The Final Word

[hazlogs]

[3/29/98]

Pool Hall(#3490RJ)
Pool tables dominate the space of the hall, hardly yielding any space for the 
  motley crew of players chalking their sticks and eying the brandy bottle at 
  the bar lining one wall. The dust and scratches on all surfaces save the 
  green velvet lining the pool tables indicate this hall as skimping on 
  maintenance and cheap on cleaners. Its lack of flashy videogames and surplus 
  of toothless kibitzers underscores its appeal to the older crowd. No natural 
  sunlight is permitted into the hall, its lighting provided by bulbs swinging 
  from the ceiling.
A recent 'renovation' to the hall has caused many splinters and embdeed bullet 
  holes, adding much to the aged atmosphere. Ruddish stains, dark and ominous 
  even under the lights, refuse to be washed out of the floor. A dart board 
  brightens up the walls with its red-and-black scheme, and a moosehead looks 
  down on the proceedings.
Mounted from the ceiling, a television blares its glaring brightness and 
  noises.
A set of double doors, one locked, the other unlocked at the whims of the hall 
  manager, lead out to the street. Unobstructive doors behind the bar 
  undoubtedly lead to storerooms.

Paddy picks up his cue again and steps over to the table, casting a quick 
  glance to where Sally is leaning against the other table. He twirls the cue 
  for a second, then lines up a shot quickly and sinks it, leaving himself 
  with only one more ball to send down. However, he has absolutely no angle on 
  it at the moment, so he takes a half-assed stab and tries to put Sally into 
  a bad position for her next shot.

Morgan throws open the door to the bar, and walks inside all full of piss and 
  vinegar. She scans the room for a split second and then strides towards the 
  bar, trying to get the bartenders attention.

The pool hall is still pretty empty, even though it's already getting later in 
  the afternoon. An old man plays alone at one of the tables near the back, 
  and a pair of men play two tables away from him. Sally and Paddy are the 
  only ones near the front of the room, they're at the table closest to the 
  (currently empty) bar. The blonde bartender chuckles at the miss, then rises 
  from the table as Morgan comes in. "Hey there," she starts to call as she 
  leans her cue to one side, then takes a second look at the Fury and slowly 
  heads back to her post.

Salem enters some several minutes after Morgan, his mood -- in contrast to 
  hers -- apparently quite good. He bears no signs from the brawl last night 
  in the park, and the brisk motion of his step is full of confidence.

Morgan frowns at Sally's bubbliness. "I'm looking for someone..." she begins. 
  "I think you know who I mean," she adds.

Paddy looks up from the game as Morgan comes in and Sally leaves the table, 
  and he leans back against it, crossing his arms and smiling. Then Salem 
  comes in, and Paddy's bright green eyes go absolutely flat.

Sally MacKay's bubbliness seems to be fading fast, and the Ronin's arrival 
  finishes it off. Her eyes tick from him back to Morgan, then she shakes her 
  head. "Who?"

Morgan executes a slow spin to see who just came in the door. "Him," she says, 
  controlling her temper. "Outside," she says to the tribeless Ronin, making a 
  gesture.

Sally nods, not looking unhappy in the least that Morgan's taking Salem 
  elsewhere. "Glad I could help," she says under her breath. Paddy gets a 
  glance, but she doesn't return to their game just yet.

Salem lifts his eyebrows, lips curving into a faint, arrogant smirk. He steps 
  aside from the door, sketching a slight bow and making a vague 'after you' 
  gesture for Morgan. Everything is perfectly respectful in form, but with 
  just a faint undertone of mocking that the irritable might pick up.

Morgan tries to grab for Salem's ear, and twist it around painfully, when he 
  bows and drag him outside behind her tugging on his ear.

Paddy takes up his pool cue, spinning it now like a quarterstaff, as opposed 
  to the parade rifle-style of some of the earlier spins. His eyes are 
  downright cold, and the planes of his face show absolutely no expression, 
  whatsoever.

Salem's good mood vanishes. With a spitting curse in Serbian, the Ronin brings 
  his hand up in a cuff at Morgan.

Long distance to Morgan: Salem flips on The Falling Touch.

From behind the bar, Sally's head lifts high as she watches. She mutters 
  something as she takes a pair of steps to the left, her hands out of sight.

Morgan blocks Salem's cuff easily, but she still falls to the ground. It only 
  seems to make her even more enraged. "Outside," she repeats again, as he 
  gets to her feet deftly.

Salem straightens up with a toss of his head, the dark eyes narrowed and 
  dangerously angry, even for the dark moon. Upper lip curled into an ugly 
  sneer, the Ahroun turns his back on the Theurge and stalks outside.

You step through the front doors to the street.
Regan Avenue, Downtown
Tenements, small businesses, and tiny restaurants line the street. Heavy metal 
  bars encase the glass fronts of the stores. Battered cars, almost falling 
  apart with rust, are parked haphazardly here and there along the sidewalks. 
  People travel in groups, here, wary of the small gangs of young boys at 
  street corners. Several blocks have the same dull repetitiveness, from Fifth 
  Street all the way to Twelfth. Only the graffiti marks a difference between 
  the blocks, the occasional rudeness sometimes broken up by light colors and 
  strange designs.
Obvious exits:
Pool Hall  South  North  East  West  

Morgan steps out of a pool hall.
Morgan has arrived.
Morgan dusts off her jeans, as she makes out the door. "Next time you call me 
  a cunt, Salem, we're not going to be using fists. Understand?"

Salem stands outside, fishing out a cigarette. His eyebrows lift slightly as 
  he regards her, coldly. "You are not a cunt," he agrees, his voice stone. 
  "And I am not a 'project.'" He lights the cigarette, a small muscle 
  twitching near the scar by his eye.

Morgan shakes her head. "No, but you are an asshole. And a big one at that." 
  The Fury seems to have said her piece and turns north.

Salem's jaw tightens. "As they say, Morgan, 'it takes one to know one.'" He 
  brings the cigarette to his lips and inhales deeply.

Morgan heads northwards, towards Elson Street.
Morgan has left.