[Jan 11, 1998. Evening.]
Charlie's Tavern(#683RJ)
The environment of this questionable establishment seems close and hot around
you despite its fair size. The walls are done up in unremarkable fake-wood
paneling, an ugly dark-brown that chips in many places to show the lighter
plywood underneath. The floor is the sort of uneven, grey concrete that
suggests this building's earlier life as a garage of some sort; it dips and
rises, gathering small pools of beer and other spirits in various locations.
Wooden tables are scattered about, some in better repair than others but
most featuring elaborate networks of dents and scratches; a bar runs the
full west side of the room, its uniform brown length accented by a single
greasy metal footrest. Dark posters, long since faded into
incomprehensibility, hang off the walls at odd angles. What light there is
here reaches through in dusty beams from the two windows facing the street,
and from the flickering fluorescent rig swinging gently over the single
mottled pool table at the back. Perched up over one end of the bar is a
battered, black-and-white television.
A single battered black door leads back south to the street.
Contents:
Arlen
Merria
Elan
Pete Barlow
TV
Slab
Obvious exits:
Street
[Merria]
Merria is a small, solid, knotty young woman who, despite being 19, will be
called a kid for years to come, with big round eyes, a small sharp nose, and
an expression of perpetual innocent and amazed curiosity. She has a cloud of
frizzy, unmanageable dark hair, dark eyes, and skin which would probably
still be fairly dark even if she had just washed, which she hasn't. She
wears battered sneakers, jeans with holes worn through in the knees, a black
sweatshirt, and an ancient army jacket with as many holes as pockets. On her
shoulder is a lumpy, well-aged book bag that appears to hold nothing so
geometric as books. Her engaging smile, however, is fresh and nearly
ever-present; she regards the world around her with an almost proprietary
pleasure, as though she had just invented it and is still marveling at her
cleverness. Her step is light and has an extra bounce to it. Clearly the
only way she has found of using all her excess energy is to make each step
work double.
Pete Barlow looks up from where he sits, the back of his hand just popping
hard onto the back of the Heinz bottle and sending a splatter of red stuff
down onto the fries. "Damn, the whole crew in, eh?" He gives Elan and Arlen
and smile before sobering a bit at the unknown factor. He gestures at the
empty chairs. "Fries?"
Elan grins and jerks his head to Merria. "Got someone to meet ya, dude. New
sista of ours, just blown in here, and looking to get set up." He unzips the
gymbag, revealing two six-packs of beer, and some sandwiches. "Brought ya
something, too." He grabs some fries in return.
Pete Barlow looks over at the beer and sandwiches, frowning. "Put those away
for later man, before slab goes nuts." The big bum looks over at Merria now,
giving her a stare.
Salem stalks into the bar, pushing past a much larger man who nevertheless
steps aside, looking vaguely unnerved. Salem pauses to give the interior a
once-over, his features set into a scowl, his eyes narrowed. Then he heads
for an empty table in a corner.
Merria stands next to Elan and regards Pete with bright, curious eyes. "Hey,
sir." She ducks her head a little and grins. "Merria Parker." She glances
around at the other patrons, hesitates between courtesy and caution, and
decides on the latter, leaving the introduction there.
Arlen flashes Pete a grin and takes a few fries, grabbing a seat as well,
since no one else seems inclined to.
[Pete Barlow]
Remarkably plain like cheap vanilla ice milk in an old tupperware
bowl. A loose, easy, casual manner describes this tall fellow, his edges
turning in lazy almost masked curves. Dark brown hair with a few straggles
of grey slides back from a largely bald head. Narrow, somewhat droopy green
eyes glance out from a face covered in an unkempt, thick salt-n-pepper beard
circling a thin-lipped, crooked smile. Around 6'3 and probably in his late
thirties, Pete carries himself with a quiet, almost subservient manner
though the smile twisting his mouth might just betray a certain... lack of
seriousness.
Pete's returned now to his normal duds: worn jeans, ivory cableknit
mock turtle sweater and heavy coat.
[Arlen]
When at rest, this woman is content to rest. But she can burst into
movement at the drop of an interesting comment, eyes alight. She's about
5'5", and stocky, although it's obvious she's in quite good shape. Her face
is somewhat square, not at all beautiful, but strong, interesting, and
eyecatching even so, with fierce brown eyes and short brown, almost black
hair, with a rat-tail trailing down practically to the small of her back.
She seems in her mid twenties, a certain studied calm in her eyes.
She wears battered blue jeans, one thumb hanging from the front pocket
(unless there's something more interesting to do with it), and a battered
jean jacket, with (today) a light green shirt emblazoned with "A woman
without a man is like a fish without a bicycle." on it. Her boots are black,
and well worn.
Elan nods as he zips the bag back up. "Yeah, just something for you t' take,
for later."
Pete Barlow gives a nod as he picks up his burger, taking a large bite out of
it with obvious relish. As he chews, he manages to say "...ete ....low..."
in response.
Merria starts to nod, and then does a double take. "Pete Barlow?" she asks
incredulously, more than half expecting to be corrected.
Salem manages to get a beer from the poor sap waiting tables and sits well
back in his chair, fishing inside the battered black duster for his
cigarettes. His eyes continue to rove the area with restless tension.
The big fellow nods before taking another bite. Barlow gives it a chaser of
beer and says, "That's right. Uncle Chugs to the family."
Merria breaks into a delighted grin. "Well, cool. An' here I got m'chiminage,
all set. Who'da guessed. Pleasedtomeetcha."
Merria's voice is low, but very pleased.
"Yer chimmy?" asks Pete as he reaches over for an onion ring. Barlow shoots a
glance over at Arlen and Elan before looking back at the woman. "Ain't you
bein' just a stitch hasty pudding, girl?"
Elan's eyes widen a bit at Merria's statement, and settles back with a few of
Pete's fries.
Merria ducks her head again, but she's still grinning. "Nah," she says. "I got
a message for you, that's all. You don't have to take it as nothin' but a
courtesy gift, if it turns out y'all want me to push on. It's not like it'll
do me any good to keep it. Just thought it worked out kinda tidily - never
guessed you'd be the Old Man Elan was talkin' about." She hooks a chair from
a nearby table and perches on the back of it.
Pete Barlow runs a ring through the ketchup. "Well, let's hear it then,
whatever this is."
Merria cocks her head, watching Pete with bright, sharp, speculative eyes.
"Well, there's three bits," she says obligingly. "They're from a spot out in
Portland, Oregon I stopped by a little bit ago. I told folks I was comin' up
here, and asked if I could pass anything along, an' I sorta got an ear-full.
First off," and her eyes focus sharply, curious to see what reaction she
will get, "Dresden's dead."
Elan kicks back and listens, calmly.
"About time that good for nothing fuckhead got taken out," says Barlow with a
snort. He takes another bite of his burger. "Never did like the way that
Fennie Get used to pound his way around town. Who did him in? He try to rape
the wrong gal?"
Salem nurses his beer, alternating sips of the cheap piss-tasting swill with
drags on his cigarette. He doesn't pay the table of Gnawers any more
attention than he gives anyone else in the bar. One of the tables near his
becomes empty of patrons, a trio of slumming college students heading back
out into the streets. The table stays empty.
Merria scratches her head. "Lady by the name of Liz, apparently. Wasn't her he
was aiming at though, far as I can tell, it was her girlfriend."
Arlen receives her own cheeseburger, and starts in on it, watching Pete as she
does so.
Pete Barlow dredges another ring through the red sauce. "Liz the Lez?" asks
Barlow with a sudden smile. He looks over at Arlen. "One of your family,
sister. Fat moon packin' it solid in her fists." The big guy looks back at
Merria. "I'll bet ole Liz done made him pay and then some."
Merria nods philosophically. "Five people wanted me to be sure to tell you, so
I guess the process made somethin' of an impression."
Arlen murmurs, "Can we get an amen?"
Merria grins sidelong at Arlen.
Pete Barlow laughs and leans back, wiping his mouth off. "Yeah. Dresden was a
shit. So what else you got to tell me?"
Merria says, little more slowly, "Eleanor made the Change, end of November.
She's doin' okay. Cub name 'Limps,' but of course the more legs you have,
the less it matters. Her mom said you'd want to know."
The big man's face and demeanor undergoes a rather interesting transition from
the burst of laughter just a few minutes ago to more focused intent. Barlow
listens, the smile still present on his face but a new flash of pride in his
eyes. "She did, eh?" Barlow doesn't look at the others, but looks down at
his food, focusing their for a moment. He picks up the burger and takes
another bite, wetness in his eyes perhaps getting lost in the motion of
going for the food. The big man simply nods as he chews.
Elan looks to the big Gnawer, but keeps his peace.
Arlen doesn't. She says a quiet "Congratulations", burying herself in her
sandwich again afterwards.
The other table ajacent to Salem's empties itself; like the other, it doesn't
gain replacement patrons. Salem doesn't look up from his own table.
Merria is quiet for a bit, showing perhaps a little more sensitivity than on
might have expected. Then she speaks up again, this time with the first
truly dubious note in her voice. "There's one other thing. Someone named
Eggs told me to tell you that the '68 Volkswagon's back."
"She is? After all this time?" asks Barlow with a start, setting his burger
down. "Did you see her?"
Merria shakes her head. Then she stops. "Well, maybe. I'm not sure. Things
were happening kinda fast at that point. But that's what Eggs said."
Pete Barlow shakes his head as well, running a hand back over his bald pate
where a cold sweat seems to have broken out. "That ain't good news at all.
Good to know, mind you, but not good news. Shit the bed." Pete sweeps a
glance around at the others and then settles back in the chair. "Eggs told
you this, right?"
Merria nods emphatically, on firmer ground.
Arlen's glancing back and forth, curiously. "I take it this is the kind of
thing you can't explain without a lot of context?"
Pete Barlow looks from Merria to Arlen and then back to Merria. "Tell her what
you know, I'll fill in the rest. I gotta have a minute here." Barlow picks
up the rest of his burger and starts to wolf it down.
The door opens and along with a sudden burst of cold air, Sally enters. She
glances around, needing little time for her eyes to adjust to the slight
difference in lighting.
Elan eats a few more fries, and cocks his head a bit, eyes going a bit distant.
Merria cracks her knuckles. "You've pretty much got what I know. I was on
somethin' with them - they needed a scout and I happened to be handy - I
don't think it had anything much to do with it. So at one point we were kind
of blipping in and out of the realm, which I don't do so fast, anyhow, and I
saw something green and rusty go by out of the corner of my eye. I didn't
pay it too much attention except to stay low until it was gone, but Eggs got
kind of sickly lookin' - which on him is sort of funny - and grabbed me and
said, 'When you find Pete, tell him the '68 Volkswagons back.'" She shrugs.
"That's all. We were kind of busy. I tried every way I could think of to get
him to tell me more later, but he clammed up." She casts a speculative eye
at the full moon. "What /is/ it about?"
Salem finishes off his beer and rises from his table, stalking toward the bar
for another.
Elan looks to Pete, suddenly excited. "Jimmy got the Dogmobile, back!"
Pete Barlow scratches the back of his head and frowns. "Bad ju-ju is what it
is sister, real bad ju-ju." Barlow reaches over for an onion. He looks at
Arlen. "We'll talk about it later... in private." The big guys bites on the
onion ring and nods to Elan. "Good deal. Where was it?"
Sally MacKay bops over to the table, grinning all around. "Hey guys," she
greets as she snags a free chair and spins it around and tosses her coat
onto it. She hmms? at Elan, pausing before actually stepping off towards the
bar to get herself a drink.
Elan says "It got stolen...months ago. He must'a finally tracked it down."
Arlen nods. "Right enough, then. Be looking forward to it."
Merria glances sideways at Arlen with an expression that says, 'you and me,
both,
Salem perches himself on a stool and leans his elbows on the bar. The guy on
the stool next to him - a fat, grizzled bastard in a John Deere cap - turns
to protest, but instead simply stares for a moment, gets up, and takes his
beer to a table.
Merria glances sideways at Arlen with an expression that says, 'you and me,
both,' as clearly as words could. She slides off the back of the chair she
was perching on and stands uncertainly, listening to Pete and Elan for a
minute.
Sally MacKay huhs and nods. "Cool," she says amicably enough as she bops off
towards the bar. Passing the John Deere fellow with a grin, Sally pounces
forward as she reaches the bar itself, her forearms flat against its surface
and her weight off her feet for the moment. "Hey," she calls to the
bartender from her place a few stools down from Salem.
"That's right," says Barlow as he looks over at Elan, nodding. "You guys
should..." Barlow stops as something catches his eye, that something being
the fellow perched on a bar. He frowns as he looks at Salem, studying him
for a moment.
Arlen finishes her burger, and says, reluctantly, "I have to go find Morgan.
I'll talk to you folks later."
Salem turns his head slightly, regarding Sally sidelong. His eyes narrow a bit
as he recognizes her, and he takes a moment to look her over again,
unsmiling.
Elan nods to Arlen and Merria, by way of saying goodbye. He gives Pete a
glance and a murmured, "Seen that bastard around, a few times." He smiles to
Sally.
Arlen pulls open the door and heads outside.
Merria says, "See you," to Arlen, and then, thinking of something, says
hastily to Pete and Elan, "You mind...?" as she tips her head after Arlen.
Pete Barlow returns the nod to Elan, still looking over at the fellow. "Know
him?"
Sally MacKay's eyes follow the bartender for a moment, waiting impatiently as
he fills the orders of those before her. Finally she lets her eyes wander up
and down the bar, checking out faces as she usually does. One side of her
smile curls up further than the other as she spots Salem. "Hey," she says in
a friendly enough tone.
Elan shakes his head, not even looking at the man full on. "Seen him 'round a
few times, in the neighborhood. Word is, he's a badass. Fighter." His voice
is low and his manner casual.
Merria murmurs, "See you, Elan...nice meeting you, sir," and slides out the
door on Arlen's trail.
Salem's lips twitch a bit at Sally's greeting. He studies her for a few more
heartbeats and then nods. "Evening." His voice rasps a bit, the tones
clipped but educated.
Pete Barlow mmms and goes back to his meal. "Plenty of those types around. He
cause much trouble?"
Sally MacKay's eyes flick away a moment, checking on the bartender's progress
before she turns back to Salem, studying him once more. She lets the quiet
draw out before asking in a tone touched with playfulness, "You in a better
mood now?"
Elan murmers to Pete. "Beat people up. Ruthless. Got a lot of people scared of
him. Um, ain't killed anyone that I've heard."
Salem's tight, thin smile shows little humor, and the look in his eyes
remains... intense. "An inch, maybe," he replies to Sally, his tone cynical.
Pete Barlow gives Elan a hard look. "And you guys are just letting him scare
the 'hood and shit?" Barlow shakes his head, grabbing the last of the onion
rings. "Take care of it or I'll do it myself."
Elan bristles and glares at the Ahroun, but nods. "Sure. We keeping an eye
out, man. Don't be saying we ain't doin' out job..."
As the bartender finally makes his way to Sally, she turns her bright smile
towards him and asks for a beer. While she waits, she looks back to Salem
and mmms spectulatevely. "An inch? You can do better with that." She slides
down the bar and past the empty stool vacated by John Deere, reaching out to
tap the Garou's glass with the back of one finger. "Have another, it might
help," she offers in as merry a tone as his isn't.
A flicker of a frown passes across Salem's hawkish features, and his posture
remains tense and vaguely restless, as though he might, at any moment,
spring into violent action. But, by contrast, his tone remains almost
cordial as he answers Sally. "That," he says, "would take something a good
deal better than this pig's piss." He taps the glass significantly.
Pete Barlow smiles at Elan and nods. "That's the spirit. Just don't want punks
makin' the 'hood nastier than it has to be." Barlow leans up and sucks down
some more of his shake.
Elan nods at Pete, and turns to look at this exchange between Sally and Salem.
The blonde watches Salem's reaction as she nears, daring clear on her face and
excitement bright in her eyes. She doesn't retreat back down the bar, even
once the bartender returns with her beer and collects her money. "Pig piss,"
she echoes with amusement before taking a sip. "You got a name?" she asks
pointedly.
Pete Barlow stands up after finishing his meal. "Gonna go check on Quaid. See
if he's awake yet. Catch you later, Eyes."
"Salem," he answers. After a short pause, he adds, "Jack Salem."
"Sally," she answers in the same manner, "Mustang Sally." Grinning, she takes
another drink.
Pete Barlow pulls open the door and heads outside.
Elan gives a nod to Pete. "Sure thing, man."
Salem narrows his eyes slightly and then nods. "Pleased to meet you, Sally,"
he replies with automatic courtesy. He still hasn't smiled, not really.
That's okay, the blonde is smiling enough for the both of them. "So, like, is
this your usual place?" Sally uses the hand not wrapped around her mug to
gesture at the room as a whole.
Salem shrugs and takes a draught from his glass of beer. "If you could call it
that," he says. "I've hardly been in town a week yet."
Elan hefts his heavy gumbag, and saunters over to Sally. "See ya later, 'k,
MacKay?"
Salem's hard gaze flicks coldly over toward Elan.
"Yeah?" Sally sarts to answer, then she turns to nod to Elan. "Cool," the
Gnawer gets a smile and a finger-waggling wave good bye.
Elan gives a nod and friendly pat to Sally. He gives a nod to Salem,
ackowledging him.
Salem simply gazes silently at Elan, waiting for the prettyboy to go away.
Sally MacKay's smile grows at the pat and she returns it playfully before
turning back to face Salem.
Elan walks out, whistling.
Salem watches Elan go and then turns to Sally. "Friend of yours?"
Sally MacKay shrugs and nods at the same time, "Yeah, he's cool. We hang out
sometimes." She tosses back her hair with a flicking of her head before
picking up the thread again, "Where'd you move from?"
Salem takes another swallow of beer, grimacing slightly at the taste. "Mf. I
was in Portland for a while."
"Cool," Sally says casually, conversationally. "Hey," she says suddenly,
pausing only to take another drink, "You play pool?"
"Pool?" Though the tension, the rage under the surface, doesn't lessen, it
seems that he's decided that Sally isn't a threat, on any level. "No, I'm
afraid not."
Sally MacKay aws, a sound of disappointment though her expression saddens not
at all. "Too bad, I work over at Reggie's," she cocks a thumb in that
direction. "And we serve better shit than this," she taps her own mug this
time. Her tone regains its playful edge, "And if you asked nicely, you might
even get yourself a free drink or two." Chuckling to herself, she raises her
glass again.
Salem's lips twitch, the corners turning upwards a tiny bit before his mouth
returns to its usual unsmiling state. "Oh? _How_ nicely?" Though one _might_
imagine a mild playfulness in response, the eyes remain narrowly fixed
on Sally's face, humorless.
Sally's eyes brighten further, her whole expression growing warmer at his
almost-smile. She mmms, turning away slightly under the pretense of looking
for the bartender as the Garou looks her over. "Very nicely," she finally
answers as her eyes return to his.
Salem grunts slightly, breaking the mutual gaze long enough to take another
drink of his beer. "You like to play games, don't you? Walk near fire?"
The slight crinkling around her eyes and her knowing chuckle yells a much
clearer 'yes!' then her actually words do. She raises her glass and takes a
slow sip before giving him, "Sometimes."
Salem turns his eyes back to her, his expression mostly thoughtful and
intrigued, but mingled with suspicion and slight disbelief. He leans forward
a bit, bringing their faces close enough that she can smell the mingled
leather and cigarette smoke. "How close do you like to walk the line, I
wonder?"
Sally MacKay's nose wrinkles a touch at one of the two scents coming from him,
and it isn't the leather. While she doesn't lean back from him, her face
turns away seemingly without her noticing it, though not enough to break the
eye contact just yet. "That," she starts, then pauses to take a drink. The
mug just happens to interrupt the directness of his gaze for just a quick
moment, "you'll just have to find out on your own." Her confident, almost
cocky, smile is back in place as she lowers the glass to the bar.
Salem's eyes glint with bitter recognition, and he smiles crookedly, though
his eyes remain dark and the violence continues to sit tightly coiled under
the surface of his skin. His voice lowers a bit, the words clipped, the
trace of some accent - European? - slipping through the syllables. "I _do_
hope you're not just bullshitting me, Mustang Sally. I'd be so disappointed."
"Bullshitting?" Sally repeats slowly as if testing the feel of the word. Her
nearly empty mug raises towards her mouth, then she stops before actually
drinking. Even if it was full it would do little to hide the smile which
seems to shine from every other aspect of her face. "Now would I do that?"
she asks in a lilting, almost teasing tone.
Salem grins slightly now, though the way his upper lip curls up and exposes a
few teeth make the expression seem feral, predatorial. "You like to flirt
with darkness," he says with quiet intensity. "Many do, or think they do.
When it truly comes down to it, though..." He shrugs, straightening up to
drain the rest of his beer glass. "They shit their pants, sometimes scream,
and then usually die. That's been my experience, anyway."
Sally MacKay's confidence doesn't appear to be shaken in the least. She tosses
back her hair, then lowers her voice as she assumes the careful tone an
actor on a moviescreen might use, "I've seen 'darkness'," she informs him,
using the act to cover the near-truth of her words, "I've looked in its face
and bought it a beer. /I'd/ make /it/ turn tail and run," she continues in a
bravo so overblown it'd be hard-pressed to be mistaken for the truth.
Salem's eyes gleam as he leans toward Sally again. "Guess what?" He's almost
playful himself, now, but it's the playfulness of a large cat toying with a
mouse that it'll probably eat if it feels inclined to.
Jenny gingerly opens the door, two fingers on the greasy pushplate, and looks
around. She didn't look ecstatic when she came in, and her expression
doesn't change as she cases the joint.
This time the blonde does lean in, coming closer to him. "What?" Sally asks
with the blissful cheeryness of a mouse sure the 'cat' is nothing more than
a play of sunlight on dust motes.
Salem rises from his bar stool and, in a smooth moment, is standing next to
Sally, one hand on her shoulder. "I'm calling your bluff." His expression
never changes; if anything, the gleam in his eye gets stronger.
Jenny spots the wide empty space at the bar and smiles grimly. She may be
having oral surgery, but at least they're using a sharp blade. As she moves
toward the bar, a large man roughly moves her aside to make room for his
entrance. She stumbles into the middle of the room, weight drawn off balance
by the heavy black box. The man laughs in mild and jaded amusement, and she
nearly wheels on him and spares him a sharp word.
With his hand on her shoulder, he'd feel the unconscious tensing of her
muscles that a watcher might miss. Anyone at the bar would see only the
blonde raising her mug for a drink, looking not worried in the least about
this growing situation. As she lowers the glass back down, she asks with her
ever-present smile, "My bluff?"
Salem leans over, hand remaining on Sally's shoulder as his face nears hers.
Lips close to her ear, he murmurs, "Put your money where your mouth is."
Jenny stumps over to the bar and throws the box up onto a stool. Slapping the
bar to get the bartender's attention, she calls "Hey! Hey mac! Hey!"
Sally MacKay shifts her weight away as his face draws closer, though she
covers the movement by placing her elbow up and onto the bar. "Where m-?"
she jumps as the bar is hit, distracted for a moment as her attention shifts
to Jenny.
Salem flicks his eyes toward Jenny, briefly, and then turns back to Sally. "I
thought so." His voice is cold now, the scorn evident in his tone and face.
"Just another fucking bullshitter."
Jenny leans across the bar once the bartender draws near. "You guys ever have
live music in this shit hole? Even some tin-ear steel guitar C and W setup?"
Sally MacKay turns and places her back to the bar, both of her elbows up onto
it now. Her chin snaps up, her eyes narrowing just a touch at his words. " '
'Nother fuckin' bullshitter'," she echoes with as much scorn in her tone as
he used, but that and confidence are not the only thing in her eyes anymore,
though she's doing a good job at using those two to mask it. "Fuck you," she
shakes her head in a harsh little movement, her eyes cutting away and
towards the door for just a second.
The bartender eyes Jenny like a particularly lascivious bug in a jar. "Maybe
if your tits was as big as your gut, lady. Not interested."
Salem leans a hand on the bar, his eyes still on Sally. "Tell me I'm wrong
then," he says, his voice turning hard, the tones violently clipped. "_Can_
you play or are you just a vacant little girl pretending she knows what's
behind the shadows?"
Jenny purses her lips and grabs up her amp. "Fuck you." she states clearly, "I
wouldn't wanna play here anyway. I'd prob'ly get herpes off one of the bar
stools."
[Jenny]
Tall, solid, a definite presence. Even dressed in a flowing white poet's
blouse and black velveteen tights, she fails to look elfin. Golden brown
hair flows down the sides of an angular, squared face. Confident nose,
forward chin, and fearless blue eyes give her the look of a woman born to
resist, to contest, to strive, and to win comma dammit.
She's likely to have near her an electric guitar and a small amp, which is
useful for sitting on. A black belt holds a small leathern purse. If it's
cold, she has a leather jacket festooned with bits of chrome. On her head is
a brown felt fedora.
Sally MacKay's eyes fix on his, full of an anger from a different source now.
"I know what's in them," she says in a low voice, her eyes saying that she
not only knows, but does not like it. "I know /exactly/ what's in them, and
/you/ have no fuckin' clue. Get the hell outta here." She can't quite make
herself turn her back on him, but she does turn her face away, catching the
tail-end of Jenny's interplay.
Jenny turns to leave, and the bartender shouts after her "Hey! You'd *give*
somebody herpes off the bar stool!" Then he mutters "Stupid fat cunt." and
returns to his business.
Salem's anger boils closer to the surface as he reaches out to take Sally by
the shoulder again. "Prove it."
Sally MacKay jerks her shoulder, trying to pull it free though she makes no
move to step away. Her chin remains up, her lips pressed tight and her smile
no where to be seen. "How? How the fuck am I supposed to prove what I've
fuckin' seen?"
Jenny jerks the door open with the toe of her boot, as if she's practised in
opening doors with her hands full, and stomps out into the cold.
Salem tightens his grip, though not enough to hurt. He takes a deep breath and
lowers his voice, his words for her ears only. "I don't care _what_ you've
seen. Just if you've seen it, and if you've got the _spine_ to walk into the
darkness again. If not..." He grimaces. "Everything you've said earlier is
just so much bullshit."
"Let /go/!" On 'go' Sally gives her shoulder another tug, the confidence in
her eyes ever so slowly bleeding away. "I see th-" she catches herself,
pausing noticably and changing course. She pulls at his hold again before
continuing, and if she doesn't free herself, she starts leaning backwards
over the bar to gain those few inches of room. "I see 'the darkness' every
fuckin day," she informs him.
Salem straightens up, letting go of Sally's shoulder with a frustrated
exhalation of breath. "Forget it, then," he growls, starting to turn away.
"I just thought you might enjoy a bit of excitement in your pathetic life."
Sally MacKay steps back the moment she's released, angling so that she'll no
longer be trapped against the bar. Her hand starts to raise towards her
shoulder, then she catches herself and forces it back down. "Fuck you," she
says in her end-all of come-backs, watching him with a newfound wariness.
"You have no friggin' clue about 'darkness' and 'excitement', know that?"
she spits the words at him.
Salem turns back, the intensity at full force and all of it directed at Sally.
"You'd be surprised."
Now with the room, Sally takes another half-step back. "Doubt that," she
throws back at him, her eyes not even coming close to leaving him. Then she
stops suddenly. Laughing humorlessly she tosses his own words back at him,
"Prove it."
One can almost see the bonfires sparking up behind Salem's eyes. He grins now,
his teeth showing. "Come with me and I will."
Foolish? Yes. Stupid? No. Sally shakes her head. "No fuckin' way. Show me
here," now her smile hints at returning, but it's a cold one, "If you can."
Salem's voice lowers, eyes narrowing. "In front of dozens of witnesses? Are
you _mad_?"
Sally MacKay laughs her challenging little laugh again, then shakes her head.
She makes a show of looking away from him as if he were suddenly of little
importance, finding her beer but not yet reaching for it. "You can't, can
you?"
Salem leans havily against the bar. "Convenient, isn't it?" he remarks,
bitterly, cynically. "I can't prove anything to you _here_ because then
everyone else in this bar would have to die. So there you sit, safe in your
own smug little paradigm."
The few feet of distance she has gained seems to have renewed her confidence.
"Likely excuse," Sally says, leaning her side against the bar and folding
her arms across her chest. Her voice drops and she seems to be attempting to
copy some man's tone, " 'I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill ya'.
Like you could /really/ kill everyone in here," her eyes scan over the crowd
as if to make her point.
Salem is silent for a moment, his gaze passing over the inhabitants of the
bar. If Sally looks at his expression, she'd find that he seems to be
actually _considering_ it. One hand grips the edge of the bar, tightly, as
he balances on the razor's edge of self-control.
Sally MacKay finishes her glance around and looks back to him. Her newly
returned smile falters as she checks out his expression. "Damn, I was
joking, man. Don't look so fuckin' serious," she mumbles and waves to the
bartender to get his attention. "'Nother beer," she calls, seeing how he
doesn't seem inclined to some closer than he has to. She glances towards
Salem's mug and amends, "Two."
Salem's eyes blink, his gaze flickering back toward Sally. The tension eases
up. Slightly. He seats himself on the bar stool next to her with care, as
though he were a bomb that might explode (which isn't far from the truth,
really). "Fuck," he mutters, half to himself, half to the woman next to him.
There's a strained quality to his voice now. "I need something stronger than
beer."
Sally MacKay waves a hand, indicating the bartender down at the other end. "So
tell him." She continues her lean, her hip against the bar and her eyes on
him. She's quiet for a moment, the challenge, the anger, and even that hint
of fear gone from her eyes leaving only speculation as she studies the Ronin.
Salem meets her eyes, his face tightening. He snorts. "They don't sell what I
need."
"And what is it that you need?" Sally asks casually as if their nearly violent
exchange never happened.
Salem considers her a moment before answering. "Something illegal, in the
opiate family, preferably." He almost manages an airy tone. Almost.
"Something to take the edge off my... temper."
Sally MacKay snorts, the sound one of pure amusement and nothing else. She
lays down enough money for one of the beers as the bartender returns with
the drinks. "Ever think of trying meditation or some shit like that?" she
half jokes, half suggests.
Salem waits until the bartender heads back out of earshot, with fortunately is
not very long. "It _is_ medication," he replies sardonically.
Sally MacKay chuckles and gives him a side-long look. "You got a one-track
mind? Meditation, med-i-tat-ion." She crosses her arms once more and closes
her eyes, "Ohm, ohm...," then cracks one open to peek at him. "Get it?" Her
tone is quickly nearing as warm as it had been when they first met.
Salem pauses in the act of reaching for his beer. "Misheard," he says, a bit
curtly. He takes a long draught from his glass and then shakes his head.
"Doesn't do a damned thing for me. Meditation."
Sally MacKay nods, "Then maybe medication's the way to go." She takes a sip of
her beer and glances around. Of course there's no one near, even the
bartender has fled. She takes another drink, perhaps using that as a cover
for her growing smile.
Salem swallows another mouthful of beer and considers Sally for another
moment. "Yes. Well. You know how it is. New city, don't know where anything
is." He doesn't fail to miss her smile.
With a 'Mmm hmm', Sally turns back to look at him. "Yep," she says as she
looks him up and down, then pronounces, "But you're probably, like, a cop or
something." Her eyes are bright, though, and he wouldn't be wrong to guess
she doesn't truly believe that.
Salem lifts an eyebrow. "Do I _look_ like a fucking cop?" The temper strains
at its bonds, making his tone sharper than he intends it to be, as evidenced
by a quick shake of his head and another swallow of beer. "No. I'm not a
cop."
Sally MacKay shakes her head acceptingly, "Nah, you're not one. I'd know." She
sips her beer again before she speaks again, softer now. "There're lots of
places, the 'Lich and a few other clubs, and SCCU, 'course."
"The college?" His lips twist into a heavily sardonic half-smile. "Of course."
He lifts his beer glass to her in a slight salute, showing that he isn't
_entirely_ without manners. "Thanks."
Sally MacKay nods, "The college." The twinkle returns to her eye as Sally
adds, "What else would it be good for?" She nods back to him, "Welcome."
She's looking down the bar and her voice doesn't change as she asks, "That
the darkness you were talking about?"
Salem simply shakes his head in answer.
Now Sally looks back to him, just a simple look. "Then what?" she asks, no
more challenge, no more games, her voice no louder than while on the topic
of drugs.
Salem gives his head another slight shake, his common sense returning. "Forget
it," he mutters, tensely but without direct insult. A faint, faint glimmer
of humor touches his clipped tones. "'I could show you, but then I've have
to kill you.'"
Sally MacKay laughs and looks down into her mug before looking back up at him.
"You're okay," she informs the Garou. She tilts her head, sending a wave of
blond hair across her shoulder as she says, "But I wanna know what you think
darkness is one day. Deal?"
Salem considers that for a moment and then nods. "Deal," he replies quietly.
"Perhaps in a couple of weeks."
"Cool," Sally says with a smile, then glances down at her watchless wrist. A
frown settling upon her lips for just a second, she glances around for a
clock before having to ask him, "You got a watch?"
Salem sets his beer on the bar and reaches into an inner pocket of his duster.
He removes a rather cheap-looking sports watch, digital, with a broken band
and examines it. "It's nine-thirty."
"Aw hell," Sally lifts her beer and drains as much as she can before giving
him a wry smile. Whe swipes her lips with her fingertips, then gives him a
quick wave. "I'm late," she explains with a smile and a rolling of her eyes.
"Catch you later, maybe?" She starts walking, then turns around so she can
still see him, "And remember, if you're nice, I'll spot you a beer.
Reggie's!" She reminds him as she walks backwards.
Salem lifts his beer glass in a mute salute to the young woman, watching her
leave.
Sally MacKay spins back around so that she's walking forward again, her blonde
hair fanning out as she does. She snags her jacket from the chair she
dropped it onto hours ago, then bops her way out the door and vanishes out
into the darkness.
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