Date: 31 Jan 2003, late night.

Studio

The studio is airy, elegantly modern and full of light: a large, high-ceilinged square room with almost an entire wall of windows. It still smells of paint, though there is no evidence of current painting. Rolled canvases lean in one of the corners, and a few finished pieces adorn the walls. A six-foot length of pipe hangs a painting behind the couch, creating a slightly more personal space that evidently serves as a bedroom; the piece is a dark, strange cityscape, an oddly skewed view of the world beyond the glass seen through otherworldly eyes. The edge of a futon can be seen beyond it; the walls around the bed bear swirling patterns of colors, calming shades of undersea blue and green. These patterns gradually soften as they grow out into the rest of the room, where walls are visible; angles replace curves, until the mural becomes a mix of ocean and curcuitry. The sofa is quirky and curving, a work of modern art upholstered in green velvet. A Turkish rug in vibrant tribal colors occupies much of the hardwood floor; the coffee table, a sculpture of recycled blue and green circuit-board and shiny aluminum, rests on it in front of the couch.

Opposite the windows, a compact kitchen is marked off by a crisp stainless steel counter. The west wall nearby has doors to a closet and to a small, sparsely-appointed bathroom. The east wall holds bookshelves of pale wood, supporting a small stereo, collections of pictures and found objects, and a good number of books; the corner between shelving and the wall of windows holds a plain wooden desk with a slim notebook computer and phone atop it, and an elegant mesh rolling chair.

The knock comes late on Friday night, long past the time that anyone but closest friends or most dire enemies would come a-calling.

Rina answers the door with Glock in hand, asking before opening the door: "Yeah, who is it?" Her voice is quiet; Cat must be sleeping by now.

"It's Jack," says Salem through the door.

She slip out, squinting a little against the brightness of the hallway and tucking the Glock into the front of her jeans. Her smile is relieved, tentative, touched with concern. "W'sup?..." After a moment studying his face, she tips her head slightly, bemused.

Salem is in a rare mood, one of barely-repressed glee; the glint in his eye is triumphant, and a grin keeps tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You won't believe who I ran into today."

Rina's chin lifts a little, and her eyes brighten. "Oh? Must be /someone/ good, t'make *you* smile..." She reaches up to touch a fingertip to his jaw, lightly, as if to tap at that smile.

"Jacob." And he actually _does_ grin, now. "It turns out the boy's been with his grandfather in Wyoming. Who's one of _us_." He snorts. "You'd think they would have let him _call_ us, so we'd know what the hell had happened to him, but nevermind..." He leans against the wall near her door. "Took him to the caern since he'd never been, and guess what happened then. Go on. Guess."

Rina flashes an odd half-smile. "I have the strangest feelin' you're about to tell me," she says dryly.

Salem smirks. "I'd have to. Because you'd never guess." He leans forward slightly. "_Francisco_ stumbled out of the Umbra."

Her face lights up in a brilliant grin that even reaches the amber depths of her eyes: a rare thing, that. "And he's okay?"

Salem straightens up, the grin faded into a self-satisfied smile. "More or less. He's been through hell. Looked half-starved and like he'd been on four legs for too damn long. But he'll be okay. I left him and Jacob at the farmhouse."

Rina beams. "Oh, that is /awesome/... I'll hafta go out and see him soon as I can."

Salem nods. "He'd like that, I think." He sobers a little. "No idea what happened to him... he says he doesn't remember anything, but..." He shrugs. "It wasn't pleasant, whatever it was."

Rina nods, a flicker of sympathy in her eyes. "Heard about that kinda thing happenin' sometimes," she murmurs, glancing down.

Salem shrugs again; whatever horrors Francisco went through cannot suppress the usually dour Philodox's rise in spirits. "He's back, though, and should recover, once he's gotten some rest. Of which there's plenty of, out there." He takes a deep breath, then grins at her again. "Hope I didn't wake you, by the way."

Rina shakes her head, smiling up at him. "Nah. Don't usually sleep in my jeans."

Salem chuckles. "Ah, good, good." He eyes her. "I'm in the mood to celebrate. Care to join me?"

Grinning at him, she lifts one shoulder. "Lemme get a jacket," she says. "Fuckin' cold out t'night."

She slips into the apartment, not taking terribly long; when she comes out she wears the leather jacket, and although the gun isn't in sight his sharp eyes might catch the signs of its presence under the coat.

"So, what's your pleasure?" he asks her once she's returned. His step is brisk as they head for the stairs down; the prodigals' return has got him energized.

Her smile is stunning and contagious. "Whatever," she answers. "Anywhere you want, aright?"

"Anywhere, hmm?" Salem pauses to take out his pocketwatch. "Hmph. Not much open this time of night, unfortunately, except for bars and the pool hall."

Rina rolls her eyes a bit. "Aright, anywhere that's /open/," she concedes. "Maybe someplace with good whiskey... the pool hall has /shit/."

Salem tucks the pocketwatch away. "Charlie's?" he suggests. "The atmosphere is shit, but the drinks are rather good, if I remember correctly." He trots down the stairs.

Rina keeps up with him, her own pace energetic. "Sure," she says. "He's got Jameson's, anyway."

"Excellent!" Upon reaching the street door, Salem opens it and holds it for her, the perfect gentleman, as always. "After you, Ms. Vencenzo," he says, smiling crookedly.

Rina steps though, a spring in her walk. "You still gonna split up Synthesis?" she asks over her shoulder.

Salem pauses a moment, then shakes his head. "No. Not yet, anyway." He steps out into the street, letting the door to the building close behind him. "I'm assuming that Francisco still wants to be a part of it. If not, well..." He shrugs casually. "We'll see."

Rina walks close beside him; sometimes arm in arm, sometimes with both hands in her pockets for warmth. It is just windy enough to ruffle her hair. "Cool."

Charlie's Tavern

The environment of this questionable establishment seems close and hot around you despite its fair size. The walls are done up in unremarkable fake-wood paneling, an ugly dark-brown that chips in many places to show the lighter plywood underneath. The floor is the sort of uneven, grey concrete that suggests this building's earlier life as a garage of some sort; it dips and rises, gathering small pools of beer and other spirits in various locations. Wooden tables are scattered about, some in better repair than others but most featuring elaborate networks of dents and scratches; a bar runs the full west side of the room, its uniform brown length accented by a single greasy metal footrest. Dark posters, long since faded into incomprehensibility, hang off the walls at odd angles. What light there is here reaches through in dusty beams from the two windows facing the street, and from the flickering fluorescent rig swinging gently over the single mottled pool table at the back. Perched up over one end of the bar is a battered, black-and-white television.

A single battered black door leads back south to the street.

Despite the cold, they take the Ducati--and that means speeding downtown at obscene speeds, with her leaning low in front of him. She parks across the street, hanging her helmet on a wrist as they pace toward the bar.

"I can't decide who's a more mad driver," says Salem as they enter. He gives her a sidelong look and a bit of a crooked half-grin. "You or Rhiannon."

Rina smirks, glancing over to him. "Me," she says simply. "Comes from the passive death wish."

Salem squints at her for a second, frowning, then smirks right back. "Ah. Thought it was something like that." He glances around at the bar, his eye picking out a likely table near the back. "Why don't you get us some drinks while I stake a claim on seating?"

"Sure," she says, spinning her helmet. "What's your poison?

Salem makes a little 'hmm' noise. "Surprise me. I'm in an adventurous mood tonight."

Rina grins, and heads for the bar, her smile cooling off as one of the customers murmurs something.

Salem secures the empty table, shrugging out of his coat and draping it back over the chair as he sits down. One hand reaches for the coat's inner pocket, where he keeps his cigarette case, but then he thinks better of it and simply leans back, arms folded, watching the kinswoman from across the room.

The jeans may be loose, but it doesn't really matter; tight leather is gilding the lily, in her case. She trades money for drinks, pausing long enough to ask the nasty-looking bartender a few things. The man's lip curls unpleasantly when he answers, and she ends up slipping him another folded bill across the bar. Then she turns and comes toward him, a highball in either hand, one rather precarious given the bhelmet hanging from her wrist.

He's got a smile for her when she returns, all rakish and roguish. "Getting news?" He uses a booted foot to push out the chair opposite his.

Rina sets down the iced whiskey in front of him. "Even Slab has Jameson's. Lucky us." She takes the chair and tosses back some of her own double shot.

"Lucky indeed." Salem takes a swallow of the drink, slow, savoring it. "Mm. You know," he says, "I actually feel rather optimistic. It's a strange sensation."

A smile tugs at one side of her mouth. "Good. Makes one of us."

Salem arches an eyebrow at her. "Things can't be shit _all_ the time." He pauses. "Or so I'm telling myself, tonight. But, yes, old habits die hard. I keep expecting the other shoe to drop, too."

Rina lifts a shoulder. "I'm sure it will." She glances upward. "Probably on my head. But fuck it, eh?" She lifts her glass to him, and this time there's a touch of grimness in her smile. "Salut'."

"Salut'," he replies, lofting his own glass. After taking a drink, he notes, "Like I'd let anything land on _your_ head."

Something wistful comes to her eyes, visible for only an instant before she turns her face away. Looking toward the door, with dark, unfocused eyes. "Yeah... guess you wouldn't. But if I watch another guy die f'me, I think I'll end up flattened anyway."

Salem shifts his weight and leans forward, elbows on the table. "Let's not," he says quietly, staring directly at her. "This is a _good_ night. Even if tomorrow's a pile of shit, tonight is good. Jacob's back. Francisco's back."

Rina looks over to him again, her smile both genuine and apologetic. "Yeah. I'm glad. We need Frankie, and we need the new blood."

"Damned straight." Salem sits up and tosses back another swallow of the highball. "Anything new developing on your end?"

Rina shakes her head, glancing away. "No. I, ah. Fly to Chicago, Friday morning."

Salem tilts his head slightly, favoring the good eye and studying her face. "Ah. That business meeting you were trying to arrange?"

Rina nods. There is a familiar determined set to her jaw, a distant look in her dark eyes. She lifts the glass again, and drinks; the amber-touched gaze never wavers from that place in the future, whatever she watches.

"Be careful," he murmurs. He toys with his glass, his eyes still on her. "When are you planning to be back?"

"I get in, ah..." She takes a PDA out of her pocket, and flips it open. "Monday morning."

Salem nods, then purses his lips thoughtfully. "Hmm."

Rina eyes him guardedly. "What..."

Salem flashes her a touch of that rogue's smile. "Nothing. Let's toast your trip, and its success, hmm?" He raises his glass with its last swallow.

Rina's smile twists a little, tugging upward slightly.

She drinks, watching him over the rim of her glass.

Salem drains his glass and sets it down with a low, satisfied sound. "Excellent." He returns her stare, then quirks a half-grin. "Seconds?"

The smile is touched with something ragged around the edges, but then, she also seems a little relaxed. She offers her glass. "Shit yeah."

Salem's chair scrapes as he pushes it back. "Same?"

Rina nods. "Yeah. Double Jamie's, rocks." As if he didn't know. It's begun to hit her, a little; she's gone from being a lush to a lightweight, apparently.

"Your word's my command," Salem returns lightly. He heads for the bar, weaving his way expertly through the other tables. He leans against one end of the bar, waiting a few moments while Slab serves another customer. He's got all the patience in the world tonight.

His eye strays back toward the kinswoman, once, just before the bartender gets to him; Slab looks even less happy to be serving Salem than he did Rina, but even the money of a battlescarred demon isn't turned away.

When he looks back, he might be startled by the bleakness in her eyes--or then, he might not. He has seen that look before, the way her eyes look into a distance, the expression that speaks of nightmares seen in that other world.

Salem pays for the drinks and returns with the pair of highballs, twins to the first set. His smile has lost some of its strength but remains visible. He sets the glasses down and resumes his seat. "Second round, delivered as promised."

She summons the flash of a wiseguy grin, to meet him. "Grazie," she murmurs, taking her glass and lifting it to him again with the murmured toast.

Salem raises his glass. "What are we drinking to?" He lifts his eyebrows, regarding her frankly.

Rina's smile is wry. "The future," she says quietly. "Good as anything else."

"The future, then." Salem clinks his glass against hers and gulps back a healthy swallow.

The trace of a smile stays, after she pounds down half the glass--disturbed for a moment by a wince, and a rueful shake of her head.

"You all right?" he asks, with concern.

Rina looks across to him with a wry, rakish expression. "Been a while since I got Irish," she says.

"Aah." Salem lifts his glass and regards the contents. "Never got along well with the Irish, myself. Like what's his name. Brian. First time I laid eyes on the man, I almost put my fist in his face. Not a very good first impression on either side." He grins crookedly.

Rina echoes the smile, her own just about genuine this time. "He was *fine*, though," she says idly, and takes another drink.

Salem snorts. "If you _like_ that type. Pretty, silver-tongued, ego-maniacs." He takes a drink. "Was it the green eyes with the black hair, or the accent?"

Rina grins. "Idunno. I mean, accents are cool and all that, but I was just more floored by the looks... once he opened his mouth, that attitude spoiled the pretty picture, y'know?"

"I've known a few women like that," Salem agrees. He dips his head. "Present company _not_ being in that category, of course."

The smile grows more intimate, as she lowers her eyes--a reflective expression. "I like real people," she murmurs. "John wasn't about puttin' a good face on things. You get what you get, kinda thing. Tough shit and expect no favors."

Salem nods, his expression sobering. "Yes. And no pulled punches, either." He swirls the liquid and ice around in his glass, looking thoughtful.

"Yeah." From that distance, she looks across to him--and then with a determined set to her chin, she lifts her glass. "John," she says simply, making a brindisi of that name.

Salem joins the toast readily, solemnly. "John Smith." He touches his glass to hers. "Few got any realer than him." He swallows the last of his drink.

Rina drains her glass as well, wincing a little when she swallows down the alcohol. Her eyes narrow a little as she looks across to him. "He ever talk to you, about... Seattle? Or any of the past?" Maybe it's the only way she can talk about him--drunk enough to numb away some of the memories.

Salem shakes his head slowly. "He mentioned, once, someone who'd trained him, but not in detail." He toys with his glass, studying the melting ice cubes, watching them shift around at the bottom as he tilts the glass one way and then another. "I've... heard... one or two other things. But." The halfmoon shrugs, a faint trace of bitterness thinning his lips as he sits back.

An absolute seriousness comes over her, as she watches him: the piercing sobriety of the slightly drunk. "I don'know what I'm gonna tell Quentin," she says quietly.

Salem looks up at her. "Tell him what you know," he says quietly. "What you can." Touch of a thin half-smile, wry. "I'm not going to fail the boy just because he's unable to get information that it's not possible to get."

Rina shakes her head minutely. "No, it's not that..." She swallows, looking oddly lost. "I just--" Her brow furrows and she looks down to the table, drawing a design in the watery circles with a fingertip. "There's stuff he-- wouldn't want talked about," she murmurs. "Stuff he hated, or he wasn't proud of..."

"We all have that," Salem says. His gaze is solemn but not heavy. "You knew him better than I did. I think you'd know what he'd want told and what he wouldn't."

She nods quickly. "Yeah," she murmurs, drawing idle water-glyphs on the table. "Yeah."