7/31/02

It is currently 16:46 Pacific Time on Wed Jul 31 2002.

Currently in Saint Claire, it's a sunny day. The temperature is 71 degrees
Fahrenheit (21 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the
northeast at 8 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.23 and falling,
and the relative humidity is 39 percent. The dewpoint is 45 degrees
Fahrenheit (7 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning Half Moon phase (53% full).

Pool Hall

Pool tables, with one foosball table and an air hockey table hiding among
them, 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.

The sooty smell of smoke lingers after the recent city riots. The power is
back on.


Salem is already at the pool hall when John arrives; the Philodox has
claimed a pool table and is setting up for a shot; the green is still
mostly full. There appears to be a beer bottle sitting nearby, open, but
the label shows it to be a nonalcoholic brand.

The IceWalker makes his into the pool hall without pausing in the doorway.
He scans the room, either side, slowly as he stalks over to his
Tribesmate. The bottle gets a quick glimpse, and the faint ghost of a
smile.

The pool hall is nearly empty, most of its clientele still at work or
dinner. As John approaches, Salem sends a striped four hurtling into a
corner pocket and then straightens up. Most of his hair is tied away from
his face, though a few strands have pulled free, and despite the dimness
of the interior, he's wearing his sunglasses.

John gives the other man a thoughtful look for a moment, then silently
moves to take up a cue and chalk it. He silently regards the table. "Bigs
or smalls?"

Salem gives John a quizzical look. His body language is very controlled
tonight, almost wary but not quite. "Pardon?"

John shakes his head slightly, as if he'd just caught himself speaking
French by accident. "Regional slang," he grunts, gesturing towards the
table to indicate the balls. "Striped or full coloured."

"I've already started the striped," Salem answers, "so the solids are all
yours." He rests the butt-end of his cuestick on the floor. "I hope you
don't mind the locale. It's a... social thing, after all." His voice isn't
pitched to carry, and between the low population tonight and the Walkers'
combined rage, there's nobody edging close to eavesdrop.

The Ahroun simply inclines his head in a half-nod. He eyes the table
thoughtfully again. "Your shot." He waits patiently, seemingly focussed
intently on the permutations of angles and possible shots.

Salem studies John's face for a moment, his expression unreadable, and
then nods. He walks around the table and sets up another shot, aiming to
sink the three into a side pocket. It's close, but a miss, and his lips
thin. "Hmnh." Reclaiming his non-beer, he inquires, "How much do you know
about the gift?"

John's mouth twists ruefully, as he studies the table a little more, in
silence. Finally straightening up and pulling his cue up, the Ahroun leans
over the table to line up a shot. Sighting down the stick he murmurs,
"Makes social interaction slightly easier? I understand it helps people
get past the whole 'rage' thing, and more receptive to what you have to
/say/." A sharp crack, and balls go flying. The small red is the only one
that finds its target, though. He rises and looks to Salem for
confirmation.

Salem nods once. "It's an edge more than anything. Not mind control, not
hypnotism... just an edge. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn't."
He takes a swig from the bottle. "It was first learned from the spirits of
our ancestors. Our... non-feral ancestors. Or so I was always told."

John takes less time with the next shot, lining it up and knocking the
blue down to the three. And knocking /that/ a considerable distance. He
shrugs. "Very well. So what's the trick to it?"

Salem watches solemnly, taking small sips from the not-beer. "You
concentrate on the human in yourself. That's the key. The focus of the
gift is on _you_, not the person you're attempting to win over. As I said,
it's not mind-control."

John puts up his cue, half-leaning on it as he nods minutely a few times.
He makes a soft 'huh' noise of acceptance, and mild interest.

Salem purses his lips, mulling his own words over in his head. "It's...
difficult to explain"

John hitches one shoulder in a shrug as he surveys the hall, and its
occupants.

"Always is," he agrees mildly.

Salem takes another swallow from his drink, glancing around. Then he turns
to John. "Pick someone," he says.

The Ahroun smiles thinly. "What am I going to be doing with them?" he
enquires lightly.

Salem arches a brow. "Whatever you want. I'd recommend something
reasonable. No jedi mind-tricks."

John's eyes narrow as he looks across the room to a few obvious layabout
punks. Only just past their teenage years by the looks of it, lounging
around pool halls seems to be their chosen occupation. Of a daytime, at
least. The Ahroun straightens, and takes himself and his pool cue over,
stalking towards the young men with a purpose. Reaching the biggest and
ugliest of them, he says smoothly, "Good afternoon."

The thick-necked punk turns sullen, piggish eyes toward John; though his
companions shift their weight and tense up, the brutish one makes a show
of sizing the Glass Walker up. "Yo. 'Sup?"

Salem leans against the pool table, nursing his drink and watching the
other soberly.

A moment's concentration, and the Walker looks to one side, thoughtfully.
"Well, I'm in a bit of a bind, and I need to borrow five bucks to
challenge my friend over there," he gestures with the cue towards Salem,
"to a betting game. I'll win. I just don't have cash right now."

Muddy hazel eyes squint at John, then shift briefly over to eyeball the
Ahroun's companion. Then they're back on John. "Huh. Five bucks, huh?"

John's cue does a little twirl almost faster than the eye can see, and
winds up resting casually over his shoulder. The man hardly appears to
have moved. "It's pretty safe money," he notes mildly.

The tough looks impressed, though he attempts to hide it. "Yeah... okay."
He digs into his pocket, digging out a crumpled five. He starts to hold it
out, then pauses, narrowing his eyes. "You lose, I'll hafta kick y'ass."

John tilts his head. "Ever heard of 'sharking'? I may be back for ten." He
looks at the man, thoughtfully. There's a slight concentration - a focus
that isn't exactly on the tough.

One of the tough's friends, an anemic-looking weasel with a bad haircut,
sniggers and gets shoved by one of the others for his troubles. Big and
Ugly, though, ignores the by-play and frowns at John. "I ain't stupid,
yo." He offers up the five. "You fuck me, though, I'll still kick y'ass."

Taking the money, John actually smiles. It's... a rather unsettling smile,
with far too much visible white toothiness. "I'm sure you will," he says
pleasantly, not at all patronising. A flash in his eyes conveys only a
momentary estimation of the tough's chances, should he be required to
fulfil his contractual obligation in the event of 'fucking'.

The tough's composure falters at that, his eyes displaying that flicker of
primal fear. Then he juts out his jaw, hooks his thumbs into his front
pockets, and gives the Garou his best scowl. The kid's got a reputation to
keep up.

John turns, and the smile drops instantly as he makes his way back to the
table, and puts the money down. He shrugs. "Up for it?" There's a faint
hint of unease about his expression though, and a few moments later, he
adds, "That wasn't very hard. Not sure if I got it. You might wanna win
this one."

Salem arches a brow. He glances past John to the group of punks, all of
them now watching their game with varying degrees of interest, and then
nods, setting down his drink and taking his cuestick up again. "Your shot
or mine?"

John licks his teeth, and eyes the bar. Considering against a drink, he
shrugs. "Yours."

Salem nods, chalks up the cue, then studies the table for a likely shot.
"How's Rina, by the way?"

John blinks. From the distracted expression on his face, it's a good thing
the Half-moon hadn't asked while the Ahroun was lining up /his/ shot.
"She's as good as she ever is. Little tense, still - things've been rough,
the last couple months. But she's good. We're good."

Salem sinks the ball, then steps around to the other side of the table to
sink another. He's playing it careful, avoiding the temptation to show
off. "Good. Have you settled on a date for the wedding?" The third shot
goes awry when the cuestick doesn't strike the white ball just right.

John remains silent for a while as he lines up a shot that should be
rather easy. ...And then misses it. "No," he replies, eventually.

"Ah." Salem arches a brow at the Ahroun, then shrugs and takes his turn,
sinking three more striped balls, one after the other. The third's a
tricky one, almost a miss. His capacity for small talk seems to have dried
up.

Meanwhile, Big and Ugly watches from across the room, drinking beer while
his friends joke and mock each other.

John narrows his eyes at the table, and seems to focus -- restraining a
brief flash of rage, sealed away someplace inside for everyone's safety.
"Soon," he grunts, purposefully, firing away at the balls on the table.
Two sunken, and a miss. He wrinkles his nose dismissively.

Salem turns a sharper eye on his packmate, regarding him critically for a
moment. Then he turns his attention back to the table without comment and
methodically clears the rest of the striped balls from the green. The
black eight-ball eludes sinking, however.

John frowns some more, mood seeming to grow just a little darker. He
simply sinks all the coloured balls, and then misses the 8-ball. He
doesn't even miss a beat. Smooth, and methodical, each ball goes in a
pocket, and then he puts the cue on the table and walks over to the bar.

Salem murmurs something that sounds like, "Show off," just before John
walks away. Laying the cuestick along the table, he takes a long swallow
from his drink and watches the joking near the bar falter.

The big punk scowls at John, eyebrows like caterpillers furrowing down
over his eyes.

John orders a scotch. Double. No... triple. Then stalks back to the table,
knocking the drink back. "Shoot," he orders.

Salem eyes the drink, lips thinning. Again, though, the half-moon makes no
comment as he turns back to the table and drops the eight-ball into a
corner pocket.

"You're good for another game," John states flatly. He beckons the thug
over, with a hard look in his eyes.

Salem wordlessly goes about setting up another game as the thug pushes off
from the bar and clumps over in his massive jeans and curb-stomping boots.

"You lost," the thug tells John, flatly. His piggish eyes flick toward
Salem. "Your friend, he lost, yo."

Salem fixes the youth with a bland expression, staring until the buy
shifts uncomfortably and looks back at John.

John takes a breath, and then straightens up as he looks at the younger
man. He's silent for a few moments, seemingly thinking, then leans forward
a little. "So. Like I said. Now I need ten," he murmurs calmly.

The thug seems less malleable this time, and his proximity to both Garou
makes him edgy. "Don't know about this, man. I'm thinkin', yo, I'm
thinkin' you're still tryin' t'fuck wit' me, man."

John shifts a little, leaning against the table, so that his Tribesmate's
unable to see his face. "Maybe," he grants the thug, lightly, but the word
is followed quickly by a wink. Plain and unexceptional, it may not have
been there. An intensity in the Ahroun's gaze suggests that the boy might
like to consider what that wink meant before complaining too much more.

The kid hesitates, chewing on the inside of his mouth pensively. He flicks
another sidelong glance at Salem, who coninues to methodically set up for
the next game, then studies John again. "...Okay. I'll give ya a ten. But
that's fuckin' it. You better fuckin' win this one 'n gimme back my
fifteen, or I will put a cap in y'ass, swear t'fuckin' god."

John smiles tightly. "Thanks. I'll bear that in mind. ...No pressure,
hmm?" He holds a gloved hand out for the money, expectantly-- still
leaning on his pool cue.

The thug grunts, grumbling under his breath as he digs out a couple of
fives. After handing the cash over, he stomps back to his coterie; despite
his bravado, he doesn't want to stick around near the pair for longer than
necessary.

[Unfinished because of player headache (mine).]