character, y'know?"
Salem settles into a large, comfortable-looking leather armchair that's placed
      with a good view of the room in general, and the entertainment center in 
      particular. With elbows propped on the arms of the chair and fingers 
      steepled, he regards her. One side of his mouth quirks upward in 
      amusement. "I agree. Professional hobby?"
Natalie shrugs sheepishly, but doesn't move away from the shelves. "Yeah. I do
      contracting work. Or I -would-... anyway, I'm in construction. Old houses 
      are just a, a preference. A lot of the modern stuff doesn't have any 
      character. They're like..." Her right hand flips for a moment as she 
      searches. "Cold lefse."
Salem's eyebrows rise, his eyes getting a certain glint when she mentions being
      in construction. "I agree. So, where are you from, Natalie?"
The woman's answer is immediate. "Minneapolis. Minnesooota." She must be
      deliberately exaggerating the accent; it's here and gone. "Rited just, 
      um, over three years ago. No, four. Ninety-nine." Apologetic grimace as 
      she explains, "Nines always throw me off."
Salem cocks his head. "And what brings you to St. Claire?"
The grimace returns for a special second showing. "Well, the flip answer's
      'I-90'. But, um, you probably want more than that, huh?" She doesn't give 
      the other time for more than a raised eyebrow before she hurries on, "Uh, 
      yeah. Well, I - my pack. It, um... I needed to get out of Dodge, and west 
      was better than east. I've heard about Seattle a little. Figure I'd find 
      a spot close-ish and..." She's fidgeting to beat the band, clearly 
      uncomfortable. "Yeah."
Salem did indeed raise an eyebrow, and now his eyes narrow. "Details, please."
      Nasal or no, the Elder's tone has the unmistakeable hint of command in it.
Natalie checks to see if folding her arms across her chest helps. The answer
      must be 'a little', 'cause they don't immediately drop. "Sorry. You, um, 
      want the whole sordid tale, or just the painful overview?"
Salem snorts, but he almost looks sympathetic. "I'll settle for the latter."
Natalie takes in a deep breath, nods. "Right. Well basically I screwed up big
      time. My pack kinda... disintegrated around me, and my Mom died. Big huge 
      fight with Pop. Um... lots of bar fights, and lots on the tab. I figured 
      I wasn't going - if I stayed there nothing was going to change. Needed... 
      needed a change of scenery."
Salem's eyes narrow, the corners of his mouth tugging into a pensive,
      considering frown. "Change of scenery I can understand. Can I assume that 
      the drinking _isn't_ going to be a problem?"
Natalie shifts uncomfortably under that narrowing, her arms hitching a little
      higher, a little tighter. "Don't think so. It's just... I'm no alcoholic, 
      y'know? Just sometimes you need a little time off." Her chin jerks up 
      again, slightly. "Well I got a -lot- of time off. If I didn't think the 
      vacation was over I wouldn't be here. I'd still be back at the Half-Time 
      buying pitchers."
Salem actually smiles a bit at this, albeit rather wryly. The halfmoon shifts
      his weight in the chair, legs stretching out, and nods. "Good. Now, as to 
      what you can offer us... Have you given any thought to chiminage?"
Natalie says "Frankly, I'm not sure if I'm gonna stay." Another deep breath
      fortifies her bravery enough to continue. "I mean, there's no point me 
      sticking around if I can't pack. Can't find someone to pack with. I 
      just... I've been lone wolf the last few months, and frankly? It sucked. 
      Sucked dead rat through a straw. So I figured I'd stick around here a 
      little bit, see if I like it and it likes me. If not..."
Salem gets that sharp, calculating glint in his eye again. "As it happens, I'm
      forming a pack with some other city Garou, and there's an opening for a 
      Galliard." His eyes narrow slightly. "But whether you stay or not, or 
      join my pack or another's, there's still the question of what you can 
      offer, apart from being a warm body and a ready set of claws."
Natalie's eyebrows jump ceiling-ward. "Shouldn't I... isn't Chiminage something
      for the Sept Alpha? Um, sir? S'not that... well, that's how we did it in 
      Minnesota, anyway." Not that she'd accuse her tribe's elder of attempting 
      to shake her down. Of course not.
"It is," Salem confirms, "and it's something she'll ask about when I take you
      to meet her. But apart from chiminage, I _do_ want to know what kind of 
      skills you have." He arches a brow. "You mentioned construction."
Natalie's mouth makes a little 'o' of understanding. Her arms unfold and hands
      carefully smoothe out all those pesky invisible wrinkles in her thighs. 
      "Uh, yeah. Construction. All sorts - I can frame, do basic wiring and 
      plumbing. Finish work too. Cabinets, that sort of thing. Pop was - is a 
      contractor too. And, um, I know a couple of Rites and I'm pretty decent 
      in a fight. Sensei kicked me out of classes before I changed, but I've 
      got plenty of hands-on." Now she grins, if faintly. "And I can drive a 
      stick shift."
Salem nods. "Could definitely use you around the house..." Dark eyebrows rise.
      "...Where you're welcome to stay while you're in town, if you like." His 
      voice cracks in an unseemly way at the last word, prompting a grimace 
      from the Philodox.
There's an answering wince from the Galliard that quickly disappears as Nat's
      eyes flick around the boundaries of the room as if judging for herself 
      the depth of stain and varnish on exposed woodwork. After a moment she 
      nods, head bobbing like a horse's. "Yeah. I mean, I'd like that. S'gotta 
      be quieter than the Super-8, right?"
Salem smirks faintly. "Not to mention more private. Plus, you'll get a better
      chance to meet the Family." The halfmoon's voice is still nasal and 
      grating, but he seems quite comfortable in his chair; there's a sense 
      that Natalie has passed some unknown test.
Natalie lets her fingers touch the shelves again, a hint of possessiveness
      there. "Yeah. I get the feeling Jeremy was laughing at my for my hotmail 
      account. So, um, what's the rest of us like? You're... not what I 
      expected, not compared to Jeremy."
From the front hall, Rina comes in noisily, slinging a heavy duffle bag down by
      the parlor archway and tossing her helmet carelessly atop it. She peers 
      in, windblown and smelling of cordite.
"Jeremy's our resident tech-head," Salem says. "The rest of us..." He trails
      off as Rina shows up and gives the new arrival a warm smile. "Just in 
      time, Rina."
Natalie looks over to the new arrival as well, sans warm smile. Instead she
      straightens, stiffens, hands dropping to her sides. "Natalie Baker," she 
      offers tersely. "Galliard, cliath."
Pausing at the archway's edge, the dark-haired woman bends down to unlace her
      muddy boots, without taking her eyes from the newcomer. She heels them 
      off--obviously she's been out somewhere clomping through fields--and 
      steps in, stripping off black gloves. There's a delicate furrowing of her 
      brow at the woman's reaction. "Rina," she says quietly, offering a hand. 
      "You're a Walker, then?"
Natalie doesn't /say/, "Well duh," she just thinks it real hard, the words all
      but blazoned in red LED across her forehead. Her eyes flick to Salem, 
      judging his reaction, then back to Rina. "Walker, yeah."
"Visiting from Minnesota," Salem adds, watching them.
Rina nods minutely, her manner utterly businesslike. "Kin, from the Chicago
      families," she says. "You gonna be stayin', or you just here on business, 
      or what?"
Natalie relaxes at the identification, perhaps deciding the prey isn't worth
      it. "Both, maybe. I figure I'll stay a few months, see if I can find a 
      pack. If I can't..." A shrug punctuates the end of the shrug. "I've been 
      offered the hospitality of the house while I'm deciding."
"Easier for her to get to know the family that way," Salem says, still watching
      the pair. "Plus, perhaps she can help us get some of the neglected parts 
      of the house back in order." He peers at Natalie. "Do you know anything 
      about greenhouses, by the way?"
Rina nods minutely. "Y'certainly welcome here," she says, seconding the
      invitation. Her eyes remain guarded, a little bemused--as if she can't 
      quite place the reason for the woman's reaction. "I run the city biz, so 
      if you want in on anything that end, just ask and I'll find a place for 
      ya. Salem can help you with the tribal shit." Then she looks over to 
      Salem, blinking. "We have a /greenhouse/?"
"/Greenhouse/?" echoes Nat, half-heartbeat behind Rina. That earns the other
      woman a bemused half-grin. "Well, sorta, yeah. Just lots and lots of 
      glazing. What about watering? That done by hand, or what?"
Salem smiles widely, looking rather like a Cheshire Cat. "Not yet. But I think
      we _should_ have one."
Rina blinks over at Salem. "Oh." Her brow furrows a little, and she blinks at
      him again. "We'll... have to talk about that, sure. I thought you wanted 
      to keep the house pretty clean of anything, though..."
Salem cocks his head, looking at Rina with a touch of bemusement. "Some
      greenery will do the place good." Oh, no, he's not going all Urban Farmer 
      on her, is he?
Natalie considers the window and the lawn beyond. "Well, I guess. Gotta get a
      permit, look into codes, all that sort of thing. You want me to look into 
      kits, or what?" She slouches against the bookshelf, arms folded across 
      her belly this time. "That the sort of city thing you were talking about, 
      Rina?"
Rina's expression is suddenly wry. "Not so much," she murmurs. "But yeah,
      that'd be great if it's your kinda thing." She rubs at the back of her 
      neck with one hand.
The Walker Elder looks quite pleased, his fingers steepling as plans come
      together. "Rina handles the more... underhanded business of the family," 
      he explains to Natalie.
"Might have problems since I'm licensed out of state," Nat begins, another
      lightbulb going on at salem's Explanation. "...Oh. Yeah, um. Probably 
      not, then." Rina gets another, more thorough going over, then her very 
      own, "Sorry."
"No prob," Rina murmurs. She glances to Salem, then, and says, "Something I
      need to talk t'you about. Jarred. It can wait, though." The dark eyes 
      return to Natalie. "Have you eaten, yet?"
Salem's smile fades a bit at the name, and one eyebrow lifts. But he merely
      nods -- something for them to discuss in private, obviously.
Natalie says "Grabbed something at BK. I wouldn't say no to something else, but
      I'm not gonna frenzy on you, if that's what you're asking." The pair get 
      yet another look and the shelving a quick pat before she offers, "I've 
      gotta go get my stuff from the motel anyway. Is this it? I mean, is this 
      all the Walkers here?"
Salem shakes his head. "There are a few others," he grates out. "Not many
      but... a good handful. You'll meet them in time." He glances at Rina. "In 
      fact, it's about time we had another tribe moot, isn't it."
Rina nods minutely. "Yeah. I'll send somethin' out. She can take my room, if
      y'want."
Natalie waits vainly for the peals of laughter. "Uh... excuse me?" Perhaps she
      heard Rina wrong. Perhaps this is a strange Chicago tradition.
The look Salem gives Rina is significant. "Well, since the bed's already made
      up and you're not using it..." Natalie's comment garners her a look of 
      her own. "Hm?"
The dark-haired kin looks over to her, and explains, "I don't stay here very
      often, see. And it's already got a bed and stuff."
"Most of the rooms don't have beds?" Natalie's clearly floundering, and as
      clearly frantically paddling. "Uh... all right, I guess. Long as I'm not 
      putting you out, or anything."
Rina laughs a little, giving a quick shake of her head. "No," she answers,
      explaining after a moment. "I don't live here. So it's just another room. 
      And yeah, some of the place isn't entirely furnished yet. It's kinda 
      huge, and we just moved in last year, so."
Natalie says "Mr. Salem said I'd get a tour later - can't wait. I love these
      old houses. I like renovating more than I like building new stuff. 
      There's all sorts of stories these places could tell, y'know? If these 
      walls could talk, and all."
Rina winces slightly, and shares a Significant Look with the scarred man.
      "Yeah. Well. They do. We have a slight haunting problem."
Natalie double-takes. "A what where?"
"Mmmhm." Rina rakes a hand through her hair, looking away as she musses it
      self-consciously. "It's... a bit annoying sometimes."
"Quieted down a lot, though, lately," Salem murmurs, rubbing at his chin.
      "Haven't heard a peep in weeks."
Natalie looks between the two as if expecting to find herself the butt of a
      joke. "Try that again," she all but demands. "This place is /what/?"
"Haunted," Rina says quietly. "As in ghosts. You know. Spectres, ectoplasm, the
      whole nine yards."
"Apparantly," Salem says, not joking at all, "this plot of land is a sanctuary
      for ghosts. A safe haven. To the point where the nasty things they have 
      to deal with is better than anything _outside_ the land." He shrugs. 
      "It's also, apparantly, a cyclic thing... but I'm still hoping that we 
      can dig out the sourse so that we don't repeat history."
"You've had a theurge in, right?" tests the Galliard, still expecting to break
      through the ice of reality into the freezing water of completely lunatic. 
      "What sort of... nasty things are there for _ghosts_? I mean, really, 
      come on."
Rina lifts a shoulder, and looks over to Salem, letting him explain the crazy
      stuff.
Salem wrinkles his nose, his frown deepening at Natalie. "They don't exist in
      the Umbra. We've been there. Few spirits feeding on the ghosts' pain, or 
      were, but nothing unusual Basically, we can't go where they go." He 
      shrugs. "Some of them are vile. Others fairly benign. And, as I said, 
      they haven't acted up in weeks."
Natalie's only further comment is a, "Huh," that suggests she's reserving final
      judgement. "Well, you said it was cyclical. So maybe they've moved on."
"Or maybe they've gotten used to us," Rina says lightly, one shoulder lifting
      in a half-shrug. "Who knows. /So/ not my department."
"We're a little strapped for Theurges," Salem notes to Natalie, candidly.
      "Basically, one cub who'll be Rited in less than a month."
"Couple friends from other tribes, who come around quite a bit," Rina adds.
      "So."
Natalie straightens interestedly. "He already have his Rite planned for him?
      'Cause if not, maybe figuring out these ghost things would do."
Salem shakes his head. "His Rite's planned." The halfmoon smiles humorlessly.
Natalie shrugs, water off a duck's back. "Yeah, well, I figured. It'd probably
      be a sign of the Apocalypse if you let some stranger waltz in and dictate 
      terms for your cub's Rite f Passage." Her grin flickers, impish. "Can't 
      blame me for asking, though."
"Reminds me," Rina says quietly. "Josh seems to be doin' better. Apparently
      Jarred--" there follows an epithet in italian, "--tried to fuck with him, 
      and the kid managed to dodge it."
Salem grimaces. "Why the hell do you think I challenged him?" He frowns. "Wait.
      _When_ did Jarred mess with Josh?"
Natalie keeps quiet, thanks. Eavesdropping is a delicate sport.
Rina tips her head slightly. "She said it was something you didn't know about.
      Apparently he handed our boy a gun and some other presents, and offered 
      to teach him to shoot. Wouldn't take the stuff back when the kid refused 
      it... and just walked away.
The Kin's dark eyes are slightly narrowed. "I'd be /so/ happy if this gun turns
      out to be registered to him... but probably not."
Salem sucks on a tooth and frowns. "Mmh. Where's the gun now?" He glances
      sidelong at Natalie and explains, "Jarred's the local Shadow Lord Elder. 
      Currently."
"Currently," the Galliard repeats with a touch of emphasis. "There a... palace
      coup in the works? Everyone knows but him, or something?"
"In a case in the hall. I haven't looked yet t'see if it's got a serial."
"I have a feeling they're divided," Salem explains to Natalie, and then nods to
      Rina.
Rina murmurs, "Sorry." She gives Salem a dark look. "I figure I'll let you
      handle it. But I want him near our kids about as much as you do."
Natalie suggests, "Confusion to our enemies?" Then, "Uh, 'scuse me if I'm
      speaking out of turn, or anything, but why -is- a Shadow Lord training 
      our - your cubs?"
Salem's mouth thins. "He isn't. Joshua is out on the Bawn getting some...
      intensive last-minute training before he Rites. He has teachers out 
      there, and Jarred is very much _not_ one of them."
Natalie says "Well, it sounds like he's got enough moxie to keep this Jarred
      off his back. S'unusual in a Theurge, but good for him."
"So tell him that," Rina says curtly. "Please. Since *I* can't tell him without
      gettin' myself killed."
Salem scowls. "I will, no--" His voice cracks again and he grimaces. "No
      worries." He rubs his throat. "Tomorrow."
Natalie clears hers sympathetically. "Yeah, well... if you two'll excuse me, I
      better get back to the Super-8. That way I've got a chance of getting 
      back here before you turn in. Thanks for letting me use your room, Rina. 
      Good meeting you both."
Salem nods, then gets up to walk Natalie out to the door (and to open the gate
      for her). "Likewise."
"Yeah. Hope you decide to stay." Rina follows them halfway, leaning casually
      against the arch.

Salem returns from seeing Natalie out and heads slowly back to the parlor,
      rubbing his throat absently.
Rina slides around the edge of the archway, lazily.
Salem pauses to watch her. One eyebrow rises in proper Spockly fashion.
"I hate dominance." Rina's voice is quiet, her eyes lowered. "I think that's
      why she was all hackles-up, at first. You know. Who is it? Where is she 
      on the ladder? Like fucking dogs sniffin' each other." She wrinkles her 
      nose. "Cause once I said I was Kin, it was like, 'oh, /you/ don't mean 
      anything. You're nothin', then. Cool.' And everything was fine."
Salem snorts. "So she'll learn. Or she won't be here long and it won't matter."
      Shrugging, he heads back into the parlor. "At the heart of things, Rina, 
      we're animals. Brute animals."
"I just don't like remembering it," Rina murmurs wryly.
Salem gives her a rueful, self-mocking half-smile. "I know." He sinks down onto
      the couch with a grunt and stretches his legs.
"He told me about that thing where Jarred tried to send him t'you with a
      message, too," Rina says darkly.
Salem cocks his head, eyeing her. "That's what'd prompted me to challenge him.
      But what did _Josh_ say about it?"
Rina lifts one shoulder. "Just that he tried to send Joshua to tell you to fuck
      off, or something." She looks across to him, then. "Seemed a lot better. 
      But when I asked him about stuff, he changed the subject real quick."
Salem frowns, his eyes narrowing. "What stuff didn't he want to talk about?"
"The wolf stuff. His... problems. You know." She looks across to him, her
      expression a little wry. "Perfectly normal.
Salem sighs quietly, passing a hand over his eyes. "Well," he says, voice
      cracking a bit, "we don't have time for perfection. He's making an 
      effort. If he passes his Rite, he can keep working on that. If not... the 
      point will be moot."
Rina nods. "I'm just glad he wasn't, y'know, all ..." She waves a hand.
      "u'pazz'."
Salem smiles thinly and nods back in agreement. Then he laces his fingers
      together and stretches his arms out in front of him, stifling a yawn.
Rina glances down to her watch. "You can't be /sleepy/... it's not even
      eleven!" She looks across to him, a wariness coming over her expression. 
      "Okay. Who are you, and what'd you do with Jack?"
Salem relaxes out of the stretch and gives her a look that's half irritation
      and half amusement. "Didn't sleep last night. Didn't get much the night 
      before." He shrugs. "Or maybe," he adds, smirking, "I'm just getting old."
"Thought you were s'posed to sleep /less/, then," Rina murmurs. She comes over
      and sits down carefully on the couch, next to him, resting forearms on 
      her knees. There's a certain tension in her posture, something that 
      speaks of a subject being framed.
Salem seems to pick up on this, and his head cocks, the one good eye fixing on
      her face. Humor drops away into a more guarded mode. "...What is it?"
Rina looks over to him, a fleeting plea for help before she lowers her gaze to
      the floor again. "Jenny," she says quietly.
Salem sits up, half-turning toward the kinswoman. "What about her?"
Rina rests an elbow on her knee, and rubs at her forehead with an upraised
      hand. "She doesn't know what she wants. And I--" A swallow silences her 
      for a moment. "No matter what, I'm gonna spend time with them. But how 
      much time? And how much can I afford to-- to expose them to, just bein' 
      around me? Especially with what we're about to get into... I don't want 
      them in danger. And these Slavic motherfuckers, they'll kill anyone. Life 
      isn't /worth/ anything where they come from. They don't understand the 
      ethic that says you don't mess with someone's /family/, you don't go 
      after women and /children/."
Salem grimaces, passing a hand over his scarred face. "Fucking Russians," he
      mutters, sounding thin and nasal. He looks at her sympathetically. "Be 
      careful. Alter routes, go in disguise..." He sighs. "We need to finish 
      those bastards off. Even if I have to go in there and cut off the head 
      myself."
Rina nods. "We'll move on them," she says quietly. "Need t'see where people are
      on that recon. Follow up our names. After the moot we'll do maybe a month 
      of recon, and move."
Salem manages a faint smile. "And after we've wiped the bastards out?"
She looks over to him, sidelong, and a wry smile tugs up one corner of her
      mouth. "Then I bring in uncle Silvio, and some other friends of ours, and 
      we put the small-time kids out of business the capitalist way."
Salem exhales quietly and stretches again, his manner almost languid. "Have to
      watch out for the police. Mm. That'd almost be relaxing. Worrying about 
      the cops rather than Russian mobsters."
Rina snorts. "Yeah." She slouches forward, looking down at the floor. "You
      don't hafta worry so much with the Feds, about gettin' raped and beaten 
      half to death, or your children gettin' killed, or your girlfriend sold 
      into white slavery off in Europe somewhere."
Salem nods, but has nothing, really, to say to this. Not at first. He shifts
      his weight on the couch, then reaches over to cup the back of her neck 
      with one hand, rubbing gently for a moment.
"We'll get them," he says at last, quietly. "We'll clean up."
Rina swallows, staring at the floor. "If something-- if anything happens to me,
      will you make sure Jenny gets the money?" She wets her lips nervously. 
      "It's-- it's all taken care of, and I know she-- doesn't want t'be 
      interfered with, like Drew, she's had bad experiences... but just make 
      sure she's okay."
Salem grimaces at the thought, but nods, saying with cracked hoarseness, "I'll
      make sure they'll be all right."
"Thanks," she says quietly, without looking up. "Do me a favor and prod Lee and
      Jeremy about getting that bug into Patinkin's place."
"Will do." He rubs the back of her neck again, then leans back, his hand
      sliding away. "Any luck finding a new place, by the way?"
Rina chews on her lower lip. "Idunno. I haven't really looked much."
Salem cocks his head. "Got anything in particular in mind?"
Her shoulders lift and fall. "Dunno. Kind of undecided, I guess. Not sure if I
      should get a new studio and move everything, or just find a place to 
      sleep, or..." Her brow furrows. "I don't know. I like my place. Maybe I 
      won't go anywhere."
"Can you live somewhere where you're afraid to talk about... certain things?"
      He stares moodily at the back of her head.
Her hands fidget between her knees, twisting unconsciously at the rings. "I
      don't know," she says dully. "I don't know if I can leave, either."
Salem sighs. "Well... not something you have to decide immediately." His mouth
      twists, reuful, and then he stands up and stretches again, fingers laced 
      together at the back of his neck. "Nngh. Gah."
"Yeah." She rolls to her feet, an apology implied in her wistful smile. "Not
      gonna interfere when you might actually sleep, or something. I got work 
      to do at home, anyway." One of those swift ninja hugs of hers comes next, 
      arms wrapped around his waist--a stealth limpet.
Salem, interrupted in mid-stretch still, makes a little squeaky 'ack' noise.
      Then he turns to give her rueful little smile. "Let me walk you to the 
      door."
Though he extracts himself a bit from her grasp, it's only enough so that they
      can walk normally. "Don't be too hard on Natalie," the halfmoon remarks 
      before seeing her out. "She has... issues." He smirks. "Like the rest of 
      us, a checkered past. If she gets too fresh with you, shoot her."
Rina gives his hand a squeeze. "Nah. Bad for relations, that. Sleep good, okay?
      Oh and..." Swooping up her bag and helmet, she points to a briefcase on 
      the hall floor, next to the debris of her arrival. "That's the shit from 
      Jarred. A Glock and Idunno what else, I haven't looked."
Salem glances over, then nods. "All right." Before she can put on the helmet,
      he manages to sneak in a ruffle of hair. "Drive safely."
Rina flashes him a quick half-smile. "I will." Then she straps on the helmet
      and fastens her jacket and puts on her gloves. The bag is last, slung 
      over her shoulder, heavy with two rifles and a load of ammunition.