Saturday, 12 April 2003

Currently the moon is in the waxing Full Moon phase (84% full).

Red Mill Apartments #603

This smallish, two-bedroom apartment is somewhat sparcely furnished, but has a comfortable, homey look to it. A greenish-gray couch holds court in the main room, accompanied by a low, sturdy-looking coffee table. A squat black entertainment center is set up on the other side of the room, in perfect view of the couch; on it sits a rather large television and within the small cabinet area underneath is a VCR. There's bookcase set up along one wall, its shelves holding a stereo, a clock, various CDs and video tapes, but very few actual books -- most are nonfiction paperbacks, history books. The carpet's a neutral shade of tan and covers whatever floor doesn't belong to the kitchen or the bathroom; the walls and ceiling are a shade lighter and on them are a few Van Gogh prints; _Starry Night_ hangs over the couch in a position of prominence.

The kitchen's small and narrow, but it's clean and holds the basic conveniences of modern life, including (but not limited to) a microwave, a toaster oven, and little blue and white dish towels. A short length of hallway past the kitchen entrance leads to the bathroom and a pair of bedrooms.

Though the apartment is kept fairly clean, cockroaches are a constant presence and go about unmolested by traps, sprays, or other poisons. In fact, a small plate of fresh canned cat food sits in a corner at the far end of the kitchen, apparantly just for the benefit of these insects.

It's about a quarter to five on Saturday evening, and the Walker has been out for the entire day, having awakened and slipped out in the morning likely before the redhead was even awake. Now his key rattles in the lock as he lets himself back in, his face set into a humorless mask that Mel's come to know all too well.

It's also only coincidence that she's home at the time. She looks over to him with a masked expression, from the kitchen counter, arching an eyebrow in faint query. She's messing with something. Portfolio. Flipping through pages idly.

Salem meets her eyes briefly, then closes the door behind him and stalks toward his room, shrugging out of the big leather coat as he does so. April in St. Claire, and it's still bloody cold outside. "Any calls while I was out?"

"No, she didn't call. I thought you were there." Mel looks back down to her work lifting a hand to rub at her chin thoughtfully. A few scribbled pencil marks over a black and white photo. The punk gear's mostly missing, today. A few piercings in the ear, but mostly the redhead's rugged up in a deep, dark green windcheater. The baggy denim jeans aren't visible from behind the counter.

Salem pauses at the door to peer back at the girl, his eyes narrowing. Then he grunts an acknowledgement and disappears briefly into his room. The man emerges a few moments later, sans coat and heading for the fridge. He glances at the portfolio on his way.

The young woman looks up at him, as he disappears into the bedroom, her own eyebrows rising in faint surprise. She doesn't do anything at all for a while, just staring into space, thinking quickly with concern and then looking back to her work as he pays it some attention. Black and White photos of St. Claire's streets in surprisingly flattering light and angles, if not necessarily traditional ones. Comments are scrawled in nearly illegible writing, on pages around the pictures. Lines and arrows in abundance, circling out features to be exploited or better angles to line up.

"Been busy, I see," Salem remarks neutrally as he gets himself a glass of juice. He's dressed more casually than usual, sweatpants and a dark gray t-shirt.

"Y'know, I might've been being obnoxious instead'a serious. Y'could've at least made some kind of disparaging remark." Mel sends the Walker a tiredly dark look, lightened a little by a wry twist to her lips. "Yeah. Dunno what I'm gonna do with it yet. But there's ideas comin' out. I wanna do something with 'em, but it's gotta be cohesive. Themed. And if lady luck smiles on me, she'll whisper a message f'er it, too, other than 'ooh, that's pretty'."

Salem snorts, and the girl is rewarded with a faint, crooked smile. "The muse is who you're courting, but she's just as fickle. So I hear, anyway." He takes his drink over toward the couch and sinks down onto it with a grunt, stretching his legs out.

The redhead accepts that with a philsophical shrug and a 'what can you do' expression. "Know a girl named Renee? She was in here like... what. Ages ago, now? Months. You two'd been fighting or something?" The green-eyed creature's voice is light and absent. The almost defeated way she gets when she's sure she's probably bashing her head against a brick wall.

Salem wrinkles his nose at mention of the Bone Gnawer. "Renee is a stubborn little girl with a nasty misanthropic streak," he answers, his tone taking a dour note and his smile disappearing. "We have philosophical differences. But I haven't seen her in quite a while. Why?"

"Saw her hangin' round Bridge Street. Might have a place or family or friends or something in an old tenement round there." Expressionless green eyes watch the man. "Said you might like t'know she was back in town."

Salem's expression turns thoughtful. Calculating. "Is she now. Interesting." He takes a sip of orange juice. "She say anything else?"

"Not really." Mel looks back down to her book, resting her elbows on the bench, lacing her fingers and resting her chin on them.

Salem arches an eyebrow as if he doesn't quite believe her, then shrugs. He settles further back against the old couch, crossing his legs at the ankles and making an effort to relax.

"So how was your day? What'd you get up to?" Mel asks in a quiet, interested tone. Pretty green eyes still on her work. Distractedly she parts her hands to run them through her hair, over her forehead and back, to rest - linked again - behind her head.

"Walking, mostly," he answers, toying with his glass and watching the ice cubes shift through the orange liquid. He frowns faintly, pensive.

Mel sighs faintly - more like a tired breath out - whilst nodding and untying the bands in her hair, letting the red locks fall out. It's getting longer, and starting to show a tendency to curl, messily. "Why?" The question's purely curious.

Salem's mismatched eyes lift, studying her. "Getting a feel for things," he answers after a moment. "The city's a living organism. Things change, shift, evolve." He takes a sip. "It's also good exercise and helps me think."

The woman's face pales a little, as she remains studying her book. Stricken in that familiar way, when something reminds her. "Oh. Really... Makes sense," she murmurs, bringing her hands forward to massage her temples, then rising and moving to fetch a glass of water in a business-like manner. She rests her back against the sink, one elbow on it as the other holds the glass to her lips. "Enjoy your day off?"

His gaze follows her, curious and curiously... flat. "Generally, yes. Are you all right?"

Mel summons up a bright smile, arching a thin, fine eyebrow. "Hm? Me? Oh, yeah. Sure." She sips at her water and moves back over to her stool and book, setting the glass down and looking at him blandly. "Just wondering if there was somethin' y'wanted to do or if y'needed something or whatever, to enjoy your day off more or whatever. Y'know. Y'just seem like y'got a lot on y'mind."

"I usually have a lot on my mind," Salem says dryly. "Nor am I the only one." He lofts an eyebrow at her, then shrugs. "Right now, some time off my feet would be superb. After that..." He tilts his head slightly. "I'm open to ideas."

The woman's lips thin, and she eyes Salem with a wry expression. "John used to talk about the city like that. The walking thing. There. Happy? Your turn."

Salem toys with his glass, nodding slightly. "We had similar views. Sometimes, at any rate." He frowns slightly as a thought occurs to him, not a good one. He shakes it off and shifts his weight, sitting up. "Read the newspaper recently?"

Watching him keenly and resting her chin on the knuckles of one hand, Mel cradles her glass and shakes her head a little in the negative.

"Bears fighting in the park." One corner of his mouth quirks upward in sardonic amusement.

Mel arches an eyebrow. "Oh. That. Heh." She grins, expression cynical. "Like anyone knows what the hell /that's/ about. I don't think we gotta worry 'bout sewer-dwelling bears jumping me or any of your friends, though, Jack."

Salem's half-smirk lingers. "Oh, well. _That_ is a relief. I was losing sleep over that one." His tone of voice is very dry, not quite deadpan.

Mel tilts her head up, smiling darkly yet eyeing him challengingly. "Well why y'bring it up if that's not what's on your mind? Y'don't get out /that/ easy..."

Salem sips his juice, meeting her gaze evenly. "Well, a moment ago it occurred to me that it's been almost six months since we lost John." He isn't smiling anymore. "Though it feels longer than that. And, at the same time, nowhere near as long."

Mel's smile fades away, her jaw tightening as she swallows. The woman's lips thin and twist to something mildly disapproving and she grunts, "What's that got to do with anything?"

Salem studies his glass, absently swirling the liquid around in it and making the ice cubes clink almost imperceptibly against each other. "Nothing and everything." A beat. "I have a friend in a situation that's... similar to the one he found himself in. And it worries me."

Mel looks down, expression emptying. Leaving only a faintly mournful edge. "You know, Jack..." she murmurs distractedly, taking a deep breath. "I... I /really hate/... that I know you're mixed up in something... that I can't understand or be a part of. And I know Rina's part of it, and that's half of why y'spend so much time t'gether and..." She folds both hands on top of her book, eyes down, hair falling to cover her eyes from sight. He voice quiet. "I dunno. There's times I wish we could talk, y'know? But it's OK. I know why y'can't. So..." She swallows and looks up. Biting her lower lip. "Sorry."

Salem studies the girl with a pensive expression, still toying with his glass. "No need to apologize. It's... hard, I know." He pauses, takes a sip, and then continues. "The fact is," he says slowly, "the longer you live with me, the more likely you'll find yourself mixed up in... this. Sooner or later, and perhaps sooner, because you're a smart girl, quite perceptive, you'll be in too deep to escape it." His gaze is dark, almost bitter in its solemnity.

Her eyes, by contrast, are just so sad... big, and sad, watching him quietly with her resting her head on two hands, now, folded over each other. Hiding her mouth. "I don't... want to leave, Jack," she murmurs tightly, interrupting herself almost with a swallow. "But Rina... she said I didn't want to get involved. And John..." Tears well. "He only ever looked like he wanted out." Her voice trembles. "He just wanted to be a daddy and a good man."

Salem exhales a breath, not quite a sigh. "Rina's seem some of the worst of what this business has to offer. As did John. As have I." He purses his lips, considering his next words. "It's not _all_ bad. There's... good in the work. But it tends to shape one's entire life. You are, in a sense, one of the fortunate ones. You don't have to get involved in this. You can walk away." He grunts, a hint of wryness entering his voice. "I ought to encourage you to do exactly that. Go concentrate on photography and living a normal life. But... hm." His mouth thins, broodingly, as he trails off.

Slumping, holding her forhead up with one hand - the other arm folded and resting heavily on the counter - Mel watches the man. Green eyes brimming with tears, flickering with options, things to say, excuses to make... She murmurs, dully, watching him dead-eyed now, "You don't have anyone to talk to, do you, Jack."

Salem hesitates a moment at that, then shakes his head. "No," he admits. "I used to talk to Rina, but she has her own griefs to deal with."

Mel's gaze falls away from him, resting in unremarkable space, between the counter and her imagination. Quiet. Tired. Fragile, and... waiting.

She picks up, after a while, on his words. Whispering, "...'But' what, Jack?"

Salem doesn't answer right away, but continues to look pensive, studying his glass as though the answers might be devined from the way the ice cubes float in orange juice. After a moment or two, he grunts and sets the glass down on the coffee table. "Frankly," he says, sitting back again and folding his arms across his chest, "I don't want you to leave, either. I happen to like your company." A touch of the usual wryness creeps into his voice. "So while I _should_ urge you to get out while you can, I'm... mm. Rather selfishly reluctant to do so."

Mel accepts that without registering any change in her expression. After a while she props up her head with her other hand, and eyes the man wearily. "'I happen to like your company'," she mimics vaguely, with an almost wryly amused tone mixing with his favourite very factual, dispassionate tone. "Jesus, Jack... you've got a ways to go."

Salem grimaces, looking distinctly sour at the criticism. "Do you want to hear this or not?"

Eyes completely neutral and yet watchful, Mel murmurs quiet and dully, "You take things too personally." Heatbeats later, "Hit me."

Mel pages: As in, hit me with it.
Long distance to Mel: Salem isn't _that_ literal. Unlike any Red Talon I might play. :>
Long distance to Mel: Salem | "Hit me," says the girl. Rain-Falls-Up stares quizzically at her, then swings his fist. *THOCK*
From afar, Mel | Cradling a broken nose, the girl eyes the Red Talon darkly. "I swear to God I'll kill you in your sleep, one of these days," she threatens mildly, rolling her eyes. Chaos ensues.

Salem takes in a breath, lets it out. "All right." He sits forward, resting his arms on his knees, hands folded loosely between his legs. "First. Everything I'm about to tell you is going to be the biggest secret that you've ever had to keep. You can speak to _no one_ about this, except those already in the know. Nor should you write any of it down in any form."

Mel frowns, pulling away a little from the counter to pull up one knee on her stool and wrap her arms around the leg. Resting her chin on the knee. "Jack..." she murmurs, interrupting. "...I... I don't know if I wanna be involved. I just..." She takes a deep breath. And says a little quieter, "I just wanna be able to talk to you about your day. Please don't... I don't know. Sign me up for doing things."

She seems a little shaky, almost. Scared? ...No. Nervous. Different things.

"Believe me," he says -- quite seriously, no sarcasm or insult intended -- "I don't plan to ask you to do anything you don't want to do." He speaks slowly, quietly, his eyes steady on her. "This is just talk."

She watches carefully. Reserved and cautious. "Does anyone else have to know?"

Salem tilts his head slightly. "That you know?" He considers this, then shakes his head. "Not if you'd prefer not." He straightens up slightly, rubbing his chin.

"Whatever," she mumbles, just watching him, now. Cat-like and unwavering, curled defensively on her perch.

Salem mutters, "Right." He stands abruptly, looking restless, and pushes his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. "There is," he says, watching her carefully, "an underground society of werewolves and their kin whose entire purpose is to fight evil. Evil, primarily, in the form of a tangible force that causes nothing but entropy and corruption." He pauses here, jaw tight, his gaze steady.

Mel pages: | And John's ghost lingers, watching over Jack's shoulders with his arms folded and arching an eyebrow. The heavily-scarred man murmurs wryly, "That is... Not... how I would have done it."
Long distance to the room: Salem . o O ( So what else is new, Smith? )

Mel just sits there, frowning uncertainly and blinking. "Uh..." she murmurs, simply to fill the space. "Er," She swallows. "Are... you OK, Jack?" The tension in her lithe frame's not eased... or increased. This is unexpected, to say the least. She doesn't quite know what's going on.

Salem doesn't appear to be joking, not in the slightest. This leaves two worrying conclusions -- either he's telling the absolute truth, or he's dangerously delusional. Guess which is more likely?

He takes a breath. "Not particularly," he says dryly. "But I'm not insane."

Her face tightens, perplexed, and she leans forward a little - eyes narrowing as she inspects him, and then the idea, staring off into space. Her lips moving but not actually speaking. The shape of a 'w' a few times, incomprehension and frank disbelief darkening her features even further.

Salem's mouth thins. "I can prove to you that werewolves exist. The rest, the details, you'll have to trust me on." There's a certain freedom now that he's started this explanation, and over the underlying tension, he seems quite calm.

She looks a little weak, despite her best efforts. Cramped in that position now, Mel just keeps frowning with puzzlement and blinking. It's like grass started growing purple naturally, and everyone forgot to tell her. "What the hell are you talking about?" she murmurs weakly, in genuine confusion. Swaying a little, unconsciously. Pale skin is somewhat... paler.

Salem sighs softly and paces slowly across the floor, toward the cat food dish. "I'm talking about a paradigm shift. A large one. There's more to the world than you imagined. John was a part of it. Rina and I are a part of it. As is Renee." He stops near the cat food -- only a single roach on it currently -- to look at her again. "Which is why I deal with her, by the way. Because it's surely not because of her impeccable personal hygiene." Touch of the characteristic dry humor.

Rather ineloquently, Mel mumbles, "What?" frowning even more deeply and wobbling so much she's forced to unfold herself and slide gracelessly off her stool. Using the counter for support. "John..." she murmurs softly, under her breath, as thoughts seem to bump and collide and fight for space in her head. Frowning and looking into space, still, Mel reaches shakily for her water and sips at it - teeth clattering briefly on the glass. Then murmurs to Salem, ".../What/? Were... y... what? You're... not making any sense." Her gaze seems to shift to somewhere internal as she furrows her brows. "I think... I think..." As a matter of fact, the girl looks like she's suddenly become very very badly drunk. "...I'm going to be sick."

Salem's expression shifts toward concern, even a touch of worry. "Here," he says shortly, and moves toward her. Not fast, but not too slowly, either. "Bathroom's better for that."

Mel scowls, and looks up at him, weakly pushing at his chest with a hand. "No!" she mumbles, still looking as if fighting off drunkenness. Or maybe the effects of some drug. Certainly she doesn't seem willing to let her eyes focus on any one thing. "No, what the... what on /earth/ are you talking about?" Starting to sound a little aggressive, giving him what's meant to be a shove. Save the fact that she lacks the strength, right now, to shove even a toddler. "You start making sense, dammit."

She adds in annoyed explanation, "You're scaring me."

Salem tenses, then backs off a step. "Not my intention," he says, keeping his voice calm. "But, you wanted to know. You wanted to... be able to talk to me." He rests a hand on the counter, his eyes incredibly intent. "You wanted to know about my life. _This_ is my life. Has been since I was younger than you. Practically since birth, in fact."

"What..." she growls, between grinding teeth, and poking him viciously in the chest, "...the /fuck/... are you talking about? What's this Good and Evil and werewolf shit? You're shitting me. Tell me you're shitting me."

Salem grits his teeth, the overlay of calm eroding. "I am not shitting you. Do you want proof?" He takes another step back, his look... challenging.

Mel stands there, wobbling on her feet and staring at him blankly. Breathing deeply, and pale. "Pop the blue pill, motherfucker," she mumbles weakly.

Salem nods once. The man takes one more step back -- putting space between the two of them -- and then he... changes. Like a special effect, only there's no CGI or camera tricks or fancy prosthetics.

First, he gets bigger, passing the seven foot mark and gaining a shoulder span that dwarfs John's. Brow and jaw and neck thicken, nails darken and lengthen into something resembling claws, and black hair sprouts as Jack's good eye pales from a dark brown to gold, the iris engulfing the white.

But it doesn't stop with the Chaney/Hulk impression, because he grows even taller. Dark clothing vanishes into a thick carpet of pitch-black fur and everything human in his face vanishes in a long-muzzled, lupine visage complete with pointed ears and sharp white teeth.

Objectively, the process takes no more than a few seconds, and when it's over, Jack Salem is gone, replaced with something fanged, clawed, and nine feet tall, a monster with vicious scars across the left side of its face and a gray patch on its massive chest.

A monster which is, in fact, between her and the door.

She's already fallen over. The girl's crawled and slid and scrambled her way - wide-eyed - away from the monster. Her teeth bared and her chest heaving with the panting as she sweats and shakes. Lips moving, with no words coming out except finally a faint, "Oh God," in broken pleading. "Oh please God..." She can't tear her eyes off it. "Please don't kill me," she whimpers softly, repeating it over and over, breathlessly. Backing into the corner of the kitchen, huddled against cupboards.

The beast cocks its head, ears twisting backward. Then it shrinks away, and Salem walks slowly around the counter toward her, his brow furrowed. He stops when he sees her cringing on the floor, looking less certain than he did a moment ago and, suddenly, infinitely weary.

Mel simply stares up at him still, bewildered, wide-eyed and panting. Looking almost... betrayed, and still confused. After a few moments, her eyes slide away, and she moans as if ill. "He was... he was a monster... He..." She looks back to Jack, flinching at the sight, and looking away again. Pained. Another soft moan, as she clutches her stomach. "Wh-- he... Y-- I... Ohhh..." He can't get any closer without drawing her suspicious, alert, and terrified gaze.

"Not a monster," Salem says quietly. He stays where he is, one hand resting on the counter. "Though he had that potential, as we all do. He was a crusader." He pulls a stool over and sits down, the counter safely between them, a barrier. "The world is alive," he says, elbows resting on the counter. "Alive and in pain. Dying, really. We're... like white blood cells, fighting off infection."

Coiled in that tiny place she's claimed, Mel shakes her head viciously, looking down and away to hide the tears. Panting and rocking as she hugs herself, the girl shakes her head still and mumbles, "This isn't real... Oh God..." She whispers, weakly, "Gonna be sick... Oh God. Oh God. This isn't... oh God..." Another ill moan - perhaps familiar. More like mourning. "Oh no... No. God..." Her litany continues.

Salem pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes closing as though at the onset of headache. He mutters a couple of words in Serbian.

Crushed, and lying weakly against the cupboards - rocking a little - Mel looks at Salem without really paying him much attention for himself. "He lied... everything... /everything/ is... no." Crying. Refusing to believe. "No. It's not... /sane/ it's not--" She chokes and looks at Salem in betrayed confusion. "/Why?/" she whispers. Pained, and crying. She shakes her head out and growls again, "NO..." fighting reality.

Salem watches her with shadowed eyes. "I'm sorry," he says. His voice is dull, flat.

"No." She stares out beseechingly at him, and then the furniture around her. Then him again. "No..." Mel's mumbling denial grows weaker as she retreats inside herself. Running her world, her life, her history, everything she knew through this new filter. Destroying dreams and ideals and heroes. And magnifying the horrors... He can see it all happening in the movement of her lips, speaking whispering without voice, the shaking of her head as new thought after thought intrudes unpleasantly, against her will. She moans, "Oh God, please... /please/ no..." again, miserably, before her eyes roll up into her head and she slumps sideways.

Salem looks at the girl and sighs heavily. "Marvelously done," he murmurs in sardonic Serbian, and then gets up, walking over toward the redhead's unconscious form. Bending down, he picks her up and carries her to her room, to her own bed. Carefully -- but he's practiced at this; he's lost track of how often he's done this for Rina -- he removes her shoes and tucks her in.

After studying her pale face for a moment or two, the Walker goes back out, closing the bedroom door quietly behind him as he heads for the living room -- to have a drink, to brood, and to wait for her to wake up.