Guns and Family

[hazlogs]

It is currently 19:04 Pacific Time on Sun Mar 24 2002.

Currently the moon is in the waxing Gibbous Moon phase (74% full).

Currently in Saint Claire, it is partly sunny. The temperature is 52
degrees Fahrenheit (11 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in
from the southwest at 8 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.09 and
rising, and the relative humidity is N/A percent. The dewpoint is N/A
degrees Fahrenheit (-17 degrees Celsius.)

Location: Walker safehouse.

Salem's bootfalls are audible as the Philodox comes down the stairs.
There's a rifle case in one hand.

Rina's scowling at the floor, talking on her cellphone and taking notes on
a Palm. "Look, I'm telling you now. Keep your head down. And f'God's sake,
put the word out. I need manpower, to deal with this, I'm /not/ gonna mix
it up when I don't have any soldiers at my back.

"Right. Exactly. Tomorrow... yeah. Ciao." She lets out a sigh, and glances
to the ceiling--then leans forward to look over through the archway.

"Evening," Salem greets as he steps into the rec room. "How goes the war?"

Rina gives him a taut smile and rises, pocketing the Palm and tossing her
phone onto the couch. "I wouldn't call it war until I got an army," she
answers, with a glance to the rifle case. "Were you goin' out shooting?"
Not much of a wait before she adds, "And can I go?"

Salem smiles thinly and shakes his head. "Cleaning," he says, crossing
over toward the couch and seating himself on the floor in front of it. The
rifle case, once set down in front of him and opened, reveals a WWII-era
bolt-action rifle. A Soviet Mosin-Nagant in excellent condition.

Rina raises an eyebrow, and leans a little further forward to peer over
his shoulder. "Is that a, a... whatd'y'callit-- Moisin somethin'. Some
weirdass French name... World War II, right?"

"Mosin-Nagant," Salem corrects, starting to disassemble the weapon in
deft, practiced motions. "Used by the Soviets. Excellent weapon, though
quite common lately." He tilts his good eye up at her. "Forty dollars at
most gun shows."

"Did you remachine anything, or just clean it up and polish it?" She
studies the rifle as he breaks it down, dark eyes taking in the process as
well as the object.

"The latter." Salem handles the rifle like a prized possession. "It's
quite functional. Simply needs to be... maintained."

Rina watches him work, her shadow falling over his shoulder but not quite
getting in the way of his light. "Dad was never into old guns," she
murmurs. "I kinda like the lines, though. Simple."

The rifle case has a separate compartment for holding a gun cleaning kit,
and Salem opens this now, gun oil and cloth and ram-rod. He begins the
process of cleaning, oiling, and polishing, every step careful and
methodical. "It's a beautiful weapon, yes. And accurate. Good for sniping,
though, mmn, my aim's poor these days."

Rina leans back, a subtle tension in her posture. "Just takes practice,"
she says quietly. "You and John oughta go to the range sometime."

Salem pauses, tilting a look up at Rina. "How _is_ John, by the way?"

Rina's smile is almost a wince; she glances away, taking a nervous little
breath and letting it out, rubbing both hands along her thighs. "Hard to
tell. You know him. Things are pretty fucked right now. He seems okay, but
there's... somethin' going on."

"You mean, besides a gang war, general urban chaos, and trying to keep on
top of the tribe _and_ a potential pack?" Salem smiles a thin, wry, little
smile. Briefly -- it fades quickly. "Or did you mean something else?"

Rina's dark eyes are distant, looking off into the black screen of the TV.
"I d'no," she says quietly. "Maybe it's just stress, yeah."

Salem stops cleaning and frowns slightly at the kinswoman. "Has he been
acting strangely?"

Rina hitches a shoulder and gives Salem a look. "He's an Ahroun. He acts
strangely about five days a month," she says dryly. Then the wry smile
fades, as she glances away again; it becomes a thoughtful frown. "I dunno,
it's just... under the surface, like I said. Like the pressure's building,
and he--needs to let go, and soon. Needs to go out and kill, or he's gonna
spontaneously combust or somethin'."

Salem makes a 'hmn' noise and returns to cleaning, carefully oiling the
bolt mechanism. "That's common, alas." The Rageful Philodox himself has
been on edge these days, though the act of cleaning the rifle seems to
have a calming effect.

Rina's mouth twists a little. "Yeah. Hazards of living with a full moon,"
she mutters. Letting out a breath, she leans both elbows on her knees.
"Maybe it's just remembering stuff," she says quietly. "Or dealing with
this crap that's going on." The dark eyes glance over to Salem. "He...
isn't quite right in the head, y'know," she admits reluctantly. Then, with
a trace of humor, she adds, "Not that I should throw stones."

Salem isn't, perhaps, one to judge either, not that he'd admit it. With a
thoughtful 'hm' he focusses his attention on the rifle. "I'm sure he'll be
fine once things settle down a bit."

Rina swallows. With more than a little nervousness, she glances over to
him. "You-- you help a lot, you know. You and Frankie. Y'oughta drag him
out sometime. Go break some heads when the moon's new, or somethin'."

Salem utters a brief chuckle. "Indeed. A little cleaning up might be just
the thing."

Hesitant and tense, a hand lands on his shoulder. Like a butterfly, it
seems ready to take off at the first sign of trouble. "I'm glad you're
back," she says.

Salem doesn't look up, but another of those thin, controlled smiles
crosses his lips. "Thank you."

Rina pockets her cellphone, and stands quickly, running a hand through her
hair. "I should, um, go up and see how he's doin'," she murmurs awkwardly.

Salem nods once. "Of course."

Her steps have that nervous speed to them, as she walks out.