Truce

[hazlogs]

[1/29/98] [Later]

Currently on this breezy and cold winter twilight in the general St. Claire 
  area, it is 26 degrees Fahrenheit (-3.3 degrees Celsius). The wind is coming 
  from the northeast at 7.7 mph. The ground is snowy. Skies are cloudy with no 
  chance of precipitation.

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.

Salem watches Scott go, and despite himself, his gaze moves toward Sally and 
  settles there.

The blonde's head starts moving in time to her foot's tappping. She picks up 
  the words next, though not loud enough for her singing to carry to the 
  Ronin. An old man entering the park from the street gains only a quick look 
  from Sally, and does not disrupt her song.

Salem jerks his eyes away from Sally, moves a few steps toward an empty bench, 
  and drops down into it as though suddenly tired and depressed.

Sally MacKay did not seem to notice Salem's look, and for all she reacts to 
  his change of position she would appear not to have seen that, either. She 
  must have increased her volume at least a bit, for the words start to become 
  clearer, "...nothing to do, nowhere to go, oh! I wanna be sedated..."

Salem folds his arms across his chest and slouches lower in the bench, sinking 
  deeper into self-absorbed gloom.

"...get me in a-" Sally's singing abruptly stops, as does her rap-tap-tapping 
  as she spots a slender male. Sitting up, she follows him with her eyes until 
  he steps into a pool of light and his features come into view. Leaning 
  forward again, she picks the song back up, "...hurry, hurry, hurry before I 
  go insane..."

Salem's head sinks forward until his chin almost touches his chest, lank black 
  hair falling forward over his face.

"I can't control my fingers, I can't control my brain," Sally's words carry 
  clearer and clearer to the Ronin, and to the park in general, as she gets 
  into the song. She attracts a look or two, not all of them of idle interest.

Salem determinedly ignores - or seems to ignore - the self-styled blonde diva. 
  To all appearances, he seems to have dozed off on the bench.

Sally MacKay comes to the end of the song, "Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh!" winding 
  down as it closes. That sorry excues for entertainment over, she takes 
  another look around, this time not ignoring Salem's direction. She shifts a 
  little on the bench's back, looking at him, her head tilted just a touch off 
  center.

Salem shifts his shoulders against the back of the bench slightly, long legs 
  stretched out in front of him. He definitely looks like he's napping, 
  though, despite the winter chill.

Sally MacKay takes advantage of this chance to study him, to puzzle over him; 
  her forehead wrinkles as of she was just presented with some advanced math 
  equation to solve.

A late-night jogger, male, passes between the two, giving Sally an curious 
  glance.

Sally MacKay's only reaction to the jogger's look is to lean one way, then the 
  other, minimizing the amount of time her line-of-sight is broken.

The jogger seems to shrug and then continues onward passing out of sight. 
  Salem hardly moves from his slouched, dozing position on the bench.

Sally MacKay frowns, the math problem remains unsolved. She looks away, then 
  back. Hopping up off her seat, she walks slowly towards his.

Salem hardly stirs as the kinswoman approaches his bench; perhaps he truly 
  _has_ dozed off, though that seems improbable.

Once she reaches his bench, she sits on the furthest edge of it and resumes 
  her leaned forward, elbows on knees, position. She has to look back towards 
  him to see his face as she says quietly, "No one's ever actually told me, 
  but I'm sure they'd just /line up/ to if I did try it: it's dangerous to 
  sleep out here."

Salem answers without opening his eyes, in fact without moving more than is 
  absolutely necessary. "For you, it would be," he rasps.

The bench creaks as she faces forward. She shrugs her answer, unmindful of his 
  closed eyes. Lifting her eyes to the cloudy sky, her tone changes not in the 
  least as she asks, "What's the moon doing? I mean, what phase is it? Can you 
  tell without seeing it?"

"It's still new," the Ronin mutters, hoarse sandpaper voice whispering past a 
  dry throat. "But waxing. Getting bigger."

"Oh," Sally's tone is as one would use on someone just drifting off to sleep. 
  She falls quiet, giving him ample time to fall back to sleep, had that been 
  his real intent.

Salem is silent so long that she might well think he's dozed off, but then he 
  speaks up again, "You're damned stubborn, Mustang Sally." The statement is 
  delivered in a neutral tone.

Sally MacKay's chuckle is as soft as her words had been and continue to be. "I 
  am," she sounds like she's fully taking that as a complement. "But I'll make 
  you a deal."

Salem opens one eye, the one closest to Sally, and peers at her. The eye is 
  bloodshot, shadowed with insomnia bruises underneath. "What?"

Sally MacKay speaks without looking at backwards him, "I pick up a paper when 
  I remember it, but sometimes I forget. You tell me when the full moon gets 
  here and I'll be elsewhere then."

Salem closes his eye and shakes his head slightly. "I'm dangerous long before 
  then. Once the moon gets past half, I'm dangerous."

"Then I'll be careful then," the stubborness he noted becomes evident in her 
  voice. "I know about you guys, I know what to do," Sally sounds sure of 
  herself, at least.

Salem frowns, then opens his eyes and sits up, turning toward her, expression 
  intent. "No games, then, Sally. Not when I'm clearly feeling... irate. When 
  I say that I'm angry, you _must_ back down. For your own safety, and... for 
  mine, in a way."

Still the blonde does not look back at him, her gaze instead resting on the 
  patch of ground between her feet. She's quite uncharacteristically quiet, 
  serious, almost thoughtful; she seems to be taking this seriously, at 
  least. Her answer to the first part isn't really one: she shrugs. Glancing 
  back at him, she questions the second, "Yours?"

Salem's lips twist into a bitter, humorless smile. "If I killed you in a fit 
  of rage, or even injured you, my life wouldn't be worth shit."

Sally MacKay faces forward again, taking her eyes well out of the range of his 
  gaze. "I told 'em to just let you be," a hint of a stronger tone weaves its 
  way into her voice.

"Sally..." Salem's tone shifts a bit toward frustrated as he sits up. "You 
  know that won't do any bloody good. It doesn't matter what you say to them. 
  If I hurt you, I'd pay the price, and it'd be a damned high one."

Sally MacKay's tightened shoulders and the sharper angle of her neck echo the 
  tone that was starting to make itself known in her voice. "They should 
  listen. They /never/ listen," she says both sentences in the same breath, 
  and a frustrated one at that.

Salem pinches the bridge of his nose, lightly, eyes squeezing closed. 
  "Nevermind," he mutters, and then says, "Sally. All I need from you is a 
  promise. A vow that when I tell you to back down, you'll back down. Forget 
  _them_ for a moment. Will you make that promise to me?"

Maybe some other night Sally might have laughed and readily agreed, she might 
  have waved off his worries, nodded, and danced off to get them another round 
  of drinks. Tonight, though, that Sally seems as far away and as not a part 
  of her as Salem's inner beast; that is to say it's close at hand and it's 
  not only an aspect of her, it's part of what makes her Sally. Like his, 
  though, it's contained enough to allow rational interaction between the two. 
  She considers.

Salem leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, head slightly tilted to 
  regard her with empty, solemn, unsmiling eyes. He waits.

Sally MacKay is unsettled as she offers her answer. "I'll try." Though him 
  leaning forward would enable them easy eye contact, the kinswoman does not 
  turn her head towards him to establish it.

Salem lets out a breath and sits back again. "Good." His voice is quiet.

His acceptance brings a a smile and enough of a head tilt to allow their gazes 
  to meet. "Cool. So, like, you want to go get a drink, or something?" Sally 
  asks of the Ronin sitting on the bench with her.

Pete Barlow walks up from the meadow, pulling a cigarette out of a crumpled 
  pack that he slides back into his pocket. He stops to light it, turning to 
  sweep the fountain area with a gaze as he savors the first drag.

Salem laces his fingers together and stretches his arms before him, grimacing. 
  "Not tonight, Mustang. I feel like three different kinds of hell tonight." 
  Relaxing out of the stretch, he notices Pete, belatedly.

Pete Barlow spots Salem and the bruised girl, walking toward them. He stops 
  near the bench. "So how do you two know each other?"

The kinswoman shrugs and nods at the same time, drawing one bended knee up 
  onto the bench, half-turning to face him as she folds an arm across the 
  seat's back. "What's wrong? Getting sick?" She looks over as the big Gnawer 
  arrives, giving him a nod and a 'hey', but no answer.

Salem sits up, arms folding across his chest. The Ronin seems tired tonight, 
  as from poor sleep. His eyes flick from Barlow to Sally and back again; he 
  seems to focus especially on Barlow's cigarette. "We're... acquaintences."

Pete Barlow gives a nod to Salem, looking over at the girl again. The Gnawer 
  just watches her for a moment and then looks over at Salem, handing him the 
  crumpled nearly empty pack of smokes. "You look like you need these." Pete 
  smiles and starts back toward the city proper.

Salem grunts his thanks, giving the Bone Gnawer a nod before he shakes one out 
  and lights up.

Sally MacKay lets Salem answer, then nods her agreement. She makes a little 
  half-wave as Pete heads off, but the Gnawer's back is already turned.

Pete Barlow makes his way onto the street in the west.
Pete Barlow has left.

Sally MacKay repears her question from before Pete arrived, "You getting sick? 
  Catching a cold?" Noting his bare hands, she notes helpfully, "You need 
  gloves."

Salem shakes his head slightly, eyes closed as he inhales gratefully on the 
  cancer stick. Mmm, nicotine. "Just tired."

"So you really do stay in that theater place? That guy," Sally nods after the 
  departing Gnawer, "was just trying to throw me off, huh?"

Salem glances at her, eyebrows lifting. "Hmm? ...Yes, yes I do, actually. Why?"

Sally MacKay shrugs and settles down into the bench as if it was the most 
  comfortable seat in the world. "Just curious." She looks to the exit Pete 
  used and asks without looking back yet, "Is he like you, or me? Or neither?"

Salem grins crookedly, his eyes half-lidded as he sits back against the bench. 
  "Like me, but don't tell him I told you, hm?"

Sally MacKay moves her fingers across her smiling lips in a zipping motion. 
  "Won't say a word." She reaches towards him to lightly nudge his arm with 
  her hand, "Hey, if you don't want to drink, want to at least get somewhere 
  warm? Grab some coffee?"

Salem considers, then pushes to his feet. "Very well."