Stern Talk

[hazlogs]

[1/24/98]

Currently on this breezy and freezing winter midmorning in the general St. 
  Claire area, it is 25 degrees Fahrenheit (-3.9 degrees Celsius). The wind is 
  coming from the west-northwest at 6.7 mph. The ground is snowy and it is 
  snowing. Skies are overcast with a definite chance of precipitation.
Currently the moon is in the waning Crescent Moon phase (23% full).

[The Rialto -- Auditorium]

Arlen's sitting, reading a book, leaned against a wall.

The alley door opens, emitting Salem and a blast of cold winter air. The Ronin 
  lets it bang shut behind him as he stalks into the old theatre, brushing 
  snow from his shoulders.

Arlen glances up from her book, frowning slightly. She's evidently trying to 
  place where she's seen the man before.

Salem is halfway toward a couple of the remaining theatre chairs - two of 
  them, facing each other, and with an old, cigarette-ash-stained beer can on 
  the floor nearby - when he notices Arlen and stops short.

[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.

Arlen squints at the man, and then something clicks. "Oh, you're 'tall, dark, 
  and deadly,'" she says, obviously quoting someone. "What happened to you 
  last night, anyway, seemed like you fell in and drowned."

"I had an appointment elsewhere," he says, tones sharp and clipped. Salem 
  reaches the two old chairs, dropping into one and propping his feet up on 
  the other.

Arlen sticks a bookmark in the book, and puts it down. "Yes? And you left 
  through the window? Fascinating way of going about things, I must say."

Salem gives the Black Fury a sour grimace and then busies himself with opening 
  his coat so he can get to the pack of cigarettes and the cheap lighter 
  stowed within.

Arlen picks the book up, but continues studying the man for a time, silently.

Salem shakes out the cigarette, sets it in his mouth, and lights it in a 
  series of sharp, habitual gestures, his dark eyes fixed on something several 
  feet to Arlen's left.

Arlen looks at him for another moment, and then goes back to her book.

Salem sits in dour silence, the air near him soon tainted with grayish 
  second-hand cigarette smoke.

Arlen keeps reading, silently.

Salem's free hand rests along the armrest of his chair. Absently, tensely, he 
  starts picking at the worn, ragged plush.

Arlen, for the moment, keeps reading.

Salem continues to smoke, using his free hand to slowly aggravate a tiny tear 
  in the cloth covering the armrest. Time passes. Tension grows thick. Well, 
  on his end, anyway.

Arlen, apparenlty at the end of a chapter, puts the mark back in and looks up. 
  "So, why not just exit normally?"

Salem's gaze snaps back to Arlen. He stares at her for a moment, his face 
  tight. He doesn't seem to have an answer for that question.

Arlen puts the book down. "I mean, if you're avoiding someone, it just causes 
  more angst later. You worry about it, they worry about it, when you see each 
  other again, the tension's so thick you can cut it with a knife. If you're 
  not, it's still a damn uncomfortable way to leave a building."

"That little bitch doesn't have the fucking brains to know how to worry." The 
  words snap out of Salem, unbidden.

Arlen picks the book up again. "I would presume," she says, quite calmly, 
  "That you mean Sally. The kin."

Salem scowls, inhaling another lungful of pollution from the cigarette. He 
  grunts an affirmation.

Arlen notes, "Personally, I don't consider crawling out a window to avoid 
  someone the brightest thing on earth, either."

"Oh, piss off," says Salem, turning his glare back to a discolored spot on the 
  floor. Anger and other, less definable, emotions show in the set of his 
  face, willpower wound tight around them.

Arlen takes an apple out of her pocket, and bites into it, chewing intently. 
  "No," she says, tone darkening slightly. "I still have to ask you not to hit 
  women who don't have any training for it."

Salem goes very, very still, the muscles in his jaw tensing as his teeth 
  clench. Very carefully, very smoothly, he lowers the cigarette in his hand 
  and taps ash into the beercan on the floor. When he speaks, his voice is 
  controlled as though by sheer force of will, and his eyes remain fixed on 
  that discolored spot. "It was an accident. And it will not happen again, 
  because I don't plan on seeing her again if I can help it."

Arlen doesn't seem to watch him too carefully, but her own muscles tense 
  slightly in response to him. "Good. If you distrust your control, then 
  perhaps that is best."

Salem grunts, bringing the cigarette back to his lips and inhaling deeply; the 
  motion seems to bring back some small measure of calm.

Arlen, however, remains alert. "I don't, by the way, believe I know your 
  name," she says, a modicum of calm layered over her voice.

The Ronin lets out a breath of smoke. "Salem. Jack Salem."

Arlen nods. "Arlen Kosmopoulos. Theurge of the Furies."

"Ahroun," says Salem. His expression has turned stony, revealing little beyond 
  that tight, tight control.

"Yes, and Ronin. I know all that sort of nonsense." She puts the book down. 
  "And as long as you... don't live up to the name, so to speak, I don't give 
  a shit. I judge by current actions."

Salem glances at Arlen, eyes narrowing in a frown as he catches only part of 
  her meaning. But at least it's the important part. "Mmf," he grunts. "Thank 
  you."

Arlen inclines her head. "Welcome."

Salem makes a noncommittal sound of acknowledgement and shifts his eyes away 
  again, taking another drag on his cigarette.

Arlen, after a moment, says, "If I were to ask a question about what happened 
  between you two, would that interfere with your self control?"

Salem's eyes move back to the Fury, narrowing again. His agitation seems to 
  have receded for the momen, but the Ronin has his wind up, wary of traps. 
  "Ask."

Arlen begins, steepling her fingers together, "It takes, apparently, 
  considerable effort to get you to lose yourself. Am I correct?"

Salem's eyebrows lift, slightly incredulous. "Effort?" He scowls, sinks 
  further into the chair like an old despot on a decayed throne. "Not really. 
  And the little bitch seems to like trying to push my goddamned buttons."

Arlen explains, "I said that because I have yet to hear of you disturbing the 
  peace. And I probably would hear, if only because of my pack. However, 
  accepting the fact that you do, then, explode more frequently than I had 
  thought, what, precisely, did she do in that case? I wish," she says, in the 
  same slightly clinical, slightly tense tone, "To be able to make an informed 
  judgement."

As Arlen speaks, Salem finishes the cigarette and drops the stub into the beer 
  can. Pinching lightly at the bridge of his nose, he replies, tersely, "I 
  don't remember what she said exactly. I told you, she likes to play games 
  and push buttons." He pauses, hand coming away from his face as his gaze 
  turns to her, sharp, brow furrowed. "Judgement?"

"I'll take your word on that." Her voice contains no censure to it, as she 
  explains, "My only impression of her has been that she is rather too focused 
  on parties and rather too little focused on studying." Apparently 
  remembering her apple again, she takes a bite, and says, "Of course. 
  Everyone judges everything anyone else says. If one lacks an opinion on 
  something, one has lost... intelligence. I will, of course, talk to her as 
  well, but I would suspect I am... going to lack evidence from both parties." 
  She pauses. "I used to be a scientist. It sometimes colors my speech. Pardon 
  me."

Salem makes a small 'hm' sound of vague agreement or acknowledgement, folding 
  his arms across his chest as he sinks further into the chair. A few strands 
  of long black hair slide forward, partially obscuring the right side of his 
  face.

After leaning back and looking up, sighing, she looks back over to the Ronin 
  and asks, "So, you don't even remember exactly why you hit her?" Arlen's 
  voice is not precisely disbelieving - there's merely a lot of curiosity 
  there.

Salem hesitates a breath before answering with a flat, "No."

Arlen's expression turns wry. "You'll pardon me if I don't quite believe you. 
  I'd rather you just said 'none of your business', rather than this sort of 
  thing. Tends to degrade relationships."

Salem's expression sours considerably. "Then it's none of your business."

Arlen says, crossing her legs, "That's fine." Voice tinged with very slight 
  anger, she adds, "You see, if you lie to me the first time I meet you, why 
  on Gaia's green earth would I believe anything you say? And while I may not 
  be an alpha of any pack, there are still times that I will need information, 
  or to know someone's capabilities."

Salem bristles, but holds his tongue, biting off poisonous words before they 
  can hit the air and turn it to tigers.

Arlen snorts, watching him. "You make your own prisons."

Salem says nothing, his eyes averted from the Fury, though his clenched jaw 
  betrays a rage of violent possibilities, hands gripping the armrests.

Arlen looks up at the ceiling again, sighing.

Salem remains in bitter, angry silence. After a few moments, the cigarettes 
  make another appearance from the depths of his coat, and he lights up.

Arlen finishes off her apple, the crunching making very slight echoes in the 
  building.

Salem smokes grimly, slouched well down into the old theatre chair, gray smoke 
  curling up from the lit cancer stick and hanging in the air.

Arlen soon asks, conversationally, "So, why'd you decide to lie, rather than 
  just telling be to butt out?"

"It's usually impolitic to tell one's betters to 'butt out,'" Salem replies 
  with a cynical lack of humor.

"Probably," Arlen says, sighing. Rising to her feet, she says, "I'd rather 
  have... difficult to handle truths over... spoonfed pablum, however. I'd 
  expand on that, but I have to... go do useful things."

Salem grunts. "Don't let me keep you, then."

Arlen flashes him a humorless grin. "Indeed not," she murmurs, and pushes out 
  the alley door in one smooth motion.
Arlen leaves through the exit door into the alley.
Arlen has left.