Date: 8/25/2002. Sunday.

Red Mill Apartments #219

This one-bedroom apartment is small, sparcely furnished, and kept at a
level of cleanliness and order that borders on the obsessive. A
greenish-gray couch, obviously secondhand, holds court in the main room,
accompanied by a low coffee table and a nearly empty bookshelf. In the
kitchen nook, which is separated from the living room by a stomach-level
counter, everything is gleaming and put away. The bathroom's cramped, and
the bedroom's just big enough for a twin bed, an end table, and a dresser.

At odds with the strict cleanliness of the apartment is the obvious
presence of cockroaches; one or two can occasionally be seen scurrying
from Point A to Point B unmolested by traps, poisons, or sprays. Indeed, a
small plate with fresh canned cat food has been set in a corner near the
kitchen nook, apparantly just for the benefit of these insects.


It's been a bad weekend. First Friday night, with the bloodied shirt and
the bulletholes. And then Saturday night... nothing. No Salem. In between,
there's been a lot of silence in the apartment, and even when the Philodox
was there on Saturday morning and afternoon, he wasn't there. A lot of
time he was in his bedroom with the door closed.

Sunday morning comes and goes, with still no Salem. In fact, it's not
until an hour or so past noon that there's a knock on the door.

Cat's at his usual spot, lying down beside the cat food dish and watching
the cockroaches eat. Between that and video games, he seems to do nothing
else; no, wait, he drinks Dr. Pepper like it's going out of style. A
half-empty can rests beside him. At the knock, however, the blond head
lifts off folded arms and the cub tiptoes over to the door. One blue eye
peers through the glass at whoever is on the other side.

Salem's voice comes through the door. He sounds tired, irritable, and out
of sorts. "Cat. Open the door, please."

Salem. A dour-looking, unhappy Salem. Quickly Cat undoes the locks and
chain and swings the door open wide for the cliath. "Mister Salem?" the
crescent moon cub hazards softly. "Um...hello?"

Salem, yes. He looks like hell. No hip-length black leather coat. No
sunglasses. Clothing disheveled, wrinkled. Hair in disarray, eyes
bloodshot and dark-circled underneath, and stubble around the usually
well-groomed beard. He smells like old alcohol and second-hand cigarette
smoke, like a bar. "Lost my keys," he rasps, moving past the cub and into
the apartment itself, limping in a tired, footsore way.

Cat half-hides behind the door, watching Salem stalk away with wide eyes.
The familiar smell of alcohol and cigarettes invades his nostrils, and
slowly he closes the door, redoing the locks. The cub doesn't know what to
do, to say. He fidgets in place, one hand on the doorknob and the other on
the chain, eyes never leaving Salem's back.

Salem makes a beeline for the kitchen, not looking once at the boy. He
gets a bottle of water from the fridge, fumbles off the cap, and gulps
down at least half of it.

The small boy steps away from the door, albeit reluctantly, fingers
playing with the cuffs of his sleeves. His father used to come home
looking like that, smelling like that. A little more vocal, usually. And
bottle still in hand. Cat takes another hesitant step towards the kitchen.
Michael had always expected fresh clothes, and a meal, and personal
inspection. A wave of panic sweeps through the cub- he hadn't anything
prepared. Chill with the familiarity of the scene, the Walker cub slips
into the bedroom quickly, rummaging through Salem's dresser for a clean
shirt.

Salem leans against the counter near the sink. He glances up, brows
furrowing as Cat goes scurrying off, mouth twisted into a frown. "Cat?"

Cat stiffens as his name is called, and nervous fingers grab at cloth.
Dark grey, long sleeved shirt. Plain. Probably Wal-Mart or some such make.
Then the boy folds it deftly- it's obvious that even though he's nervous,
he's practiced at it. In the few seconds it takes him to appear
half-hidden by the doorway to the kitchen, the shirt is neatly held in his
hands, held out to the Philodox. "Here're s-some clean clothes, sir."

For a moment, Salem just stares at the boy in utter bemusement, the
bottled water in hand. Then he drops his head with a sigh and sets the
bottle down near the sink. "Cat. Put down the shirt, and go sit down." If
anything, he sounds even more tired than when he walked in. "You're my
student, not my servant. I am perfectly able to get my own clean shirts."

Cat blinks, twice. Whatever reaction he had been expecting, it wasn't
that. Eyeing Salem like -he- was the one acting oddly, he sets the shirt
down on the counter with a soft, "Yessir," and walks around to the other
side, pulling himself up onto a stool.

Salem folds his arms across his chest and rubs at his temple with one
hand. "I need to apologize to you," he says slowly. "My behavior this
weekend has been... erratic. Abyssmal, in fact."

Like some strange little owl, Cat tilts his head. "There's no need to
apologize, sir," he murmurs softly, hands folded demurely in his lap.
Student indeed. "I'm...sure you had...um...p-pressing business." He's
quiet for a moment, watching the Philodox. Curiosity is evident on his
face, but he's been taught not to ask questions.

Salem utters a curt, self-deprecating, bitter laugh. "'Pressing business.'
That's..." He shakes his head, picks up the bottle of water, and drains
it. "I had shit, is what I had." His expression is hollow as he pushes off
from the sink counter and limps toward the bathroom. "I'm going to take a
shower. And then I'm going to put on some clean clothes. And then..." He
pauses at the bathroom door, grimacing as something occurs to him. "And
them I'm going to get someone to pick you up and take you to Jeremy's. Or
Rhiannon's."

The fair-headed child listens quietly as Salem explains...in a rather
roundabout way. But at the mention of moving, he looks stunned. "Why?" Cat
squeaks before he can remember not to ask questions. The startled look on
his face dims then, as he eyes Salem with a troubled expression. "D-did I
do something wrong?"

Salem leans against the doorjam, not turning around to look at the boy.
"No... no. Absolutely not. I'm just... I've taught you what I can, and
it's time for you to learn from someone else." The words sound false, a
poor rationalization at best.

Sullenly, Cat's newly-sneakered feet bump against the counter. "But I like
it here," he mumbles, staring down at the countertop. He's scared. That
much is obvious from the tremor in his voice and the way he wrings his
hands in his lap. "I j-just got...u...-used- to things. And you -feed- me,
and you have -Dr. Pepper-, and..." The cub trails off, his feet bumping
against the counter in a half-hearted attempt at a rhythm.

Salem's shoulders tighten, fingers gripping at the wood.
"Motherfucking..." he mutters, then says, "They'll feed you, too. And
Jeremy has far more electronic toys than I do. Plus, you'll be around more
people your own age."

Cat refuses to look up. Bump, bump, bump. "But...I don't really like
Quentin -that- much. I wanna stay here with you." Pause. "Mister Salem,
sir."

"Well, you can't." There. It's said, in that firm
because-I-say-so-no-arguments-period kind of way. And to put a further
period on the statement, he goes into the bathroom and shuts the door
behind him.

The cub flinches as the door closes, even though it wasn't anything close
to a slam. Unhappy blue eyes stay fixed to the counter, and the bumping
noise stops abruptly. "I want to stay here," Cat repeats softly,
pleadingly, knowing full well nobody could hear him but the roaches.

The roaches look sympathetic, or at least as sympathetic as roaches can
look. The shower starts up within the bathroom and goes on for several
long, long minutes.

After a while, the idle shoe-tapping starts again, rubber soles brushing
against the floor. "I don't want to stay with Miss Mac," Cat continues to
affirm to himself. "And who's Jeh...Jeremy?"

No answer comes from either the Philodox in the shower or the cockroach
crawling up the wall near Cat.

Cat shoots a dirty glance towards the bathroom. Anger, hurt, betrayal.
Emotions trickle into his system and the docile hands ball into fists.
Then all at once the aggressive feelings melt away into self-deprecation.
He -had- done something wrong. Otherwise Mister Salem wouldn't want to get
rid of him. He'd failed, yet again. Bump, bump bump.

Most likely, this kind of thing goes on for a long time, because Salem's
taking his time in the shower. Finally, though, the water turns off, and
several minutes after that, he emerges in a cloud of steam -- one of the
few advantages of the place is its plentiful hot water. There's a towel
around his waist, and his expression's tight. He heads for the bedroom,
not even glancing Cat's way.

If possible, the cub tries to make himself smaller as Salem exits the
bedroom, feet stilling again. He'd been growing accostomed to the patience
and attention of the Walker Philodox; now being ignored and forced to do
things against his wishes was bringing back a familiar wrenching feeling
in his chest. "I don't want to go!" Cat cries out finally, kicking the
counter as hard as he can.

Salem stops just short of the door and turns. Even drippingly wet and in
nothing but a towel, even shadow-eyed and stubbled, he has a very definite
Presence, and when he glowers, there's a relentless, stubborn force behind
it that'll accept no questions and no protests. "We all have to do things
that we don't want," he says coldly. "Learn that, and accept it. This is
for your own good. And throwing a damned tantrum will get you nowhere."

Cat spares himself most of Salem's stare with a quick, unhappy glance to
his face, and nothing more. The now-throbbing foot tucks behind the other.
"I don't -want- to stay with Miss Mac," he mumbles under his breath, more
a moving of lips than voiced comment. Balled fists press into his knees,
and tears well up in his eyes. "I like it -here-. I want to stay with
-you-."

Salem is not to be moved, and he's starting to breathe hard. This is
probably not helping his headache, nor the snarling beast within him that
so desperately wants to come out and wreck havoc. "As I said _before_, you
_can't_. Period. The end. Cry if you want, nothing will change. I've made
my decision." With sharp, curt, quick movements, he stalks into the
bedroom. This time, the door _slams_ behind him.

Cat's stone still for a full minute, fists pressed against his eyes to
block out a memory- like the physical effort could actually stop it. His
own breathing becomes ragged, then dissolves into frustrated sobs. He just
sits there on the stool, thinking crazy wild thoughts of rebellion.
Instead of fading, like before, the idea that he -could- rebel, -could- do
something wrong, becomes more and more enticing to the distraught cub.
Tear-filled eyes stare at the bathroom in sudden inspiration.

Salem is probably putting clothes on in the bedroom, behind that closed
door. There are no witnesses but the cockroaches. And they can't talk. Can
they? Would they?

Biting his lip determinedly, Cat slips off the stool and carefully waves
around the roaches, entering the bathroom quietly and locking the door
behind him. A little steam still hangs in the air, and moisture clings to
the mirror. Angrily he wipes at it with his palm, till he can see his
reflection. Fueled by the desire to 'show Mister Salem,' the cub Reaches
through the Gauntlet for the Umbra.

Salem emerges from the bathroom in sweatpants and t-shirt, his hair still
wet and uncombed. "Where the hell are--" He cuts off as he spots the empty
stool. Then, in scanning the apartment, the closed bathroom door. "Cat..."
He stalks toward the bathroom, grasps the handle and rattles it. Louder
now. "_Cat_." He pounds on the door twice, nearly snarling. "Open the
fucking door, dammit, open the--" And then it occurs to him. The
Philodox's face goes blank for a moment, and then contorts into a rictus
of rage. Blurring upwards into Glabro, he slams a massive shoulder into
the bathroom door, snapping the cheap latch that keeps it closed.

Perhaps the Walker gets a glimpse of light- but whatever he sees, it's
clear that the cub is not visible.

"You little SHIT!" Furious, Salem slams a fist into the bathroom wall,
then wrenches his gaze toward the mirror. Teeth gritted, bared to display
the long upper and lower canines, he leans against the sink and reaches
across by sheer force of will as much as by application of his so-called
higher self.

Cat finds himself thrown into the glittery world of webs and the
iridescent shells of insects. Almost giddy with his achievement, he
tiptoes around the roaches and spiders and leaves the bathroom, full of
pride. He did it, he did something wrong! He knowingly disobeyed. Without
even a thought to his own safety, or what to do if he got lost, the cub
makes his way out of the 'apartment'- only to be stopped cold by a web
that stretches across the 'hallway'. It shines and looks razor sharp, like
a snowflake made of thin blades. He pauses then, unsure of what to do from
there. Going back isn't an option, but which way?

As Cat deliberates, a familiar voice -- only turned into a deep baritone
-- makes itself heard behind him, from the bathroom. Salem's followed him,
and Salem does not sound like a happy Salem. Not like a happy Salem at
all. "Cat, get the _fuck_ back here, right _now_." It sounds like he's
stalking toward the cub. "Do _not_ make me chase you. You _will_ regret
it."

Frightened, and still empowered by his own odd behavior, the cub calls
back defiantly- "Y-you -wanted- to get rid of me, s-so I'm going. Y'don't
-have- to chase me." But uncertainty has dug it's roots in Cat's heart. He
darts away from the ominous web, doing his best to avoid the many spiders
who blanket the ground.

Salem's just come home from walking hours from John's bunker hideaway. He
certainly didn't get much in the way of rest last night, and he certainly
didn't sleep more than an hour or so -- and that nightmare-ridden and
unrestful -- the night before. "This is your last warning, Cat," he calls.
The baritone voice sounds like it's getting deeper. "Stay where you are. I
won't ask again." Without waiting for an answer, he drops down to all
fours and, in hispo and bristling, pads after the cub's trail.

Rage and youth can only carry the cub so far. His anger leaves him
swiftly, so that he's clutching at the hand-me-downs as he whips his head
to stare at another, even more imposing web that has placed its way in
front of him, complete with an equally imposing spider that is easily the
size of the boy's head. "I don't want to leave!" Cat sobs, taking a step
back from the unmoving arachnid, complacent in it's web. "I want to stay
with you!"

A pony-sized wolf appears in the hallway, his face scarred like Salem's,
with one eye blind like Salem's. The beast snarls, then abruptly turns
human again, glowering but not quite so dangerous in appearance. Rage is
at war with weariness, and he's close to either collapsing or frenzying.
It's hard to say which. "I'm not going to discuss this here," he says.
"Get over here, and back to the Realm. Right now."

The theurge cub's lower lip trembles- he looks like he's seriously
considering the spider as a better alternative. But when the creature
decides to open it's many eyes, one right after the other, Cat bolts
towards Salem, skidding to a shaky halt and coming very close to stepping
on a small roach. Without thinking about his actions, he clings to the
Walker's hand. Pathetic, miserable, and terribly confused. "Don't m-make
me leave, please," he begs, holding the hand in as tight a grip as he can
manage. He doesn't dare to look up, just closes his eyes tight in fear.
"I'll try ha-harder, promise, I will. P-please don't throw me out..."

"Oh, fuck me," Salem mutters. "I am too fucking tired for this." He
disengages his hand from the cub's clinging grip and rubs at his burning
eyes. "You haven't fucking done anything--" He grimaces. "Get back to the
fucking Realm. Now. That's a fucking order."

Still unable to look at Salem's face, Cat weaves past the Philodox, hair
dangling in reddened eyes. His choked sobs quiet as he goes farther away,
into the apartment and back to the mirror. A flash of light Salem can't
see- and the cub is curled up under one of the stools in lupus,
whimpering.

Salem follows after a few minutes. He stares at the whimpering cub for a
few minutes, his face drawn into a tight grimace, and then looks at the
phone. It looks to be a million miles away, and even the thought of
lifting it makes his shoulders sag. "Tomorrow," he mutters, and then
vanishes into the bedroom to collapse on the bed.