Laying down the Law

[hazlogs]

[2/9/98]

Currently the moon is in the waxing Full Moon phase (86% full).

Industrial Wharves: Abandoned Warehouse(#3937RJ$)
This is an old delapidated warehouse by the industrial wharves, near the edge 
  of Riverfront Drive and Bridge Street. It's dark and mostly empty -- what 
  litle there is, mostly consisting of empty crates and containers, old wooden 
  pallets, and miscellaneous garbage. There are some holes in the wall -- some 
  small enough for a large dog or wolf to fit through -- though the main door 
  is securely padlocked.

After a long, cold night of unquiet unconsciousness, breath coming rattling 
  through broken nose and clotted blood, Salem finally begins to stir with an 
  incoherent mumble.

Morgan moves around restlessly, occasionally peering at the battered ronin who 
  has been wrapped with some chains. Upon hearing him move, the Fury elder 
  strides over toward him, her anger bleeding off her like heat from a 
  radiator.

The chains rattle as Salem, still only half-aware, begins struggling to get 
  free, still muttering in thick, gutteral tones. His hair, lank and tangled 
  with dried blood, hangs down in his lowered, battered face.

Morgan's impatience gets the better of her, and she gives Salem a kick. "Get 
  up, dammit. I'm sick of baby-sitting you."

Morgan pages: You can assume, by now, Morgan's gone through all your stuff.
Morgan pages: And that you've been scented for taint and stuff.

Salem's response is a feral snarl, split lips peeling away from broken teeth 
  as he swings his face toward the Fury. Behind the strings of clotted black 
  hair, the dark eyes are wild, glinting gold. Then comprehension snaps across 
  his face, nightmare dissolving back through the here and now, and he slumps 
  back with a muffled, "Fuck."

You paged Morgan with 'Okay, lemme give you the lowdown, then:'.
You paged Morgan with 'Objects on the bed, that Arlen found: A maroon case, 
  like the kind fancy pens come in, but bigger. Contents: one syringe. 
  Lighter, bent spoon (slightly burned), plus a few plastic bags of 
  brownish-white powder. Heroin, if Morgan has the streetwise to recognize it. 
  If you go through the pockets of the duster, it's mostly ordinary stuff - 
  cigarettes, assorted coins, a few odd keys, a Bosnian coin, things like 
  that. Plus a small bottle of sleeping pills, opened but mostly full still. 
  Um, what else. Pencil, a razor. Oh, yeah, and he's tainted. I mean, not 
  Nexus-Crawler/Black Spiral Dancer level, but definitely tainted. Lemme know 
  if Morgan decides to check the Umbra at all. Oh, and once it gets good 
  light, you might notice something odd on his chest, like a mark. You'd have 
  an opportunity to examine it while he was unconscious if so.'.
You paged Morgan with 'It looks like a hand, more than anything else. 
  Crinos-sized, more or less, but with seven fingers. The really weird thing 
  is that it's not a scar, tattoo, or a brand. It's a handprint... like the 
  flesh was clay and someone put there hand down and pressed lightly.'.

Morgan gives the Ronin sometime to situate himself upright. "For starters, why 
  don't we make things perfectly clear. You *ever* do what you did last night 
  again, while you're still in St. Claire, and you're dead. Period. We'll dump 
  your body in the river, and no one will give a shit. Got it?"

Salem lowers his head again, breathing heacily through his mouth and letting 
  the hair hang lank in his face. In slurred -- due to the ruin of nose and 
  mouth -- and bitter tones, he echoes, "Got it."

"Good," she says, her glabro voice low and husky. "I seriously don't fucking 
  appreciate the way you lit off last night without telling anyone about it. 
  You're a goddamn time bomb, Salem, and I don't want it ticking out of my 
  sight." She turns back to the Ronin. "You have any reasons why I shouldn't 
  kick your ass out of this city right now?"

Salem works his tongue around the inside of his mouth, then turns his head to 
  spit out a broken tooth. "Thought I wa' doing you a favor." He speaks 
  slowly, eyes squeezing half-shut. "Barlow said. Un'er pressure to ge' me out 
  of the city anyway." He pauses briefly, then continues. "Planned to come 
  back after full."

Morgan shakes her head slowly, and lets out an exasperated sigh. "Those aren't 
  reasons. Those are excuses." She takes some steps over toward a rusted out 
  55 gallon drum. On it are several of Salem's personal items. She holds up 
  the little leather case. "You're a sick fucking man, Salem." Those words are 
  softer, slightly more sympathy creeps into her voice. "Before I cut you 
  loose, I figure I owe it to Gaia to patch you up and make you whole again. 
  Then whatever happens to you happens. You stink of the Wyrm, and you... 
  you're walking a dark road."

Salem's eyes track the Fury, and there's no surprise in his face when she 
  holds up the case, though his face twists slightly as the dull rage of 
  humiliation starts to pound behind his temples. He shifts his eyes away, but 
  then stiffens as Morgan mentions the W-word and looks up again, dark eyes 
  sharpening in anger. "I stink of _what_?"

Morgan forcefully makes her way back to the tribeless Garou, flinging the case 
  into his lap with a snap of her wrist. "You hold that shit in, Salem. I 
  swear, you give me any 'tude and I'll kick your balls inside your body." She 
  exhales another breath. "You're falling away from Gaia, Salem. The Wyrm is 
  claiming you. You carry it's stink."

Salem bares his teeth -- well, what's left of them at the moment -- and 
  squeezes his eyes shut. His breath, harsh and rasping, echoes through the 
  empty warehouse. "Bullshit," he mutters in automatic, stubborn defiance, 
  head lowered. Behind him, his bound hands, covered in blood, clench into 
  fists. "Bullshit!"

Morgan drops into a crouch, near the Ronin; she's within easy striking 
  distance, and she glares at his broken bloodied face. "Shut the fuck up," 
  she growls, irritated. "You think I'm just lying to you? I don't fucking lie 
  about shit that serious, Salem. Get yourself a grip." Her hand drops into a 
  three point stance, as she crouches. "I've got plans for you, buddy-boy. I'm 
  not surrendering you, unless you fuck up again. And even then, you'll be 
  dead -- but still Gaia's, even if only marginally."

Arlen lets out a small whistle as she comes prowling in, Salem's duster in 
  hand.

"Dammit." The clotted word spits out of the Ronin, along with a mixture of 
  saliva and blood that oozes over his lower lip. His breathing's clotted, 
  too, whistling and rasping through opened mouth and smashed nose. "Dammit, 
  dammit, dammit." The oaths aren't directed at Morgan, or -- it seems -- at 
  anything in particular.

Arlen crouches down near Morgan, and looks from her to Salem and back again.

Morgan stands up, frowning as she glances toward Arlen, her eyes a fierce and 
  glowing blue. She gives her packmate a nod. "First, you can call this place 
  your home for the time being. You're not going to see anyone except for Edge 
  until you're Cleansed, off these shit ass drugs, and acting like you can 
  control your Rage." She stalks back over toward the barrel. "And after that, 
  you're going to go, hat in hand, and find a goddamn tribe to be responsible 
  for your sorry ass. I'm sick of being your mother, and your defender. If 
  you've got a scrap of pride, or a scrap of honor left, Salem, you're going 
  to come around."

Salem nods wordlessly at this, perhaps knowing full well that he doesn't 
  really have a choice. Humiliation and bitter anger cover him like a cloud of 
  stale cigarette smoke.

Pete Barlow slips in rather conspiratorily through a side entrance, big 
  shoulders wedging for just a moment in the passage. He stops to get his 
  bearings.

Morgan whirls around, her face almost a livid mask. "First rule. Get over 
  yourself. Bad shit happened to you, bad shit will probably happen again. You 
  need to find a better way to get rid of your anger than brooding. You hold 
  it inside and it makes you a magnet for more bad shit." She shakes her head. 
  "And you've got to lose the paranoid bullshit. You better learn to trust 
  someone, Salem, or this is going to end badly for you."

Pete Barlow says nothing as he walks toward his packmates and the receiving 
  end of his fists. Barlow slides his hands into the pockets of his coat as he 
  stops beside Arlen.

Salem grunts an acknowledgement. His eyes shift toward Barlow, then to Arlen, 
  then back to Morgan. Behind his back, his blood-covered hands remain 
  clenched into fists, fingernails digging into his palms.

Morgan calms down, her venting seemingly making her more like her normal self. 
  She steps back to the Ronin and starts to unwrap the chains around his arms. 
  "Shift," she says. "Let's start your healing."

Arlen looks up at Pete, and gives him a faint smile. Looking back down, her 
  eyes soften slightly as Morgan starts unwrapping the chains.

Pete Barlow pulls a crumpled, though filled, paperbag from one of the 
  deep--oddly so--pockets of his coat, the scent of warm McDonald's wafting up 
  and out from the bag. He tosses it over toward the chain-wrapped Ronin. 
  "Hope you like bacon. Got 'em with coupons."

Salem flexes his fingers, then brings his arms forward. Slowly, even warily, 
  the Ronin shifts into the hulking near-man form, one hand lifting toward his 
  broken nose. With a grimace and a fleshy popping sound, Salem pushes things 
  back into place and holds it there while flesh and cartilege knit back 
  together. One gets the feeling he's done this several times before.

Morgan finally notices Pete, and she gives him a slow nod. "Hi," she says, 
  folding her arms across her chest. Clearing her throat, she walks toward 
  Arlen. "You have any more of his stuff?" she asks the other Fury. "He's 
  going to need a new shirt."

Arlen puts one hand on the ground, fingers spread, and holds up the duster 
  with the other. "Just this. Could go check back at the Rialto for more, 
  though."

"What else does he need?" asks Barlow as he watches Salem carefully.

Healing done, Salem reverts to human form, rubbing his hands off on the 
  remains of his shirt, slowly, the activity seeming more a good excuse to 
  occupy his attention more than anything else.

Pete Barlow looks over at Arlen. "You been in the costume room downstairs at 
  the Rialto?"

Salem makes no move toward the burgers Barlow has provided yet; he continues 
  to rub at the dried blood staining his hands, slowly and silently, 
  blood-clotted hair hanging in his face.

Arlen looks thoughtful for a moment, then shakes her head. "Can't say as I 
  have."

Morgan shrugs, the motion a touch strained. "He needs a shower. A bed roll, 
  some blankets, probably. We could maybe get him a little radio or battery 
  powered TV, maybe some books. He's going to be here until he's fixed up, and 
  off the junk." She exhales. "Arlen, you and I are going to do a ritual 
  cleansing for him -- he stinks of the taint."

Salem twitches visibly as Morgan mentions that word again, fingers twisting 
  the ragged flannel cloth. He grits his teeth though and bites off hateful 
  words.

Pete Barlow gives a nod to Arlen. "I'll show it to you sometime," he says 
  before nodding to Morgan. "I'll see what me and Jose can scrounge up. Have 
  you set up tonight, Jack," says Barlow with a nod toward the Ronin.

Morgan nods, giving Pete a tight grin. "Thanks. Check by here on patrol, too. 
  I told him that he's used all his chances. If he fucks up again, we're 
  tossing his corpse in the river."

Arlen's eyes widen slightly. "Wish this Gift'd stop cutting out on me. You're 
  right. We can do it in the morning, yes?" Looking back up to Pete, she nods. 
  "Does it have anything he wouldn't growl at wearing?"

Salem flicks his gaze briefly in Barlow's direction, and he gives the Gnawer a 
  tight grunt of acknowledgement.

Morgan uncrosses her arms and puts one on Arlen's shoulder, as if for support. 
  "At dawn, in the woods. No way we're going to try it here."

"Fair enough," says Barlow to Morgan's determination regarding Salem's lot. 
  The big Gnawer looks back at Arlen, though, with a smile. "Don't think Jack 
  here'd look good in doublet and hose?"

Salem steadfastedly does. Not. Say. One. Damned. Word. The coil of repressed 
  Rage about him speaks volumes, however.

Morgan snorts. "Don't make him dress like a fairy, Pete. We don't need any 
  more stares than he already gets." She gives a small throaty glabro laugh.

Arlen puts the duster down, carefully, and puts her hand on Morgan's, briefly. 
  "Amen and amen," she murmurs, and looks up at Pete, eyes twinkling. "Perhaps 
  a mitre and cape." Glancing at Salem, she adds, "Please. Take gentle humor 
  exactly the wrong way. We enjoy it so much, too."

Even Salem's self-control only goes so far. "Bitch," he spits.

Arlen just grins. "And proud of it, Bunky."

Pete Barlow's tension loosens just a notch after Arlen's reaction, though it 
  is slowly ratcheting up again being around Salem.

Salem spits out another word, this one in Serbian, and then forces himself 
  into a tense silence.

Morgan clears her throat. "That's bitch-rhya to you." She grins, wryly, at 
  Arlen. "Hey, come on," she says to her packmates, grabbing up Salem's little 
  case of heroin, "let's leave Bunky to his lunch. We'll find him a shirt and 
  stop by later."

Arlen murmurs, "Definitely have to learn that," and looks up at Pete 
  measuringly. "No sewers yet," she reports, and nods at Morgan. "Sounds like 
  a plan."

Pete Barlow looks over at the object Morgan has picked up, the little case, 
  and frowns without saying anything. "Better eat that before it gets cold, 
  Jack. Unless you like squishy bacon."
Pete Barlow pages: Two bacon cheeseburgers, biggie fries, chicken nuggets 
  with honey mustard. No drink.

Salem pushes to his feet, finally, taking up the battered black duster and 
  shrugging into it, his face set into a tight mask of anger, motions made 
  sharp with rage, teeth slightly visible between his lips.

Arlen pushes to her feet as well, nudging Morgan briefly.

Morgan edges for a side door. "We'll be back in a while."

Salem sits crosslegged on the floor of his new prison, arms folded stubbornly 
  across his chest. Eyes fixed on the middle distance, he rasps, "I'll be 
  here."