Fat Moon, Bad Mood.

[hazlogs]

Currently on this breezy and cold winter late morning in the general St. 
  Claire area, it is 26 degrees Fahrenheit (-3.3 degrees Celsius). The wind is 
  coming from the northeast at 5.85 mph. The ground is snowy. Skies are clear 
  with a small chance of precipitation.
Currently the moon is in the waning Gibbous Moon phase (63% full).

East Elson Commercial Sector and Waterfront
Motels, movie theaters with posters of scantily-clad women, and even a few 
  posters of nudes, and bars are interspersed with stairways leading to 
  dilapidated second stories or downwards into basements. Women saunter along 
  the western streets of the district, around Third and Fourth Streets. In the 
  area around Second, a profusion of graffiti markings of black knives or the 
  words 'The Blades' are scattered along buildings and sidewalks. A little 
  further eastwards beer cans are scattered around the entrance to one bar 
  with, if one looks through the window, several pool tables in enthusiastic 
  use for several hours a night and even occasionally during the day.

Sally MacKay leaves the park in the east, past 1st Street.

Salem leans against a wall just outside the alley that leads to the side 
  entrance of the old Rialto, smoking a cigarette and watching the street with 
  a faint scowl.

The blonde bops up from the fountain, glancing up and down the street before 
  turning east. Her hands in her pockets and her usual smile firmly in place 
  on her face, she strides along, looking at one with her world.

Salem catches sight of the familiar figure, and his expression lifts, a 
  little. As she passes within earshot, he calls over to her. "Mustang Sally. 
  Good morning."

Sally MacKay turns towards the sound of her name, her expression that of a 
  little girl opening up a birthday gift: excited about not knowing what it 
  is, but totally certain it'll be something good. "Hey," she greets him once 
  she sees who it is, then alters her course towards him. "How's it going?"

Salem shrugs, haggard behind his tight smile. "Could be better."

"Yeah?" Sally asks, looking him over before assuming a lean perhaps a bit 
  further away than she might otherwise have. "What's wrong?"

"Family." He shrugs, sucking down another lungful of first-hand cigarette 
  smoke. "You know how it is."

Sally nods, "Yeah. Yours around here or you got a call, or what?" Her tone is 
  casual, the sound of idle chit-chat before the real subject is brought up.

Salem smiles, the expression grim, humorless, and bitter. "They're around." He 
  changes topics. "I've got something for you."

Even knowing full well what he has for her, Sally's eyes light up at the very 
  hint of a gift. "You do? What?" she jokes, then waits for him to produce it.

Salem holds the cigarette between his lips and reaches into his coat, fishing 
  around in an interior pocket. He produces a folded envelope - clearly with 
  something inside - and holds it up for a moment before offering it to her.

No bright wrapping paper, no fancy bow. Sally aws as she looks from it back to 
  him, but her grin wouldn't be the only clue she's not truly disappointed. 
  Once it's within her reach, she takes it. Breaking the seal with her thumb, 
  she flips through the bills, not counting, just looking. She smiles and 
  folds it again before wiggling it into the front pocket of her jeans, the 
  handcuffs at her waist visible as she pushes back her coat to do so. "I'll 
  drop this off later, if he's around."

Salem lifts an eyebrow at the sight of the cuffs, but doesn't comment. "Good," 
  he replies, with a nod.

Sally MacKay resumes her lean, not saying anything just yet. She observes him, 
  a slight furrow in her forehead marring her otherwise sunny expression.

Salem gazes back at her, the end of his cigarette burning a bit brighter as he 
  inhales. He smiles a touch, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes, and 
  asks, "Something wrong?"

"Why did you think it was you who emptied the place out yesterday?" Sally 
  asks, an undercurrent of seriousness to her voice; the tone and the way 
  she's now watching him might indicate the importance of the question to her, 
  if he missed the tightening of her shoulders and the general tensing of her 
  posture.

Salem considers the question for a moment, weighing his answer. "It's a curse. 
  It happens to me all the time, actually."

Sally MacKay's eyes are suddenly masked, giving away few, if any, clues as to 
  her thoughs. "A curse?" She's not quite as good at hiding other parts of her 
  body language and her feet move as she shifts her weight a little. Her eyes 
  don't leave him, not even when a car goes roaring down the street with its 
  music blasting.

Salem grimaces, flicking ash down onto the snow-covered pavement. Bitterness 
  sinks into his face as he turns his eyes to the stoplight at the corner. "I 
  was wondering when it would start to effect you."

Though her expression remains the same: carefully emotionless eyes and an 
  almost-real looking smile on her lips, Sally now stands up from her lean 
  against the wall. "When /what/ would start effecting me?" her tone, while 
  not exactly colder, has fallen more serious. She watches his profile as he 
  turns away.

Salem turns back to her, frowning a bit. "You don't feel it?" he asks, a tic 
  appearing near his left eye. "Most people get the feeling that I'm a psycho 
  that's two steps and one second from going berserk. 'Postal,' is the term, I 
  believe."

Sally shrugs a little, not looking too eager to admit that she does feel the 
  effects of his Rage. Removing a hand from her pocket, she holds it up 
  towards him as if she could feel the actual waves coming off him, "Yeah..." 
  The hand is quickly drawn back and runs through her hair before she returns 
  it to her pocket. "Fuck," she mutters under her breath. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

Salem watches her with dark eyes, corners of his mouth turned downward as he 
  gauges her reactions.

The attempted smile is gone from Sally's face, replaced by a scowl. She makes 
  a quarter turn away from him before leaning against the wall, now pressing 
  her back against it. She doesn't look straight at him, but most likely can 
  see him out of the corner of her eye.

Salem's shoulder moves in a brief shrug as he moves his eyes away, scowling at 
  something across the street. After a moment, he rasps, harshly, "This isn't 
  something I asked for."

Sally MacKay turns evaluating eyes towards him, studying him, weighing things 
  both internal and external. "Things are different now," she says quietly, 
  cryptically, almost as much to herself as to him.

Salem's eyes shift back to her, sharply. "Does this mean there's no deal?"

She huhs?, for a moment not following the jump in subjects, then Sally shakes 
  her head. "No, everything's cool. I'll get the name." She stands up from the 
  wall, "I'll go check if he's there. You'll be around later?"

Salem uncoils slightly, inhaling on the cigarette again, the Rage retreating 
  an inch. "I'll be around here a lot from now on."

His statement draws another questioning look from Sally, but she just nods. 
  "Cool," she says as she starts to turn. "Catch you later, then," her voice 
  has not regained its usual brightness.

Salem nods only once, frowning with a dour, cynical moodiness, as though he'd 
  been expecting something like this all along and therefore is bitterly 
  unsurprised. "Be seeing you."

Sally waves as she walks off; she does not look back.

You make your way east, down the disintegrating cement path toward the 
  fountain.
Harbor Park Fountain
The area where the fountain was, and presumably the new fountain will be, is 
  now totally enclosed by high plywood walls. There is a door in one of the 
  walls, firmly locked with a padlock. The walls enclose much of the flagstone 
  area, now, only leaving a little around the edges of the old courtyard. To 
  one side, some ground is being leveled for further improvements. Healthy 
  green hedges line one side of the courtyard, just behind some 
  graffiti-covered benches.
The murky waters of the Columbia River flow swiftly along the east side of the 
  park. Bracketing the park to the west is First Street. The park extends to 
  the south.
Contents:

Thomas makes his way through the tall grass of the south.

[Thomas]
        Shock of wheat-colored hair fading to white over a deeply lined face, 
  fair skin still holding the lingering remains of a tan, pale lashes framing 
  incredibly sharp blue eyes. Thomas is short - perhaps 5'9" - and stocky, and 
  looks to be in his late forties. There is a small, pale, triangular scar 
  under his right eye, half-hidden by the wire-rimmed glasses that he wears. 
  He is, for the most part, relaxed, though his eyes still follow movement 
  with a hint of their old wariness. He smiles more easily, now, but sometimes 
  in his expression is the veiled, hunted look of one whose nightmares and 
  memories coincide.
        He is wearing worn black jeans and a light-weight blue denim shirt, 
  the unbuttoned cuffs occasionally slipping back to reveal glimpses of scar 
  tissue at his wrists.

Salem sits on one of the benches on the river-side of the park, a dark figure 
  in a belted black duster, surrounded by an air of cigarette smoke and 
  brooding anger.

[Emrys, Thomas' kid]
With a short quiff of wheat-colored hair and bright blue eyes, a small nose, 
  fair skin, and a very stubborn jaw, this three-year-old child regards the 
  world cautiously but without innate suspicion. He is wearing a dark green 
  turtleneck and denim 'engineer overalls,' and is rarely out of arm's reach 
  of Thomas.

Thomas trundles through the snow at the slow pace dictated by the small child 
  holding his hand. Each swathed in parkas, one large navy, one small hunter 
  green, the man and child seem to be deliberately picking their way through 
  the deepest parts of the snow, perhaps out of sheer perversity. The child is 
  keeping up an uninterrupted stream of chatter through this adventure, almost 
  all of it virtually incomprehensible.

Salem glances up with an expression of vague irritation that sharpens as his 
  eyes focus on the child. His mouth tightens into a grimace, and he turns 
  away, forcibly trying to ignore the toddler chatter.

[Editor's note. Okay, so there isn't really a fountain actually, but the
gist of the kid's actions remain unchanged. :) ]

The child spies the fountain and surges toward it, churning snow to either 
  side. Thomas chuckles, and, as they reach the containing wall, swings the 
  toddler over the edge to land in the fresh, unmarked snow inside the 
  fountain itself. "Go to it," he says, and Emrys, indeed, begins wading 
  around through the snow, some of it almost up to his armpits, so entranced 
  by the endeavor that his running commentary drops to almost nil. Every time 
  he passes the point he entered at and begins another circuit, however, he 
  says, "Koh!" for no apparent reason. Thomas smiles benignly down at the 
  frenetic energy of youth, and turns his attention to the other occupant. His 
  smile fades. "Hello," he says guardedly.

Dark eyes, bloodshot, bruised underneath from poor sleep, shift toward Thomas 
  and regard him with a dour, unfriendly expression. "'Lo."

Thomas's eyebrows arch. "Nice day?" he asks.

Salem's face tightens. "No."

Thomas's mouth crooks. "No, it didn't look like it." He glances around again 
  to be sure Emrys is all right, then says to the other man, without undue 
  emphasis, "It's times like this that make me glad I'm no longer living on 
  the streets."

Salem's eyes narrow, his posture stiffening. "What the hell do you man by 
  that?" he snaps, suspicious anger snapping to the front.

Thomas's reaction is oddly divided between what his body does, and what his 
  face and voice say. His back stiffens, his shoulders tighten, his whole body 
  sinks just a little like a prey animal which has stumbled unexpectedly 
  across the trail of a predator. His face, however, gazes at Salem without 
  offense, and his voice says blandly, "Exactly what I said. It's cold. Or at 
  least, I consider it to be so. You are, of course, welcome to your own 
  opinions."

Salem glowers at the other man, rage twisting under his skin like a writhing 
  snake, coils over coils, hissing. "Of course it's fucking cold," he says 
  sharply. "What the fuck else could it be, in fucking January?"

Thomas moves slightly to one side, only a half-step, but it puts his body 
  between Salem's glare and Emrys. He may not even be aware he's done it. 
  "Listen," he says, between his teeth. He stops, taking a breath, summoning 
  courage. "I have a rough idea what the hell your problem is, but--cool it. 
  Just a little."

Salem's breathing deepens, rasping through his teeth and puffing out visibly 
  in the cold air as the anger pounds behind his temples. "The hell you do."

Thomas takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. "Well, I think I might," he 
  says carefully. His mouth jerks, small testimony to the effort it takes him 
  not to break and run. His voice, however, is conciliatory and calm, like 
  someone talking to an animal he does not dare show fear to. "But either way, 
  it doesn't matter. I'm--sorry if I annoyed you."

"Fuck," Salem mutters under his breath, and then again, "Fuck." His gaze turns 
  sharply to the other man. "Forget it," he snarls, his voice tight, 
  strangled. He turns to walk away, visibly seething.

Emrys plays on, happily oblivious. "Koh," he says softly. And then, "Tomss 
  noappi koh, noappi man." He smiles to himself and keeps on playing, as his 
  father turns back to him, leaning against the wall to keep his legs from 
  shaking.

Salem stalks away, not looking back.

[Salem retreats to the Rialto and spends the rest of the day there.]