It is currently 17:28 Pacific Time on Tue Sep 3 2002.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is partly sunny. The temperature is 67
degrees Fahrenheit (19 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in
from the west at 7 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.94 and
falling, and the relative humidity is 40 percent. The dewpoint is 42
degrees Fahrenheit (5 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning Crescent Moon phase (23% full).

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.


Salem's return from another day of work and Other Things is announced by a
rattle of keys in the brand new lock. It was replaced yesterday by a
grizzled fifty-year-old who smelled like cigarettes but worked quickly;
the Philodox's dour, disconcerting gaze might have had something to do
with the latter. Jack's never gone into much detail about what he does
when he's away from the apartment. He has a job, that much is certain, and
sometimes gets a call from a Mr. Lo.

It's a little late in the evening for young boys to be awake- but Cat is
awake, sprawled on the floor next to the cat food dish and reading a book.
The dictionary. He's reading it out loud to the cockroaches. "Ferret. A
weasellike, usually albino mammal (Mustela putorius furo) related to the
polecat and often trained to hunt rats or rabbits."

The door opens just in time for Salem to catch the last few words. He
regards the cub for a moment, somewhat nonplussed, then grunts and closes
the door again, turning the lock and hooking the chain. "Good evening,
Cat," he says. The keyring -- with its brand-new, shinily-new apartment
keys -- gets tossed onto its spot on the bookshelf and is joined by his
wallet.

The cub bolts upright when the door opens, the new lock being rather
silent as it turns- but relaxes, somewhat, when the intruder is proved to
be Mr. Salem. "G-good evening Mister Salem sir," Cat replies, book in his
lap. The cockroaches wave their antennae about merrily. "Um..." He glances
down at the pages uneasily. "Um...how...was your day?"

Salem shrugs out of the light trenchcoat and crosses the apartment to go
hang it in the closet, adroitly stepping over a scurrying 'roach.
"Tolerable." As he puts the coat away, he says, "You've been doing well,
by the way, Cat." He delivers the praise blandly, almost matter-of-fact.

Cat's head tilts upwards, slowly. "I...I have?" he squeaks disbelievingly.
He blinks, then smiles a bit. "Really?" Then, because he really doesn't
know. "Um...with what?"

Salem sets the coat-clothed hanger in the closet, then shuts the door and
turns around. He folds his arms across his chest and regards the boy
steadily, as if studying him. "Your learning."

Cat dips his chin down, staring at the dictionary again. "Thank you, sir,"
he says earnestly, glowing with the praise. "I want to do good- um, I
mean, well. Do well." Right. He quickly flips to the next page of the
dictionary, seemingly engrossed with that specific task.

Salem unfolds his arms and steps forward, back across the floor toward the
cub. "You still have more to learn, however," he says. "Put the dictionary
away. Please." It's almost like the Terrible Weekend never happened; the
scarred halfmoon's tone is nothing but courtesy and patience.

Without stopping to think why, the dictionary is shut and Cat gets up,
placing it back onto the bookshelf carefully. That done, he turns to face
Salem, blue eyes questioning. One hand still hangs loosely on the edge of
the bookshelf.

Salem laces his fingers together and stretches his arms out in front of
him, palms turned outwards. "Take glabro form," he orders, as he relaxes
out of the stretch. While waiting for Cat to do so, he pushes the coffee
table closer to the couch, making more room in the middle of the
apartment.

Cat cants his head a bit, watching Salem move furniture. Then he shakes
his head, trying to watch his focus. One deep breath, two- and then he's
grown larger. Glabro. His clothes fit much better now, although slightly
tight about the waist.

Salem eyes the coffee table, then the amount of space in the apartment,
his expression dubious. Then he shakes his head slightly and turns to face
the cub. One hand comes up and tucks a stray lock of hair back behind his
ear, then joins the other in hanging loosely at his side. "Hit me."

Blue eyes widen at the request- the cub steps back. "W-what?" The voice is
deeper, but still retains the characteristic Cat-squeak of surprise. "I
can't -hit- you!"

Salem shows no irritation at the protest and seems unsurprised. He speaks
firmly, though, accepting none of it. "Yes, you can. And you will. Make a
fist, and _hit_ me. Now."

Cat shakes his head emphatically, biting his lower lip with teeth that are
unusually large, on a person. "B-but...why?? You're nice to me, I
shouldn't hit you." He wrings his hands in anxiety, and more than a little
fear.

"Because," says Salem, relentlessly, "you're a Garou. You're one of the
Mother's warriors. You may not be in the front lines like John Smith, but
you're still expected to be able to fight." He stands firm, his good eye
burning into the cub. "I know that you're afraid, and that you think that
the world will end if you actually fight _back_ rather than cringe away
from conflict, but we _are_ in a war and you _will_ learn to defend
yourself and to defend the Mother. So _hit_ me. That's an order."

'That's an order' seems to do the trick...or maybe the cub can't think of
any more excuses. Closing his eyes as if not watching will help some (and
maybe it will), Cat swings one arm back and lets it fly at the Walker
Philodox. His fingers a balled tight into a fist, and there's decent speed
and strength in the strike, which is aimed for Salem's chest. Of course,
his eyes are closed. Where it will -actually- land...

There's a meaty smack of flesh hitting flesh as Cat's hairy fist collides
with Salem's homid palm. Strong fingers grip the cub's hand with a
strength that, in homid, matches Cat's glabro. "Cat." In that one
utterance of the cub's name is a generous helping of disapproval and
sternness.

Cat cracks his eyes open, a half-apologetic, half-despairing expression on
his face. Slowly he pulls his arm back to his side. "Y-yessir?"

"That was poorly done." Salem's expression is bland. "Try it again. This
time, keep your eyes open."

"I don't know how," the cub protest weakly, shifting his weight onto the
other foot nervously. "To fight. Hit. Um."

Salem grimaces, very faintly. "I know that you don't know how to fight.
That's why we're having this lesson. And the first one is very simple.
Make your hand into a fist and _hit_ me. Strike as though you actually
want to do some harm, and keep your eyes open when you do it. _Now_."

Taking a wheezy breath to...oh, for whatever help it may be. Eyes open in
a grimace, Cat pulls his fist back, in the air for a moment. For a second,
if he pretends Salem is his father, then maybe he could be angry enough to
hit him. Like in soccer at gym, when they said pretend it was someone you
hated and kick the ball. With a snarl, the Galliard lets his fist fly at
Salem's jaw.

And it lands, which may be the most shocking thing of all to the timid
theurge. His intimidating teacher doesn't dodge the blow, nor block it,
and -- perhaps most importantly -- he doesn't fly into a hateful rage and
beat the cub into a pulp in retaliation. Salem's head snaps to the side
with the force of the blow, and he takes a step backwards.

Cat's eyes fly -wide- open as he connects with bone and flesh. He jerks
back quickly, watching Salem with worried, frightened eyes, a six foot
tall cowering Garou. "I'm sorry," he croaks out automatically, but meaning
it. "I didn't mean to hurt you-"

Salem straightens, one hand coming up to rub at his jaw, tongue poking
gingerly at his teeth, and he eyes the cringing cub with a grimace. "Stop
that. Now." His form bulks up for a few seconds into glabro form, just
long enough to heal the damage.

The glabro'd cub stops talking, but his cringing and cowering doesn't end.
Cat seems to shrink within himself, fearful of either being hit or having
to strike Salem again. Being the violent one is almost as nerve-wracking
to him as being on the receiving end.

Salem, human once more, works his jaw, making sure that everything is
functioning properly. Then he regards the cub with a frown that's half
concern, half ill-concealed impatience. "Cat?"

A choked murmur of recognition churns in Cat's throat. "I don't -like-
this," he mumbles under his breath, wincing as he says it and hears
himself whine.

Salem rakes a hand back through his hair. "Violence is a part of our
lives, Cat," says the Philodox. He folds his arms across his chest. "We're
in a _war_, and in war, we sometimes have to fight."

One hand reaches up to rub at his cheek. "But...I...I don't...I can't,"
Cat protests weakly. "I just -can't-. I..." He closes his eyes, puts
slightly furred hands over them. He's not crying senselessly, but he's
obviously not happy. "I can't hurt anyone, p-please, don't make me."

Salem's face tightens, and he turns away from the cub for a moment. There
might have been a flicker of sympathy there, but Cat's not in a position
to see it, and even if it _was_ there, it's soon gone. When he turns back,
his gaze is hard, his expression stone. "You can. You _will_. Now dry your
eyes, straighten up, and face me."

If the cub had wolfish ears, they'd be flat against his head. It takes a
few moments for Cat to take his hands away. Quietly defiant, he doesn't
dry his eyes, and he doesn't straighten up, but he's generally facing
Salem. "Yessir," is the soft, machine-like response. It was better not to
feel, not think about what he was doing. It was too easy to imagine how it
felt to be hit. Not to imagine- to remember.

Salem observes this without satisfaction. With, in fact, the antithesis of
satisfaction. "What are you afraid of? Pain? You know what pain is. It
didn't kill you. Causing _me_ pain?" He makes a derisive sound. "I've been
punched in the face by harder fists than yours, Cat, and Mother's
blessings make that nothing. Temporary. Transitory."

"I k-know what pain is. I'm not fighting -you-," Cat retorts, turning his
gaze away to some spot on the floor. He shifts his weight, uncomfortable.
"I know what pain is and- and I don't want to make someone else feel like
that. That'd make m-me like...like him." Perhaps it's the first sign of
will in the boy, but his chin lifts up a bit, even though his eyes are
still down on the floor. "I'm never going to be like him."

"Hmnh." Salem continues to regard the cub stonily. "I'm not asking you to
become a bully, or to start... throwing your weight around and beating
people up at random."

Cat smirks a little- very, very little, but it's there. The very idea of
him throwing his slight frame around makes even him blush. "I can't do it.
I -can't-." He shakes his head quickly, curls flying. "I want to do it
right, but I c-can't. I -did- hurt you. Only 'cause you're a werewolf, it
healed up."

Salem's jaw clenches slightly. "You need to learn how to fight, Cat."

Cat sighs. "There's...there's -no- way around it?" he asks, pleadingly.

"No," the Philodox replies, flatly. It doesn't seem as though he's going
to budge on this. "We're at war, Cat."

The young Walker rubs at his nose with one furred finger, frowning at the
ticklish feeling. "And the peh...people I hurt? They're the bad guys?"

"The worst," Salem says, looking grim. "And they're killing your Mother by
inches."

Cat sighs and frowns and whimpers all at once. "'Kay," is the mumbled
agreement. He's nowhere near ecstatic about it, but. Improvement.
"Only...because...'cause we have to be superheroes."

Salem's mouth takes on a wry twist. "Superheroes. Mn. Yes." He unfolds his
arms and steps back, settling into a perch on the arm of the couch. "But
first, a quick lecture on what can kill you and what can't."

The relief that they're not going to be exchanging blows- at least, not
right now -is evident as Cat relaxes. He's still hunched over, just
because it was -strange- to be this suddenly tall, but blue eyes focus on
Salem attentively.

Salem shifts his weight a bit, getting comfortable. "Most things can hurt
us, but won't kill us. Fists. Knives. Bullets." He pauses a beat. "Sport
Utility Vehicles." The glint of dry humor in the last fades. "You and I,
human-born, would heal only as humans do, but a transformation to any
other form will start the regenerative process, and mundane damage like
that will heal in seconds. You can, literally, go from being almost dead
to perfectly healthy in no time at all."

Cat rubs at his nose again, stares down at his furred hand, and shifts
down to homid. Much more comfortable at this eye-level, he frowns at
Salem. "That's not true," he says, voice tinged with suspicion. "There
were lots of time when..." He trails off, then starts again. "Sometimes I
had to have my arm in a cast. They took weeks to get better."

Salem frowns. "That was before you knew how to shapeshift. We don't
regenerate like that in human form, just as wolf-born Garou don't
regenerate in wolf form. Metis are the exception, and can heal quickly no
matter what form they are in."

"Oh," is the embarrassed reply from Cat. He shifts his weight, then
decides to sit down on the floor, knees pulled up. "'Kay."

Salem regards the cub for a moment, then nods. "We are not, however,
invulnerable. When another supernatural injures us, and that can mean
anything from a Garou's claws to a vampire's bite, the damage lasts
longer. Not _too_ long. If you're not in human form, you'll still heal in
days rather than weeks or months. The risk of death is much greater,
however. And then there's silver." He pauses a beat.

Cat's eyes get wide at the mention of vampires, although if he thinks a
moment longer, he remembers someone mentioning that...little bit. He curls
up a little bit tighter, silent as he listens.

There is a rap-rap on yon chamber door. No ravens, though.

The knock comes just as Salem's about to continue. He tenses slightly,
turning an almost wary eye toward the door, and then gets up. The
tightness in his body language eases after he glances through the
peephole, and with quick, practiced motions, he undoes the locks and opens
the door for Rhiannon. "Good evening."

Rhiannon is holding a six-pack of Dr. Pepper, and she raises it up. "I
come bearing gifts. In a manner of speaking." She's still dressed for
work, and seems a little rumpled.

Salem steps aside to let her in, glancing toward the six-pack. "Excellent.
I'm explaining to Cat what can kill him," he says, perfectly
straight-faced.

Rhiannon gets a bright grin from Cat, who welcomes the company,
distraction, and soda. "'Lo Miss Mac," he greets shyly, hugging his knees
to his chest. As Salem explains what they'd been doing, he nods, just as
serious. "Even SUV's can't do it," he adds with a curious note of pride.

"How responsible of you," Rhiannon assures Salem with dry humor as she
enters the apartment. The tall woman waves down at Cat. "Wasn't sure if he
was keeping you properly stocked with the Doctor, so I brought some, just
in case." His comment about SUVs brings a grimace to her face, however.
"Yeah, I uh...never did get to apologize for that." She scratches her
head, looking rather chastised.

Salem closes the door behind Rhiannon, re-establishes the locks and chain,
then reaches to take the weight of the Dr. Pepper off the marshal's hands.
He glances at Cat to see how the cub takes the apology.

Cat blinks, looking from Rhiannon to Salem with confusion stamped on his
face. "Apologize? For what?"

Rhiannon raises her eyebrows. "No one bothered telling you?" she asks,
sounding surprised. Salem gets a narrow, "Gee thanks" Look. "I was the one
driving the SUV," she says to Cat after a moment.

Salem mutters something about how it slipped his mind and takes the
six-pack of soda over to the kitchen area so he can stow it in the
refrigerator.

Cat frowns, getting very quiet at the news that...that Miss Mac had been
driving the truck. He chews on this information for awhile, staring at his
knees, then looking up at Salem quizzically.

Rhiannon ignores Salem's mumbling in favor of Cat. "Realize, I wasn't
*trying* to run you over." There's a good deal of assurance in her voice.
"The rabbit that was originally on the road would've fit under the truck
without getting hurt. Then you jumped out, and even at 30 miles an hour,
it wasn't easy to stop."

"It was for the best, in any case," Salem says, closing the fridge.
"Otherwise, it's doubtful that we would have ever found you." He stands
near the counter, arms folded.

Cat rubs the bridge of his nose; it's starting to become a habit with him.
"It's okay," he admits. "You didn't mean to." He gives her a faint, shy
smile. "But you owe me a lot of Dr. Pepper now." What a first!
Manipulation.

Not much of a room in and of itself, the kitchen area has generally enough
room in it for one person to move about comfortably; two people would get
in the way of each other. Every surface is clean, and the sink rarely has
more than a drinking glass or two in it. The stove's the electric kind,
and there's a microwave sitting on the counter next to it.

The counter that separates the kitchen area from the rest of the living
room is empty but for a combination answering machine/cordless telephone
which is set on the end nearest the wall. Accompanying that is a plastic
cup filled with pens and pencils. A pair of wooden stools allow the
counter to be used as a dining surface.

Well, this wasn't what Rhiannon had planned to discuss for the night, but
she sits on the couch with a sigh. "Thank you, Cat," she says with
sincerity. "I'll be happy to bring Dr. Pepper, and count myself lucky if
it's my worst punishment." She sits back, carefully moving a roach lest
she squish it. "So. You're learning about the dangerous things, ay?"

"Silver," the Walker explains, at which point his phone rings. He eyes the
caller ID display dourly, then picks it up. "Rhiannon, would you?" he
asks. He's already taking the cordless headset back into the bedroom.

Cat cants his head after Salem, but then turns to look back at Rhiannon
from his place on the floor. "Why is silver a problem?" he asks softly.

Rhiannon ahs softly. "As I am to understand it, it disrupts a Garou's
relationship with la Luna." She makes a vague gesture at the ceiling,
indicating the moon. "This isn't something I've ever been clear on, but I
can tell you it works. A Theurge would probably know the details."

Cat nods a bit, then rests his chin on his knees. "Maybe Mister Salem
knows a little too," he murmurs, eyes flicking to the bedroom, and then,
to the case of Dr. Pepper in the kitchen. "So...silver is bad. How bad?"

Rhiannon grimaces. "We'll wait until _puerco espin_ comes back. I have a
silver bullet you can look at. It's bad enough that you should keep away
from it. It can also keep you from crossing into the Umbra."

Blue eyes widen slightly as they glance back at Rhiannon. "R-really? Oh.
Wow." Silver becomes one of the newest 'respect it or die' objects in
Cat's life. "That's just like in the books. Stories. Um." He blinks, and
looks down at the floor in embarrassment.

"Even wive's tales have some truth at their beginning," Rhiannon agrees.
"But remember, as much as it's dangerous to you, it's also dangerous to
those you may need to attack. Spirals are suseptible to it as well."

"Spirals?" Cat echoes.

Rhiannon pauses, and sighs. "Guess you have to hear about it some day,"
she murmurs, mostly to herself. "I'm sure you've been told about the
Thir--Twelve Tribes?" The kin just barely catches her mistake.

Cat nods. "I can say them if you want me to," he offers softly.

Rhiannon shakes her head. "That's alright. A long time ago, there was more
than just the twelve. One of the long gone Tribes was the White Howlers."
She pauses, waiting for a reaction that might indicate he does know the
story.

No such reaction comes. Cat falls silent as he listens to Rhiannon speak,
meek and attentive.

Rhiannon rubs her hand over the back of her neck; it's apparent this story
doesn't sit well with her. "They were from Scotland," she continues.
"Followers of the Wyrm slaughtered the Howlers' Kin, and I think even
their cubs. That pissed them off, and they attacked a stronghold of the
Wyrm, intent on...who knows, destroying it I guess. As if one Tribe can
destroy the Wyrm. Instead the Wyrm claimed them for its own. The Howlers
that didn't die, became the Black Spiral Dancers."

Cat's face seems to shrink behind his knees, till he's a wide-eyed cub
listening to the horror story around the proverbial campfire. "The Wyrm
-claimed- them?" is the muffled echo.

Rhiannon nods quietly. "It twisted them, and made them the its own warped
embodiment of a proper Garou." Her voice is low, maybe even a little
pitying. "That's really the only way to describe it. They're mostly
insane, although some can come across as normal. Most just babble and
giggle a lot, when they're not trying to kill you." Her look hardens with
the delivery of the take-home lesson: "They're Garou, though, and have
some of the same abilities you do."

The blond boy doesn't say anything immediately...what's there to say? He
just watches Rhiannon with horrified fascination and sympathy.
"Those...those are the people I have to fight?" he asks, timidly.

"Not until you're ready." Rhiannon leaves no room for argument in that
statement, her voice firm. "And when you are ready, your Tribe- and
packmates will fight with you."

Salem returns from the bedroom, clicking the phone off and looking rather
irritable. He glances over at Rhiannon and Cat.

Cat nods solemnly, still looking uncertain- and looks a helluvalot more
uncertain when Salem re-appears. "Mister Salem was also givin' me fighting
lessons," he informs Rhiannon softly. Sadness hints in blue eyes.
"It's...too bad about the White Howlers, though. I mean." A pause. "Hn."

Salem's face tightens at mention of the lost Pictish tribe. "The Howlers
were on their way out anyway," the Walker says as he crosses to the
counter to re-cradle the handset. "From what I've heard, and had confirmed
by a Fianna, they were having trouble getting past Stone Age technology
even before the Romans invaded, and unlike the Red Talons, didn't have the
advantage of being wide-spread."

Although Rhiannon has far more empathy for the Kin, she shares in the
cub's sympathy. "I can think of better ways out, though," she says, more
to herself than either Garou. She then blazens a trail to a more welcome
subject: fighting! "So, can you kick around the other cubs yet?" she asks
Cat with a teasing smile.

Cat glances up at Salem as the Walker Philodox elaborates the White
Howlers' situation; it doesn't appear to make him feel any less sorry for
them, though. At Rhiannon's suggestion, he blanches, a touch horrified,
and looks to Salem reproachfully.

Salem glances at Rhiannon and nods, unsmilingly. "Yes. Much better if
they'd died out quietly. Or in self-sacrifice, like the Croatan." At Cat's
expression, he simply shakes his head and says, to the kin, "He can throw
a decent punch, but has objections." And then he gives the cub another
humorless, unsmiling look.

Rhiannon arches one of her eyebrows at Salem. "Objections?" She looks back
at Cat. "Personal objections, or philosophical ones, lobito?"

Cat squirms under the scrutiny of the two adults. "I...don't...I don't
-like- fighting," he grits out, a touch on edge from his moon. "I don't
like hurting other people. That's all."

Salem leans against the counter, arms folded. "And, as I said, it's
something you _will_ have to know. To protect your Mother, your friends,
your packmates, your _family_."

"Not everyone likes fighting," Rhiannon says, her tone a little more
understanding. "You're not expected to, but no one's gonna call you a
monster if you do. Unfortunately, we all usually have to do things we
don't like. You can't really protect your friends or family without
fighting, to use Salem's example."

Something about superhero space wolves may or may not have been mumbled
under Cat's breath. He sighs, letting goes of his knees to sit
cross-legged on the floor. "Okay," he murmurs, still not happy about it.
"I'll pr...practice. I'll learn. I said I would."

Salem regards the cub narrowly for a moment, then nods. "We'll continue
tomorrow, then," he says, and looks at Rhiannon. "Did you tell him about
silver, or...?"

Rhiannon simply nods her approval to Cat, and relates to Salem, "I told
him what I know, and I have a few bullets with me if you wanted to show
him something."

Cat glances from Kin to Cliath, confused but completely innocent to
whatever may come next.

Salem hesitates only a moment before nodding. "Just one will do." He
pushes off from the counter and crosses over toward the couch.

Rhiannon reaches behind herself for something, then pauses. "Cat, do you
have any problems with guns?" she asks hesitantly.

The blond-haired boy shakes his head. "He has....had a shotgun," he says
softly. "He'd go out and hunt the deer out behind the farm. They're loud."
Cat rubs at the side of his face, irritable, then glances up at Rhiannon
again as something clicks.

Salem arches a brow. "Shooting me _shouldn't_ be necessary," he's careful
to note. "As, mnh, amusing as that would be."

"I don't mean to shoot him, but I do have to take the gun out of the
holster, to get at a round," Rhiannon tells both Garou with a smirk. In
the absense of violent protests, she retrieves the acient Colt from its
holster at her back and slides out the clip. A round is just visible at
the top, and she pulls it free gently; .45 hollowpoint, but the bullet
seems a little more shiney than usual.