Uninvited

[hazlogs]

It is currently 14:36 Pacific Time on Mon Mar 2 1998.
Currently the moon is in the waxing Crescent Moon phase (29% full).

The Rialto -- Auditorium(#3319RJ)
        The roar of the crowd. The smell of greasepaint. "Now is the winter of 
  our discontent..." An old, darkly nostalgic quality hangs heavy in the air 
  of this empty old theater. Once black-painted windows no longer refuse the 
  light of sun and moon, now broken and open to the city sky.
        Largely gutted now, this once gilded and opulent theater spreads like 
  an old grand dame holding desperately to a past now gone and largely 
  forgotten. The plush seats which once held nearly a thousand people are, for 
  the most part, long gone. Time's indifferent hand has dulled the once ornate 
  proscenium arch and faded the velvet red of the main curtain, leaving the 
  wide stage in dark shadows before the gaping and toothless mouth of the 
  music pit.
        At the right side of the stage, from the auditorium floor, a door 
  leads toward the back of the theater. To the left of the stage, an old exit 
  sign still glows above a reinforced door. In the back of the auditorium, 
  archways lead back to the lobby and the boarded up front doors.

Currently on this highly windy and cool winter afternoon in the general St. 
  Claire area, it is 50 degrees Fahrenheit (10.0 degrees Celsius). The wind is 
  coming from the south-southwest at 38.8 mph. The ground is wet. Skies are 
  cloudy with a small chance of precipitation.

Salem enters the old theatre without knocking, even though he hasn't been 
  around much at the Rialto for the past several days.

Pete Barlow sits in usual spot in the sun, reading.

"Mr. Barlow." Salem heads for the big Gnawer, his manner brisk. "Need to talk 
  to you about this hospital outing."

Pete Barlow seems to already have the book closed around his thumb before 
  looking over at the doorway and the man there. Barlow doesn't stand but 
  nods, his expression tired, dark bags under his eyes. "You want in?"

Salem pauses, frowning slightly. "I thought you'd already decided that I was 
  to be 'in'," the Ronin replies, somewhat warily.

Pete Barlow's brows arch slightly before Pete shakes his head. "You ain't in 
  the Sept, Jack. It's a Revel assault, not a weekend rip. Sept folks only."

"Then why the hell--" Salem cuts himself off, pinching the bridge of his nose 
  as he reins in his temper. "No, nevermind. Answer me this." His hand drops 
  and folds itself into his coat pocket. "Is the attack going to be in the 
  real world, or on the /other/ side?"

The big Gnawer studies the ronin silent for a few moments. "Why you askin'?"

"The Glass Walkers want some concrete evidence of my worth." Salem folds his 
  arms across his chest, unsmiling. "Helping clear out the shit at the 
  hospital might do the job, but whether I want to try that depends a great 
  deal on where the fight is going to be. Here, on the other side?"

Pete Barlow's smile, in contrast to the Ronin's expression, seems to be 
  growing. "Mostly in the Flip but there's gonna be some distraction over on 
  this side. At the least anyway."

Salem grunts. "I won't fight 'in the Flip,' as you call it. Particularly not 
  anywhere close to the full moon."

"And you're a gawddamned risk on this Side," says Barlow, his smile fading now 
  to a stony, grimy flatness.

Salem shrugs a shoulder, his features set into a grim tightness. "Then I 
  suppose I'll have to think of something else," he replies, courteous but 
  just as flat. "Sorry to waste your time." He turns to go.

Pete gives a slight shrug as he reads Salem's response. "Sorry, Jack. No waste 
  of my time. I still want to use your smarts on this job."

"We'll see," the Ronin replies, and then heads out.