It is currently 00:56 Pacific Time on Sat Oct 6 2001.
Currently the moon is in the waning Gibbous Moon phase (76% full).

Walker Safe House(#2832RAJL)
        This small tenement building is a work that any interior decorator would 
be proud of. The building is somehow filled with light and space, despite the 
fact that the room is far from large. Mirrored surfaces and lush green potted 
plants are much in evidence - jarring only slightly with the video cameras that 
perch unobtrusively in various locations. A small sign on the wall lists the 
number of apartments upstairs as eight, though there are no names next to the 
apartment numbers. A very thick door leads downstairs, with no visible method 
of being opened - except a keypad next to it. A monitor is perched above the 
entrance, showing images from the hidden camera that watches the outside of the 
building. 
        The lobby branches off into what appears to be a small recreation room; 
for use only by residents and their guests. Much like the rest of the building, 
mirrors are prominent. There is a pool table set up in one half of the room, 
along with a small fridge for storing drinks and a cabinet for snackables. The 
remainder is dominated by a large home theater system, with an incredibly 
expensive-looking couch in front of it. The couch nearly screams out, 'Don't 
spill anything'. For those who might, there are also two matching side-chairs, 
and a bean-bag on the floor - far too close to the television to be good for 
anyone's eyes.

CNN mutters quietly on the television, barely within the range of human hearing. 
"America's New War" is being discussed, debated, and mostly ignored by the 
single occupant of the rec room. Salem, in his shirt-sleeves, sits crosslegged 
on the floor; in front of him, lying on an old towel, is a partially 
disassembled bolt-action rifle, which the Philodox is carefully, methodically 
cleaning.

There's the faint sound of the electronic lock buzzing and then clicking, as 
John steps inside. Despite the chill, outside, he doesn't seem to be cold in the 
least. Not sweating, either, there's the suggestion that he's been a little 
active. He pokes his head into the rec room, as he stalks through the lobby, 
checking to see who's up at this hour. Cubs need their sleep... "Oh. Hey." He 
grunts, leaning in the doorway and studying the rifle.

Salem glances up; if he's surprised to see someone coming in past midnight, he 
doesn't show it. "Good evening." He glances at the clock. "Or, rather, 
morning."

John wrinkles his nose. "Not for a few hours, in my world." he notes wryly, 
looking over the gun, and then to the news. Same old shit. He shakes his head 
minutely, and then looks back to Salem. He sucks on a tooth for a moment, and 
then folds his arms, watching the other Walker, consideringly. "We need to 
talk."

Salem's good eye narrows slightly before his expression smooths over into its 
usual mask of calm. "I am, of course, at your disposal," he says while wiping 
gun oil from the stock of the rifle.

John pages: What type'a gun?
You paged John with 'Mosin-Nagant bolt-action rifle. Soviet WW II era. In 
excellent condition, too.'.

John inclines his head in acknowledgement, and then wets his lips, thoughtfully. 
Wondering where to begin. "I don't usually ask people about their past." He 
begins, eyes settling on the rifle. "Part of why I call myself John Smith. I 
don't want anyone asking about mine. But there's people here who know a damn 
sight more about you than I do, and what I heard today... wasn't good. You don't 
not have a reputation. You have a bad one. So I need to know what you've been 
doing the last couple years, to get it."

Salem pauses, head tilting up to fix the other Walker with a frowning, 
thoughtful eye. There's an edge of wariness to him now, but the calm civility in 
his voice never falters. "May I ask what you've heard, and from whom?"

John's mouth twists wryly. "You can ask. But I'll hold the details. Kaz told me 
a bit about how you left here. And what you did in Las Vegas. She doesn't trust 
you." His head tilts a little. "Rina told me some of the same, and a bit about 
how you came to us, way back. And she thinks she trusts you. But Rina is a 
notoriously poor judge of character." John smiles a little. "I don't trust you, 
either, really, but that takes a bit to gain anyway. But I'm going to hear your 
word, and it's not going to be defensive. You're going to lay it to me, 
straight. Like a good philo."

A touch of surprise flits across Salem's face at mention of Kaz, followed by a 
thin frown -- a repressed grimace, almost. With deliberate motions, he returns 
to wiping the oil off the rifle stock. "How much do you want to know? How far 
back? How I left... unplanned. The moon was fat. I neither invited the SWAT to 
come raid the Rialto that night, nor did I intend to lose control and break the 
Veil. It happened. Regrettable, but it happened." Removing the last trace of 
oil, he sets the rifle down and looks up. "I left, yes, and in no way made it 
difficult for Bowen, a Fostern of our tribe, to meet me. We discussed the 
matter at length, and I agreed to stay away for a time. Which I did."

John simply nods in acknowledgement, and waits, silently.

Salem returns his visual attention to the rifle, which he begins to reassemble. 
"And Vegas..." The Philodox looks like he has a bad taste in his mouth, and his 
words become clipped, his manner more than a little... reserved. "I came to Las 
Vegas and found a war between Rat and Cockroach. Hardly a surprise that I chose 
to fight with my tribe, is it? If you're asking if I killed, then yes. I did. 
In battle, face to face, claw to claw. I was an Ahroun." The rifle complete, 
Salem works the bolt with swift, practiced motions, lifts it (aiming well away 
from John), and pulls the trigger. Click. He nods minutely, satisfied with the 
cleaning job and the continued working of the weapon if not with the subject of 
conversation. "But I was never part of one of Hunter's packs, and when I found 
out of their... methods... I left. And before I did so, I notified a family 
contact in L.A."

John nods, slow and thoughtfully, lips thin. "I thought that was the case. Kaz 
told me little of Las Vegas. She was holding back, I saw, but fairness compelled 
her to add that you weren't doing anything... sick. Just killing. And that's 
fair. I haven't heard much about Las Vegas at all." He looks up at Salem, now. 
"So. What then? And why Philodox?"

Salem lays the rifle down upon the towel and sits back against the couch, 
absent-mindedly wiping his hands with a paper towel. He's a few moments in 
answering, his expression withdrawn and inward. Reluctance is in every inch of 
him. "Las Vegas almost made me decide to become a lone wolf again," he says at 
last. "I'd been an Ahroun since I had my first change at fifteen, and I was a 
damned good one." Definite hint of pride there, touched with arrogance. "But 
after Vegas it felt.. empty." He purses his lips, studying neatly-trimmed 
ingernails.

John's mouth twists ruefully, as he looks to the floor, for a moment. His 
fingers tap against one of his folded arms, and he lets a little more of his 
weight rest against the doorframe. "I see." he says, quietly. A few moments 
later, he adds, "We have a lot in common, you and I. More than you know, at any 
rate. But respect the differences. I run with others once again, and you will 
too. We fight blights, now, not each other. The Tribe is everything. And without 
unity it is nothing. Live by those rules, and we'll defend you to the death." 
Lifting his head, a thoughtful expression comes to his face. "And now, I feel 
like some Chinese. Hungry?"

Salem looks up, studying John with that narrow-eyed thoughtfulness again. Other 
visible emotions get buried back underneath his skin to join the twisting edge 
of rage that's a near-constant undercurrent in everything he does. "Understood. 
And... thank you, but no. I expect to be getting up in a few hours."

John's eyes finally turn to look the other Walker over. "Mmhmm. Well, I'll fill 
you in on how things run here, when you're done with whatever morning routines 
you got. My night... or morning's pretty free. Business has been running itself, 
really." He straightens up, unfolding his arms, and letting them slide into his 
pockets. He starts upstairs, towards his apartment.

Salem nods. "I'll seek you out," he promises, and begins gathering up the rifle 
and all the accessories of cleaning. "Good night."

The bendiction is returned from up the stairs. A few moments later-- enough time 
to perhaps pick a few things up, dump a few things off, and John re-emerges and 
exits, heading down the road. Chinese food awaits.