Salem 5 March 2003

It is currently 17:47 Pacific Time on Wed Mar 5 2003.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is raining lightly. The temperature is 44 degrees Fahrenheit (6 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the south at 12 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.75 and falling, and the relative humidity is 93 percent. The dewpoint is 42 degrees Fahrenheit (5 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waxing No Moon phase (17% full).

Garcia's Pizza Parlor

The first thing some people notice when they step into this room is the noise: almost always there is some sort of noise, of music or conversation or the employees in the back, cooking. Others see the lights, harsh yellow-white over the counter and on into the kitchen in the back, a dimmer, indeed faint glow above each of the tables scattered around. No matter which sense is first engaged by the room, almost all soon are captured by the smell of pizza; the smell pervades the place, an aroma of melted cheese, cooked tomato sauces, various meats, vegetables, all subtle, yet all blended together into the overwhelming smell. The smell tells the customer that, despite the less-than-classy look of the restaurant, the product is, undeniably, almost guaranteed to be good.

In the corner near the door is a trio of video games and a soda machine. Scattered around the room are several tables; lining the back, the counter on which the pizzas are put before they are picked up.

It's still very brisk weather, especially with the wind and rain. The girl insists on having him take her arm in a proper gentlemanly manner, as she huddles in that fur-lined red jacket and the baggy beige slacks.

Salem indulges her, and it must be said that when it comes to the gentlemanly manner, Jack's something of an expert. He holds the door open for her. "After you."

Mel's smile's broad and toothy with a rare satisfaction and pleasure. This kind of treatment must be rare. "Mmm. Gourmet pizza," she murmurs, eyeing the tables and menus predatorially. The way she stands indicates that the gentleman's in charge, tonight.

"More or less," Salem replies, his tone dry. His eye falls on a likely-looking table near the back, freshly cleared. "What are you in the mood for tonight?"

She looks over to him, smiling wryly. "Try to convince them to fit as many vegetables and toppings on as possible." She lifts a finger, adding seriously, "No pineapple or anchovies, though."

"No pineapples, no anchovies," Salem repeats, dutifully. "What do you want to drink?"

Mel wrinkles her nose and shrugs. "Water for now. If the pizza's any good, I think we could invest in a little wine, don't you?" She smiles at Salem thoughtfully.

Salem arches an eyebrow at the redhead. "I don't think this is much of a 'wine' type of place. Maybe beer." He smiles crookedly, then pulls out the chair for her.

K. C.'s clearing something or other from her pager as she bumps her way through the parlor door again. She pockets the device, checks her watch, and looks up to scan faces. Those whose eye she catches get a brief smile and maybe a nod. Never hurts to be polite.

Mel rolls her eyes, sitting without paying attention to the gentlemanly gesture. "Coke, rather than beer, sweetie," she murmurs, reaching over to grab a menu and flip through it idly.

Salem makes a little 'mm' noise. "Coke it is, then." The tall, scarred man shrugs out of his coat and drapes it over the opposite chair before heading over toward the counter. One brown eye slips over K.C. in passing.

K. C.

Cafe-au-lait skin. Amber eyes. Hundreds upon handfuls of micro-braids, the ends spiraling to the middle of her back, top lengths held back with a simple golden clip. Manicured nails, currently painted something close to mother-of-pearl, and just enough makeup.

She stands 5'10" on a slender frame. Casual's the word, if she can do casual. Even in faded denim and Keds, there's still a hint of refinement. Maybe it's an act. She wears a black tank-top beneath a man's white shirt, tucked in and left unbuttoned to the waist. There's a simple golden necklace around her throat and a watch on her left wrist.

A flash of blue might catch the eye as Quentin ducks into the parlor, a rather broad smile curving his lips in a cheerful manner as he slips 'round the door to head towards the arcade games in the corner. Not looking where he's going very well, he just might bump into K.C. as she looks around the place.

The gothic ambles his way inside after KC, looking as if he was hurrying. "Frigg'n traffic. Hey KC." He says, nudging her shoulder as he slips by in a flourish of trench coat and baggy jeans. "The others are over there." He says, motioning with a hand as he starts towards Salem's table.

Quentin

A shock of electric blue hair spills down just over this teenager's brow, whispering at the nape of his neck as well; slightly long both in front and in back, a razor's work having shaved the sides just above and behind his ears into a buzz-cut haze of cerulean. The features of the night-pale face shadowed by that hair are slightly angular in their lines, high cheekbones leading down to a sharp chin matched by the straight line of his nose, the eyes to either side of it a startlingly bright shade of green that gleams almost emerald in the right light. He's a rather slender young man, in height just a few inches shy of a full six feet, although a touch of leanness to his limbs hints at the recent development of muscle to strengthen his frame.

He's dressed in a rather casual fashion, with a few flares of individuality to make him stand out. A hooded jacket of waterproof nylon taffeta falls over his upper body, midnight black in sheen with streaks of deepest blue to add a bit of colour to the garment, its large velcro-closed pockets bulging slightly with a variety of hidden contents. Beneath that can be seen, when the jacket's open or off, of a less glossy black -- a sweatshirt of a warm cotton weave worn slightly loose against his slender frame, but comfortable. His hands are gloved, black leather and polyester mesh offering more of a stylish commentary than actually protecting the fingers within from the elements. A pair of black jeans cover his legs, the tough denim fabric scraped to a paler white at his knees and a few spots near the cuffs where they brush over the edge of hi-top sneakers crusted with mud and dirt from walking outdoors.

Jeremy

Here stands a young man nearing the age of twenty-one, thin, pale, and not much to look at. When once he was a shy, mild mannered and ignored computer nerd who couldn't weigh much more then a hundred when wet, now stands the exact same person, yet, gothlike. The glasses on his face reveal the pair of blue eyes he bares. His black hair still sprawls out over his face, but no longer dipped in blonde about his bangs, just a solid darkness.

His clothing has changed dramatically as well, having abandoned the button down shirts and slacks, replacing it with baggy dark jeans, a solid black shirt that simply reads: "Chicks dig scrawny pale guys" A long, ankle length trenchcoat billows about his thin frame, nearly cloaking him like a cape. Upon his feet is a pair of heavy steel toed boots, those which travel halfway up his calf. Chains adorn his jeans, three hanging off his wallet, and two more simply embedded into the fabric, jingling and clanking as he walks. To finish off his ungodly apparel, there is a leather collar bound around his neck, with a small metal skull dangling from the end of a steel hoop.

The cute young redhead at Salem's table seems too distracted to notice the attention, instead starting to slip out of her red leather jacket, and letting it fall back over the chair she's sitting on. She rolls her shoulders a little.

K. C. is just going to get nudged on all sides, then. First by Quentin, to whom she murmurs an apology, and then by Jeremy. It's a wonder she doesn't simply turn in circles. "Jeremy. The others ... others? Oh!" She paces after Jeremy toward the table in question.

Salem reaches the front counter and is about to order when he notices Jeremy and Quentin. And that Jeremy's with K.C... and where they're headed. The ex-Ronin's lips thin; he glances past them to Mel, then back toward the other members of Clan Roach.

"Hey Quentin!" Jeremy calls over, obviously in a good mood. See what he found? New tribe mate. He waves him over as well, continuing to Salem. "Hey, this here is KC, the girl I mentioned earlier in my voice mail."

Huh? Jeremy? Quentin's half-way to the machines, not having responded to the apology, when he catches that familiar voice and the name confirming it; a turn on his heel faces them, although he takes another step backwards before stopping himself, and he blinks a few times. "Jer! Hey, bro.." From that, to Salem and Mel, a slightly startled look on his face. Hey, he dug for worms and struck gold.

Mel looks up, at the sound of familiar voices and names, now. Curious green eyes regard the small gathering with a mixture of suspicion, amusment, and... mischeif.

Salem

Tall and dark, he stands a few inches over six feet, a well-built and rather dangerous-looking man somewhere around thirty years old. A mane of thick black hair, usually gathered into a loose ponytail that hangs nearly to the middle of his back, frames a somber, hawkish face, the left side of which is twisted by scars. If not for this disfigurement, he could be considered handsome -- albeit in a dour, moody, saturnine kind of way. His face is one designed for brooding and cynicism, and the short black beard that lines his mouth and jaw makes him look all the more satanic. His left eye is dead white, lost within the tangled jungle of scar tissue covering that side of his face; his good eye, on the right, is dark brown, not quite black. Both are shadowed, as if from lack of sleep. In short, he has the look of the very devil about him, or of a Christ figure gone bad.

A red and black flannel shirt hangs loosely open on his tall frame, revealing a plain black t-shirt over a pair of black BDUs. His combat boots are black as well, somewhat scuffed and certainly well broken-in. Something hangs from a cord around his neck but is hidden under his shirt. The tails of the long black leather duster sweep around his ankles; the coat appears new and is in excellent condition.

Salem mutters a short word under his breath in Serbian, then favors Jeremy and K.C. a thin smile, the latter getting a careful look-over as well. "Pleasure." He nods over toward the table with the redhead. "Have a seat, why don't you? Seems that I'm buying tonight. And that's Mel." In a lower tone, he adds, deadpan, "And no, she's not confirmed family, so keep that in mind."

K. C. folds her arms across her chest, catching an elbow in each hand. She glances from face to face, managing to keep a somewhat-reserved smile firmly in place. "Salem. Mel. Quentin, right? I'm, ah. Well. He already said. K. C." She clears her throat. "The pleasure's mine, really."

A flicker of Quentin's gaze takes in Salem's tight smile at his words, a nod barely-perceptible answering them, before he looks back to K.C. and flashes a quick grin of his own, offering over a hand. "Good to meet you."

Mel turns a little in her chair, watching over at Jack's small gathering of friends, with a faint little smile. He rests back on one elbow. Observing thoughtfully.

Jeremy pulls up a chair and slips down with a pull of his trench coat around him, leaning over the table some. "I can help spot some cash also if you want." With that, he uses a foot to slide a chair out for KC, next to him.

Mel tilts her head, watching Jeremy with a curious frown as he flops uninvited at her table. "Hi. Nice to meet you. Make yourself at home," she says, smilingly.

The door swings open, the little bell above it ringing as an Asian teenager squirms inside, a plastic 7-11 bag hanging off one arm. She blinks, glancing around the parlor until her eyes settle on the clock; then she nods, checking inside her parcel.

K. C. shakes Quentin's hand and gives him an encore of the smile she offered with the apology. "Nice to meet you too." Jeremy heads off and kicks out a chair, but K. C.'s not in tow. She shakes her head a little and tilts it toward Salem. Clearly, she's waiting for a go-ahead.

"Hi Mel." The kinfolk says with a grin as he gazes across the table at her. Shifting his shoulders some, he plants his elbows on the table and props his chin up in the palm of his hands.

Salem gives K.C. the requested go-ahead, waving her over toward the others. "Go mingle. We can talk business another night."

"He did," Quentin observes in mildly amused tones as he notices K.C.'s hesitation, "Say to have a seat, you know." If there's anything else he was going to say, he's de-railed by the arrival of the asian teen into the store, a rather broad grin flashed over towards her. "Lyra."

Mel arches an eyebrow at Salem, as he gets closer, jerking her head towards Jeremy. "Presumptuous, isn't he?" She smiles an incredibly insincere smile at Jeremy, then frowns a little at Salem again. And the others. "Didn't know you were planning a party, Jack. Mind doing the introductions, before /everyone/ here I haven't met starts usin' my name?"

"Oh. Right." Quentin gets another quick smile, Salem does too, then K. C. heads on over to that empty chair. Once she's reached the table, she offers Mel a hand. "K. C.. Sorry about the mini-invasion." She sits.

Lyra- that Asian teenager with the 7-11 bag -blinks, grinning shyly when she catches sight of Quentin and nodding to Salem. "H'lo Mister Salem, it's been awhile. Pip- brother Jeremy!" Salem gets a parting smile before she weaves her way to the Walker boys, bag bouncing against her side. "(I didn't know today was official cityfolk pizza day. I'dve brought Auntie.)"

("Maybe you should have. Take a seat.") Quips Jeremy back with a flair of his own, picking right up on the asian tongue. He leans back some into the chair and gives Mel a fisheye for a moment, then stiffles a yawn into the back of his hand.

The slender fingers of Quentin's hand reach over to playfully bat at one of the floppy bunny-ears bouncing past Lyra's shoulders as she draws closer, a chair snagged with one hand and dragged over towards the table to sit himself down without anything of a how-do-you-do. "Mel." It's a cool, absent greeting before he grins Jeremy-wards and admits, "Been awhile, bro."

Salem eyes Mel from across the distance, then exhales a rueful breath and rubs at his left temple. Stalking back toward the table, he says, "I'll make it up to you, Mel, all right?" He even sounds apologetic. A little. Probably not enough. He glances around at the impromptu gathering, then gives her some names. "Jeremy, Lyra, you've met Quentin already I believe, and K.C. has more a sense of courtesy than I do. Better?"

The redhead smiles charmingly at K. C., accepting the offered hand and shrugging slightly. "It's OK. As long as Jack pays, all is well." she tells the woman, and narrows her eyes at Salem. Jeremy is ignored entirely, though Mel manages to stop glaring at Salem long enough to give Quentin a sharp-toothed smile. "And yes, Lyra and Quentin I've met already."

Jeremy is used to being ignored. Hell, he has been his entire life, so, not getting eyes from a hot red head doesn't bother him in the least. She's Salem's 'bitch' anyways. Glancing to Quentin, he wiggles his fingers, flashing off a trio of sharp looking rings. "Hey bro. I'm fine."

Eamon pushes open the door to the pizza parlor and pauses just inside as he looks around, seeing so many familiar faces. He chuckles and walks to the counter, where he orders two slices of pepperoni and a large coke.

Childishly, Lyra sticks her tongue out at Jeremy. "(I can't be expected to think of everything! Jeez.)" She flicks Quentin in the back of the head, then blinks before grinning in surprise at Mel. "Miss Mel! I haven't seen you in awhile either..." K.C. and Salem get curious glances, as the Gnawer tries to puzzle out...well, everything.

Mel smiles tightly at Lyra, shrugging apologetically - as if to indicate 'These things happen'. The girl starts tapping her fingers on the table, and resumes quietly frowning at Salem.

Salem gives Jeremy a rather sharp eye, then shakes his head. The Elder leans against his chair, looking over the group. The group which is indeed starting to get a few wary looks from the pizza parlor's staff. "All right. What does everyone want?" New Moon or no, his patience is straining a little at the edges, though only a little.

Eamon walks over to Salem's table while he's waiting for his pizza and grins at the occupants. "Here I come for a late night snack and what do I find? Well, I guess I shouldn't be surprised. So, whassup?"

Quentin's head ducks forwards a bit at the flick, a playful glare cast back towards Lyra before he looks back over Salem-wards with a brow's lift. "Uh. I was just coming in to play some Gauntlet Legends and grab a few slices of pie, actually."

Eamon

It seems that Eamon doesn't grin as much as he used to, as if he's been through something traumatic recently. His bright red hair has grown back fully now and the green eyes still sparkle, but some of the humor has left them. He wears a weathered black leather jacket and a black Harley-Davidson t-shirt. With the black jeans and motorcycle boots, he almost looks like a biker. Indeed, he can be seen tooling around town on a Harley, but not quite as often as usual. His left ear is pierced twice, a gold hoop through each pierce. A scruffy red goatee adorns his chin and below his lower lip. When in public, he wears thin, black leather gloves in all weather, completely covering both hands. Both hands seem to function normally, however.

Mel murmurs with a smile towards Eamon, "Jack thought he'd take me out to dinner. Hi. My name's Mel. I'd shake hands, if I thought there was enough room."

Eamon nods to Quentin, then looks back towards the counter as a voice calls out, "Two slices!" He pays for his food and brings it over to the table, where he grabs an empty chair and slides it over to Salem's table. He sits and sips a bit out of his coke, then glances over his shoulder quickly and pulls a flask out of his inside jacket pocket, unscrews it, lifts the cup lid and pours a liberal amount of clear liquid into the cup. He winks at the others, then puts the lid back on. "Shhh."

Salem looks at Eamon. Just _looks_ at him for a moment, his expression bland. Then, deadpan, he says, "Welcome to the party." His good eye flicks down toward Mel again, considering her for a moment, then glances over the others.

The Gnawer halfmoon tilts her head at Eamon, setting her bag on the floor next to Quentin's chair and poking his shoulder idly. "I just stopped by for soda, don't worry about me," she says cheerfully. She looks down at the Galliard, tilting her head the other way and giving him that sort of glance that conveys confusion and asks for an explanation.

Eamon suddenly bursts out laughing and slaps Salem on the shoulder. "I'm sorry, man. This looked like some kinda strategy session or something. Yo, guys, let's give the man and his lovely lady a little peace." He picks up his coke and pizza and walks to another table, beckoning the others to follow.

Mel folds her arms, settling back in her chair and looking at the assembled group. Nice woman, little Asian girl/blue-haired boy couple, goth-wannabe geek, strange man with a fondness for booze. She smiles at them /all/, then Jack. "So how'd our order go, hon?" she enquires politely. With an almost lethal excess of politeness, there's an added question and a raised eyebrow. "Strategy?"

The look Salem gives Eamon this time is less deadpan and a little more acidic. "No idea what you're talking about," he tells the Fianna, flatly.

Eamon pauses before he sits, then asides to Mel, "Oh, don't mind me." He then makes the universal 'drunk' hand gesture, miming a bottle-drinking movement.

Rising up from the table, Jeremy dusts himself off a bit, smoothing down the fabric of his jacket, then pushes in his chair, yawning. "Well. I think I'm ganna take off." He says, rolling his shoulders back a bit, making his chains and collars bounce a bit upon his person.

Eamon begins to munch his pizza, then after a moment he hisses over to the other table. "Psst. Q." He waves Quentin, Lyra and K.C. over to his table.

"Anyway.." Quentin cracks into the semi-silence as he moves to push himself back up to his feet, offering a faint grin back towards Salem and Mel, "..I guess he's right. We'll leave you two some privacy for your date."

Mel smiles back at Quentin, and there's a wolfish edge to it, when she does.

Lyra blinks, confused glance moving from Quentin to Mel to Salem to Jeremy...the girl looks properly bewildered. Then, probably to Salem's chagrin, she gets the wrong idea and giggles. "Mmhmm! Sorry to intrude." She grabs her bag and heads over to Eamon's table, braids bouncing against her back.

K. C. shakes herself a little and climbs to her feet. "Sorry. Again." Wry smile. She offers her hand, draws it back before it can be taken, and settles for a somewhat lame, "It was nice to meet you both," before she goes to the other table.

Salem says nothing, though there's a sour edge to his otherwise bland expression, and most of this is reserved for Eamon and Jeremy. As people move off, he looks down at Mel again (he's still standing). "Why don't I go check on our order?"

Mel watches the others leave, and it seems there's a hint of guilt entering her expression. She coughs and smiles back up at Salem. "Yeah. And have a chat with your friends." She pauses. "But bring some coke first, hm?"

Eamon looks relieved as the others come over to his table. "At last! Yeesh! I was about to come over there and drag you over here by your ears!" He sips his coke. "Ah, much better. So, what's up with you guys?"

Salem straightens up and makes a dismissive gesture. "I'll catch up later. Be right back with the drinks."

Quentin lets a faint chuckle spill from his lips, observing with a nudge against Lyra's shoulder, "She's the one with the tug-able ears.." A wicked grin to the Gnawer, before he sprawls out in a chair and replies, "..jack and shit. Well. Not really Jack. He's on a date." Please don't let Salem have heard that.

"Nothing's up with me, really," K. C. volunteers. "I'm not going to be very interesting, I'm afraid."

Eamon snorts a bit of a laugh. "Noticed that, did you? Eh. I guess I'm one to talk. Er, I don't think I know you," he points to Lyra, "or you," He points to K.C.

Salem heads back up front to the counter, grumbling under his breath.

In retaliation, Lyra tugs on Quentin's ear, smirking. "Mister Salem on a -date- with Miss -Mel-. Imagine!" At Eamon's finger, the Gnawer blinks. "You know me, you scolded me that one time I- er." She pauses, sneeking a peek at K.C. "Well, I was running around in the Park and I ran into you."

It's probably not the most polite thing to do, but the redheaded girl breathes a sigh of relief and leans back in her chair, once all the Garou are gone. Mel tips her head back a little and closes her eyes, reaching to rub at her forehead a little.

Eamon says "Oh. Did I? Oh yeah, I guess I did."

K. C. offers her hand again, as she's done so many times before. This time to Eamon. "K.C."

"Ow," Quentin hmfs, slanting her a look before chuckling a bit, easing back in his chair and relaxing as the others speak.

Eamon shakes K.C.'s hand, swallowing a mouthful of pizza before he says, "Eamon. Good to meetcha. You new in town, then?"

Lyra shakes her head, checking inside her bag again. "I'm going to head out soon, pip- will you stop by later tonight, you think?"

Salem returns to his and Mel's table with two glasses, one of Coke and the other with plain ice water. "It'll be another five or ten minutes," he says as he places the drinks down and sits. His manner's calmer now.

Quentin tips his head to look at Lyra at her words, one brow lifting in mild disappointment. "Oh? Alright.. and sure, I'll be by. Your place?"

K. C. nods. "Very new. I've only been here a couple of days." She smiles a little. "Still getting used to the city, I think. You look familiar though."

Mel clears her throat, nodding and sitting up a little as she looks over to the gradually shrinking table. "Go over," she murmurs. "Have a chat. I just wasn't feeling up to it." She eyes Jack sideways. "Mostly the Gothboi's fault, but anyway. Run along. Pizza'll be a while."

Eamon says "I do? Oh yeah, I remember you. The shooting range. You were coming out as I was coming in."

The halfmoon smiles at Quentin, tugging on his ear again. "Mmhm, just wanted to get a soda. Percy's got fleas and I have some medicine here for him. He's been pretty miserable lately." She grins, watching K.C. and Eamon converse before winking at the galliard. "Chin up, the place seems pretty full today." Her voice drops to a whisper for his ears only, and then she laughs, heading over to the counter. "See you later Kentin!"

Salem's mouth thins. "I'd rather not, actually." His voice is not pitched to carry past their table. "As I said, I'll catch up with them later."

Mel hmms, idly, watching the other table anyway. She leans on one elbow, running her other hand over her hair. "Mm. Cute." She smiles a little. "Think Q-Bert there was a little mad at me."

Lyra orders a soda, waves at any looking her way, and then leaves the parlor to head for home.

K. C. breaks into a broad grin. "That was it. I knew I'd seen you before. Glad to see I'm not losing my mind already."

"You and your dog.." Quentin can't help but snicker then at the whisper, a sidelong glance cutting across the room towards the table where Salem and Mel are perched, before he raises one hand in a farewell to Lyra. A look back to Eamon, and he asks, "So what've you been up to lately? It's been awhile.."

Salem grunts. "It's the age. He gets moody sometimes." He says this as though he himself were never guilty of such a crime.

Eamon waves to Lyra as she leaves. "Catch you later!" He nods to K.C. "Gettin' in a little practice there, eh? What're you carrying?"

Mel gives a sharp-toothed grin, staring at her drink with amusement and sipping at it. "Mmm... First time I've ever seen so many of your friends in the one place," she notes idly.

"Yes, they swarm sometimes," Salem responds dryly. He shrugs, leaning back in his chair. "I'm sorry that you, er, got caught up in it."

K. C.'s eyebrows lift. "When I'm working, or when I'm playing?" She smiles a little. "I like the way my friends Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson put together a nine millimeter. I was playing with a Walther P22 today, though. It was nice. Cute."

Mel laughs a little, shaking her head and frowning.. whilst smiling, in a puzzled way. "No, I'm sorry, I usually love a group of people. Dunno why your lot put me off." She looks to Salem and waggles a finger. "Probably the way that punk sat down and just assumed I was gonna love him to death. Why'd he know my name, huh? I seen him around no more'n twice. He's a nobody."

Eamon says "Oh yeah? Glock 9, myself. How 'bout when you're working?"

"I'm a fan of the Walther PPK, myself," Quentin offers quietly, the blue-haired teenager offering a perhaps unexpected opinion of guns along with a faintly wry smile, "'Course, that's because I can't handle the kickback on anything bigger. And, well. The Bond factor."

Eamon does a dead-on Connery impression. "The name's Bond, James Bond." Heh.

K. C. grins. "I go for the Derringer in the thigh holster when I'm going for the Bondgirl look," she tells Quentin, then looks at Eamon again. "Nine mil. Sometimes a .357. I'd love to be able to get away with a .45, but I think the bad guys'd laugh themselves to death."

Quentin flashes a grin back to Eamon, and then with a chuckle observes, "Rhi still won't let me try out her .45. 'Course, I'd probably end up like that old lady in the Police Academy movie if I did.."

Eamon chuckles. "So what do you do for a living, then?"

Salem shakes his head slightly. "Jeremy's... mm. A little off-putting sometimes, yes. Smart but less than apt at social skills."

Mel's lips thin, and she shakes her head a little, like Salem. She tilts her head up, towards the other table. "Nice." She sucks on a tooth, curling hands around her glass, thoughtfully. "Just wonderin' about my name bit, actually. Talk about me much?"

Salem toys with his glass of water. "I've mentioned you a few times," the Philodox admits. He shrugs. "People are curious."

K. C. says "Me. I'm a lawyer. Well. I was going to be a lawyer. The full J.D.'s on ... hold, for a while."

Mel ahhs, nodding a few times and lapsing into thoughtful silence. Staring at her coke.

Eamon grins. "Pistol-packin' lawyer, eh? If you can't acquit, blow 'em away, is that it?"

Quentin murmurs wryly, "Pity you weren't prosecuting O.J."

The pizza, a large and loaded with every topping but the loathed anchovies and pineapples, arrives, set down at Mel and Salem's table by a narrow-faced twentysomething guy. "Anythin' else?" he asks, his eyes twitching between the pair.

"That'll be /fine/, sugar," Mel coos to the serving guy, with a brilliant smile. All eyes for the boy, but waiting for the employee to go scurrying away, before she actually looks to the pizza, then Jack, then the pizza. "Y'hungry?"

"Skipped lunch," Salem says. Then he eyes her. "You _did_ say you wanted them to pack on the toppings."

Mel grins, shrugging. "Just waiting for y' to hoe-in, I guess. See if you attack it with as much gusto as my cooking." Ahh. Sarcasm. She winks, and lifts a slice to start chomping.

K. C. arches an eyebrow at Quentin. "The jury found him not guilty, and with the shakiness of the evidence ..." She shakes her head. "It's old news." She shakes her head again at Eamon. "The gun's are just for fun. Blow off some steam. Sometimes they come in handy."

Eamon is sitting at a table with Quentin and K.C., leaving Salem alone with Mel. He finishes one slice and goes to work on another, with sips of coke in-between. "Yeah, I hear you. I run a music shop, myself. Can't hurt to have a little self-defense in this neighborhood."

Salem regards Mel for a long moment, then grunts and helps himself to one of the bigger slices, looking somewhat disgruntled.

Mel giggles, rubbing a hand on the poor man's shoulder, next to her. "Teasing, Jack. Teasing. Thank you for dinner. It's a much-appreciated change."

"Hmph," says Salem, and then gives the redhead a wry little smile. "You're welcome. If you want, I'll even spring for a movie."

Mel arches eyebrows at the pleasant surprise. "Hmm. Gee. Lemme think," she drawls out sarcastically.

K. C. grins a little. "Fitzpatrick's? That your place? D'you play, too?"

Eamon says "Oh, you know it? Yeah, I play. Not much anymore. Sax, mostly."

"Lady's pick, of course," Salem adds, and takes another bite out of his pizza.

The redhead shrugs. "Something with explosions," she grunts, now beginning to hew away at the pizza industriously.

K. C. leans forward on her chair a little. "Sax. So you play jazz or what?"

Eamon nods. "Yeah, jazz, Irish folk, whatever." He finishes up his pizza and coke, then stands. "Sorry to bail on you, but I gotta go. Catch you later!"

Salem considers as he chews. "Mm. _Daredevil_, perhaps?" He arches a brow at Mel. "Unless you'd rather go see _Gods and Generals_."

K. C. ohs and sits back. "No problem. Catch you around."

"I heard Daredevil was shit," Mel murmurs around a mouthful of pizza, leaning over her plate in a most unladylike manner. She watches the other table, and its comings and goings.

Rhiannon's stomach answers to its own clock, and this time of night seems like a perfectly good point to have a nice, greasey slice of pizza for dinner. The front door opens and she walks in, dividing her attention between navigating between the tables and talking on her cellphone. "Just the one. No, the other one. Yeah. Have...what's her name. Kelly, have her check the sheet. I'm sure there's something."

Eamon smiles and waves. "Night, guys." He heads outside, waving to Salem as he passes.

"Nice t'meet you!" Mel calls over to the biker-guy, smiling brilliantly, then looking over to K.C. "Invite her too, or what?" she murmurs to Salem.

Eamon heads past the trio of video games, through the door and onto the street.

Salem glances over at the other table, briefly, his good eye fixing on K.C. for a moment. Then his attention's back on Mel. "Would you mind?"

Dourly the redhead replies, "Well it's not like I was plannin' on gropin' y' in the theatre." She jerks her head over towards the woman with The Amazing Hair. "Go on."

K. C. climbs to her feet, and rummages a business card holder out of her pocket. She slips a card free, considers it and Salem's table, then takes a couple of steps toward the couple. "I don't mean to interrupt again. I just wanted to give you my card, Mr. Salem. It's got all my contact information. If you need it, of course."

Salem lofts an eyebrow at The Amazing Redhead, likely gathering up some witty reply. Then he pushes his chair back and stands to accept K.C.'s card. "Thank you. I was, in fact, about to ask you if you'd care to join us." He glances briefly at Mel, then looks back at K.C.

Rhiannon spots Salem and gives him a tip of her head, attempting to catch his eye, although the phone conversation continues unbroken. "No, Jack's got that tomorrow. I traded him for Saturday so we could--right." She glances at the redhead seated with him, but just as quick she's back to her phonecall.

Mel gives a nod of confirmation to K.C., and eyes the approaching Rhiannon.

Quentin, who had headed off to the bathroom and on the way back stopped to actually order himself a slice of pizza, starts back over with a plate (and a slice) and a cup of soda. As everyone seems to be leaving, he quirks a brow.. and then notices Rhiannon, calling over playfully, "Hey! What're you doing here?"

Rhiannon places her order at the counter, picking out a few random slices and a large soda. She doesn't hang up the phone, but instead covers the receiver, and resumes talking as soon as the order is in. A few more animated exchanges, and the cellphone is clicked off and stowed in her jacket. She turns towards Quentin and gives him a rueful smile. "Grabbing some dinner, hermanito."

K. C. glances between Salem and Mel and settles on Salem. "Join you? I didn't ... I mean, I don't want to intrude. The offer's kind, and another night, I might take you up on it. First few days at the new job," she says, directing a smile at Mel. "Wouldn't look good if I showed up late. So thank you, really, but I'll pass this time."

Mel grins over her cup, an impish smile that fades only when she sips. "Too bad. Some other time." She turns her people-watching screen over to Rhiannon and Quentin.

"True," Salem says in a tone of bland amiability. He gives Rhiannon and Quentin a glance, then tells K.C., "I'll give you a call in a few days, once you get situated."

"Pizza?" A long-suffering look is directed towards Rhiannon, Quentin's expression almost despairing as he lets out an overly dramatic sigh, stepping over and bonking his head against the edge of her shoulder, "Whatever am I going to do with you? Wait! I know." He straightens again with a wicked grin, "I'll tell Tricia about your eating habits."

K. C. smiles, apparently genuine. "I look forward to it. You two have a good night, hm?" She tucks the business card holder back into her pocket and heads for the door.

"I figured you'd cut me some slack, since it's," Rhiannon checks her watch, "well on the way to ten and I've only got eyes for two things: food and a pillow." She's tired, but in as good as mood as one can be otherwise. "Mama gave up on me years ago." Her gaze drifts over to Salem and his companion, and she asks casually, "So puerco espin has a new escort?"

Salem's mouth twists into a wry little half-smile as he sits back down. "How's your pizza?"

Rhiannon pages to the room: For those who should know Spanish and don't or just want to know, that's porcupine.

Long distance to the room: Salem has two unofficial deed-names, yes. The Porcupine, and Big Fucking Gun.

"Nah. An old one that just didn't get to see the light of day til tonight, it seems." Mel eyes Salem sideways, grinning and tucking into the pizza the couple have in front of them. "Ours is good, yes."

"I'm just joking 'round," Quentin observes with a chuckle, as though it was necessary to point it out, "You're right, though, I wasn't up for making anything tonight.. long day serving law'n order?" A glance over towards -that- table as well, and a faint snort as he mutters more privately, "Yeah, he took her out to dinner. Skank."

K. C. heads past the trio of video games, through the door and onto the street.

Rhiannon shrugs. "Not long, just, eventful. All of them good events, so that's better than the alternative." The word 'skank' draws her attention, and she glances at him with a riased eyebrow. "Not her biggest fan, I take it?"

"Good." Salem appears to be ignoring Rhiannon and Quentin for the moment. "I'm not sure what else is playing this week, and while Gods and Generals has explosions, it doesn't have a good deal of them and is about four hours long." He Spocks an eyebrow at Mel.

Quentin's brow darkens just a touch, and he turns away with a slow shake of his head. "No," he murmurs in low, private tones for Rhiannon's own ears as he shifts closer to her, "Let's just say she was leading some people to believe things that weren't true, so I'm not very happy with her. That, and so far as I'm told we don't have any reason to think she's family, and she knows way too much just being around Salem, probably. I never thought he'd let anyone lead him around by his dick, let alone some.. outsider."

"We may have to go straight to bed, instead." The girl tilts her head up, narrowing her eyes at Quentin and Rhiannon, as she whistles. "Yo. Sparky. Save it for when we're gone, huh?

Salem's expression goes suddenly flat. He puts down his glass and turns slightly in his chair, enough to fix that one brown eye on cub and kin. Both it and its dead brother narrow.

"Doesn't sound like the sort of thing he'd do," Rhiannon murmurs in a low voice, frowning slightly. Her order appears behind her on the counter, and she takes up the tray and soda. "You got a seat somewhere?" Mel's call earns her no reaction, although Rhiannon does look back at Quentin to watch him.

That call brings a rather unamused look back in the girl's direction, although at Salem's glare across the pizza place Quentin turns away with a shake of his head-- parting from where he's standing beside Rhiannon and heading towards the table where he was sitting with K.C. and Eamon earlier. "Yeah, over here.."

Salem's gaze follows Quentin for a moment longer before moving away and back to his dinner companion. "Maybe something interesting will come out this weekend," he says blandly.

"Who was that I saw leaving? The woman with the braids, and the biker-guy," Rhiannon asks as sets down her tray. It has 3 large pieces of pizza: one with pepperoni, the mystery combination slice with artichoke hearts and mushrooms, and the final slice with olives and onions.

"Oh, um.. that was the new chick in town, and Eamon," Quentin replies with an absent bob of his head, setting his own perfectly normal slice of cheese down on the table with its plate beneath it and setting his soda beside it as he eases in to sit, "You got Jer's message?"

Mel scowls vaguely at Quentin for a moment, then shakes her head and looks to the pizza that's left. "Yeah. Well. Maybe there'll be a comedy on tonight." She finishes off the coke in her glass and traces a little pattern of condensation on the table, from the rim of the glass.

Salem examines the wreckage of eaten pizza and what's left of it. "Hm. We could pick up a video, too, on the way home, and stow the rest of this for tomorrow."

Rhiannon narrows her eyes. "Right. Her name is...initials? KD, CD, something like that?" She sits heavily and wastes no time digging into the pizza, taking a healthy bite of the artichoke and mushroom slice. "Mmmmmm. Dinner," she mumbles, leaning back in her chair.

Mel nods a few tmes. "There's thinkin'," she murmurs, and looks up and over to the counter. "Yo! Cute serving guy! Can we get a take-out box, here?" Waiting for a response, the redhead looks over to Salem grimly. "Pick up some /real/ drinks on the way back, I'd think."

Quentin flickers a glance back over to the two at the table, grimacing briefly before turning back to his own dinner-- picking up the slice and slightly-folding it before taking a bite from the tip, chewing, and swallowing. "Tip's the best part," he murmurs conspiratorially, before affirming, "K.C.. Yeah.

The waiter grins toothily and trots over a box for the oddly-matched pair.

Salem nods. "If you like." He accepts the pizza box and the check from the thin youth and fishes out the appropriate amount of cash, plus tip.

Rhiannon nods in agreement to the name. "That's it. I'll see if I can drop by and see her at some point. Or, hell, she might even end up at the barn some days, depending on what she does." She gestures with the remaining crust of the decimated slice of pizza, and informs Quentin, "The hell you say. Crust, with just a little bit of cheese and sauce, is the best part."

Mel rises without a word, and starts slipping on the heavily-fur-lined red leather jacket that was draped over the back of her chair. "Let's blow this popsicle stand," she murmurs to Jack, stepping outside without even giving the gentlemanly Walker a chance to open the door for her.

"You know nothing of pizza," Quentin accuses with a dismissive fluttering of one hand through the air, "Really. The crust is good, but.. still."

"Jawohl," Salem murmurs, gathering up the pizza and slipping into his own coat. Mel's out the door by the time he's moving to the exit himself, and he pauses briefly at Rhiannon and Quentin's table to give the cub another taste of that trademark glare. "We need to talk. But not tonight. I'll call you." Then, with a nod to Rhiannon, he leaves.

You head past the trio of video games, through the door and onto the street. The aroma of fresh pizza follows you out the door.

Regan Avenue East, Downtown

Red brick buildings rise, some of them crumbling from disrepair and disuse, others patched together by repairs. Graffiti covers some of the walls near street level, some rude, most crude, but the occasional drawing is meant for a lighter-hearted reaction. The graffiti becomes a colorful, almost gaudy mural at the western end of the district, an announcement of the Regan Hope Project's presence. Trash litters the majority of the gutters, from Harbor Park in the east across to just before the Regan Hope Project's domain, where the trash is less prevalent and the buildings less run-down. Small shops with apartments in the floors above them span a block here and corners there: delis, second-hand clothes, textiles, small restaurants, a grocery store. Sandwiched between the buildings are weed-choked empty lots.

Mel

Bright green eyes, flashing with mischief, regard the world from a suitably fae visage. The redheaded girl's fair skin is brushed in places with freckles; she couldn't be more Irish if she tried. Fine, well-defined features are pleasing to the eye, and the hair tied up in a bun (with strands left hanging out in strategically-located spikes) is all natural red. She'd be even more attractive if she had more in the way of curves, or wore clothing that would at least show her body off to better effect. Nonetheless, her lithe, 5'8" body has definite potential.

Punk is the order of the day. The cooler weather seems to be disregarded as Mel wears a navy blue tank (torn in places), that exposes well-toned shoulders and arms, plus a few pieces of twisted metal and leather strap arm-jewellery. The tank top exposes plenty of midriff - showing a belly-button piercing - and a shows a thin line of dark red underwear, just sticking slightly above the black PVC skirt. Despite the skirt, she also wears some dark green trousers that seem baggy over her thin legs. Typically, the ensemble is given those finishing touches of combat boots, a thin black leather collar (with some gaudy faux-diamond stone hanging off it) and numerous piercings in her eyebrow and ears.

Mel is waiting outside, arms folded, huddled up in her jacket with a dull, stony expression on her face. She simply taps a foot, waiting for Salem to follow.

Salem emerges from Garcia's in short order, pizza box in hand and his coat hanging open. His face is tight, teeth clenched.

Arms still folded, Mel pivots on one heel and starts to walk with the man - the route back to their apartment. She stares out at the street from under lowered brows, darkly. Not saying anything.

Salem walks with the girl on his good side, as is his habit. He glances sidelong down at her. "Still want to rent a movie?"

At least she actually gives the question some thought, chewing her lip slightly and scowling. "Yeah. Picking them out is always fun. Getting to browse." She moves from having folded arms to stuffing her hands into her jacket pockets. The next comment comes out from between clenched teeth, for the most part; "You know I think we need to make it nice and clear to your friends that we are /room-mates/. I cook and clean, you pay the greater share, and we thought it'd be /nice/ to /go out/ for once, and enjoy a little time out of the /same old four walls/."

Salem's mouth thins. "I thought I'd made it clear to them. To Quentin, certainly." He grimaces. "But, I suppose that since everyone else in this damned city is sleeping with each other willy-nilly, they have to assume we are, too. God forbid it would be otherwise."

Mel shakes her head sourly. "Didn't think it was possible, but half your friends are bigger assholes than you are." There's a very sudden and frighteningly feral smile directed his way, as she adds with excess perkiness, "Makes me look at you in a whole new light."

Salem eyes the redhead warily for a moment, then snorts. "_That_ is a statement with frightening implications." The local video store -- a cramped little place that stays open past midnight -- comes into view as they turn a corner.

"Don't get hung up on it," she advises dourly, lips twisted with a hint of faint amusement. "Ah. Perfect." She enters ahead of the man, pushing the door open with barely a pause in her step.

Salem replies with a dry, "I'll try not to obsess," as he follows her into the shop. Shelves of videotapes and DVDs marked with handwritten signs for the various categories greet the pair. Behind the counter is a thin, greasy-looking guy in a Rocky Horror Picture Show t-shirt who doesn't even look up from his book.

A quick review of the titles available leaves Mel muttering wryly, "Geez. I missed quite a bit in the last few months. Only managed to sneak into /half/ of these flicks when they came out..." She starts turning covers over, apparently at random.

Salem trails behind her, still holding the pizza box and skimming the titles with a casual eye. "Time does march on... They're going to hold the Oscars soon, aren't they?"

"/No/ idea," Mel replies casually, disregarding various flicks with a ruthless eye for quality. She shakes her head after a while and mutters, "Too new. Need old," and wanders into the darker depths of the store's shelves.

"Looking for anything in particular?" asks Salem, as he follows her.

The back of the store is where the good stuff is -- the weird stuff. The sign over the very back shelf reads "Cult"; back here are also to be found the "Foreign" and "Anime" categories. A trio of goths -- the only other customers besides the redhead and her hulking roommate -- are lingering over the Cult section; one of them is looking at the back of a copy of _Naked Lunch_.

Mel grunts, "Ugh," and then suddenly grins, seizing upon something in - obviously - the wrong spot. "Ernest goes to Jail. Rock. We Have to see this." She clasps the video as a possession to be fiercely guarded, then nods over to Salem. "Now you pick."

Salem regards Mel's choice with a dubious expression but doesn't comment. "If you insist." He turns his eye toward the nearest shelf, pursing his lips thoughtfully, then moves back toward the front of the store, skimming the shelves. He finds what he's looking for under the section marked "SciFi," a copy of the original 1970s _Rollerball_.

Mel winces, grinning, and purses her lips together to whistle lowly. "Oooh, ow. Damn." She tilts her head in a half-nod and winks. "Good one. Owch." The redhead jerks her head towards the counter before moving briskly to go pay. "C'mon. My shout."

"Ouch? Hmf." He follows her up to the counter. "You've seen it, then? Or the piece of shit they remade it into a few years ago?"

The counter-guy continues reading from his copy of _Cujo_ as they approach, not looking up.

"Both," Mel replies cheerfully, slapping her video down on the counter and leaning over it a little to stare into the attendant's eyes. "Boo," she whispers suddenly, winking then clicking her fingers and pointing to the video.

The attendant glances up with a look of irritation that quickly turns into a grin at the sight of Mel... a grin that withers when Salem comes up beside her and sets his video down with hers. "Uh, yeah." He puts the book aside and shifts over toward the register. "Just these two?"

"S'sere some kinda special deal goin' f'gettin' a couple old videos, sweetie? Y'know. Three for the price'a two or somethin'?" The redhead's in the poor attendant's face, tilting her head and smiling optimistically.

"I can, uh..." The attendant's brown eyes flick toward Salem, who's leaning against the counter and looking wryly amused, and then back to Mel. "There's, uh, rent one and get another rental free thing when you, uh, first sign up fer membership. And, uh, y'need a membership anyway to rent, um."

"Cool," Mel says, with a slow nod and dragging the word out, as if helping along someone with an intellectual disability. "Soo... whadda we need? Driver's licence?" She looks over at Salem and then moves to filch his wallet.

Salem straightens up and shifts the pizza box to his other arm, getting the wallet before Mel can go diving into his pants pocket. He gives Mel a sharp but amused look.

The attendent nods. "Yeah, driver's licence, s'long as it's got your current address on it." His eyes keep flicking back and forth between the pair.

Mel's look to Salem is narrow-eyed and mischevious, but there's a nod in the manner of one professional being trumped by another and recognizing the effort. She takes the time to give the attendant a good looking over, in the meantime. For his own benefit.

The attendent takes the big man's licence gingerly and then drops his eyes as he works at the computer-slash-register.

"So," says Salem to Mel in the meantime, conversationally. "What do you have against Rollerball?"

Mel wrinkles her nose, as she leans against the counter and regards Salem. "Production values? Acting? Costumes and hairstyles, definitely. It's almost as funny as Ernest. Better than the remake of course, though, duh..."

Salem hrmphs. "It was the seventies. You have to make some allowances."

Mel grins toothily, green eyes flashing wickedly. "OK, oldtimer. How old were you when you first saw it?"

"I'm not _that_ old," he retorts, huffily. "I saw it only a few years ago, late night television." He glances at the video store clerk, who's still poking at the computer.

Mel chuckles with genuine delight at the poor man taking the bait so easily. She shakes her head and gives his arm a brief squeeze. "Cheer up Jack. Just teasin'... you look so /old/ for someone as young as you are. Y'could afford to lighten up a little while you still /have/ your youth." She lets go and rests against the counter, almost trying to sneak a peek at the computer screen. "Hate to see what you're like when you actually get old."

"Gray and bitter," Salem replies, his eye going back to the attendent.

The screen's angled away from the counter and difficult to see; the clerk finishes copying down information from the Walker's driver's licence and clicks a button at the bottom. "'Kay." He pushes the little laminated card back across the counter and taps a few more keys.

Mel makes her efforts to see what's on the screen more obvious and blatant. She grins and winks at the attendant, when he undoubtedly looks, and continues to try 'sneak' a peek.

The clerk smiles nervously, trapped between the allure of the attractive redhead and the aura of repressed violence that emanates from her companion. "Um, that'll be, um, three forty-five. Due back day after next, b'fore ten."

Mel slaps some money on the counter, and mimes a kiss. "Keep the change." Snatching up the videos and looking up at Salem, Mel grabs the Walker's arm and tugs him along. "We'll be out of bed by ten the day after next, won't we?" she asks innocently, on the way out. Clearly audible to the clerk.

The clerk shoots Salem's back a jealous look.

Salem lets himself get dragged along, falling into step with the redhead. He snorts at her remark. "You realize, of course, that this may be why people think we're dating."

Mel har har hars in a very unladylike manner, separating from the man's arm and shaking her head with a dark grin as she review the video cases. "Bah. That is me giving up on ever being something other than your neice or your plaything, in public. And making people uncomfortable."

"I can't picture you simply settling for that," Salem says. Back out in the street, they're blasted by a fresh burst of bitterly cold wind from the direction of the river. "Besides, making people uncomfortable is _my_ job."

Mel hunches over, smiling grimly despite the cold wind. "Yeah, well. Half tempted to give your friends something to /really/ twitter and snipe about," she mutters with a determined tone. "Half," she reassures him, looking sideways, then back to the videos. "Though the booze is still a good idea, I don't think we need a top-up on kitchen supplies just yet, hm? How much we got left in spirits?"

Salem purses his lips. "Enough to possibly enjoy the Ernest movie. Or at least to be able to stand it."

"Haw haw haw..." Mel jabs him hard with an elbow, and grins. "We'll watch Rollerball. I'll get just as many giggles."

"Heathen," he accuses, one corner of his mouth quirking upward.

"Dinosaur," she returns smugly.

Long distance to the room: Salem | "You're just jealous because no one calls YOU 'Tyrant Lizard King'."

You paged the room with 'Alas, he'd never say that IC. :)'.

From afar, to the room, Mel laughs.

Mel pages to the room: She probably wouldn't be able to stop laughing for the next five minutes.

Salem snorts. "Just because I happen to like old movies? Feh."

Mel mimics the man, muttering, 'Feh,' bitterly, and grinning with a dark satisfaction as they continue the walk home.

"You're really in a mood, aren't you?" Salem remarks after a few moments. They're not far from home by now, just passing the all-night liquor store.

Looking to the sky for a few moments to analyze the thought, Mel looks faintly surprised as she confirms it. "Maybe. I wonder why that is?"

Salem makes a thoughtful little 'mm' noise. "The incident at the pizza parlor?"

Mel takes a breath and nods a few times. "Probably. Little shaken and I don't get it. I hang around all /types/ of rude-assed scum, and it dun't rattle me. Guess I was just taken aback. Off guard." She looks faintly annoyed at the idea.

"Jeremy can have that effect on people," Salem says dryly. The dim light over the front entrance of Red Mill beckons them.

"That pizza gonna need re-heating?" Mel asks, one eye on the box under the man's arm.

Salem glances down at the box under his arm and nods. "Probably. Unless you prefer it cold."

Mel rolls her eyes. "We'll heat up the oven. Microwaving pizza sucks." She looks up at the impending door, and searches in her pockets for keys.

Salem picks up the pace of his walk as the building gets close and another bitter wind whips at them. March or no, winter is still clinging to the northwestern city. "Fine. You take care of that and I'll get the drinks and movie ready."

"It's a date," the woman murmurs absently, messing with the door and opening it up. The relief of warmth and shelter is sudden and welcome. Mel shrugs her jacket off, and carries it over her shoulder as she climbs the stairs without really bothering to wait for him.

Salem's boots are heavy on the steps behind her, clomp clomp clomp. He studies her back thoughtfully, but keeps whatever's going on inside his head to himself.

Slipping inside, Mel keeps the door open with a combat boot, and waits patiently, folding her jacket up in her arms. She whistles, like a farmer calling his dog, and jerks her head towards the apartment's interior.

Salem grimaces slightly at the whistle. "Grr," he says sourly. "Snarl." He clomps into the apartment, dropping the pizza box on the counter and shedding the heavy leather coat.

Mel manages to hold a straight face for about ten seconds before chuckling gruffly, and kicking the door closed. She hits the oven first, and the videos second. Her jacket's tossed bedwards through her open door casually.

Salem takes the time to hang up his coat in his bedroom closet, neat and tidy bastard that he is, before going to get the drinks -- vodka for himself, unadulterated by anything but ice, and a Bailey's for the girl. Bartending duties taken care of for the moment, he settles onto the couch and starts taking off his boots.

Mel crouches in front of the VCR, peeking at the screen for a moment and deftly flicking one of the roaches from the buttons. "Dirty little bastards," she mutters, then flips the flap open on the deck. "Y'all better get out of there, video coming through." Any roaches inside have no more warning than that. The tape starts to play automatically, going static'y and whirring as she rises and heads to tend to pizza and over. She pauses only long enough to eye Salem archly. "You're in my spot. Beware the consequences," she advises, before scooping up her drink and moving to stuff the pizza in the oven.

Salem arches an eyebrow. "I'm quaking in abject terror. Really." He smirks and kicks off his boots, then settles back on the couch, legs stretched out.

Mel whistles lowly in appreciation. "Y'got cajones, mister," she notes mildly, sipping calmly at her drink, and kicking the oven door closed. As the 'Have you bought a pirated video?' warning message comes up, she paces around to the living area, and crouches to deal removing those heavy combat boots. And one of the tighter arm-bands, briefly, just to rub the skin underneath.

Salem crosses his legs at the ankles, socked feet resting comfortably underneath the coffee table. "You're not as fearsome as you think you are, Mel," he tells her archly. "Much of the shock value has diminished with repeated exposure."

Mel arches an eyebrow, slipping into her room. "Huh." She actually looks faintly surprised. "That's... incredibly disappointing." She emerges from the room wearing boxers and a tank-top, and flops onto the couch, mirroring his position, stretching out lengthily. "Hmph." She eyes him sideways, calculating. Then shrugs, and moves forward to pick up the remote. "Enh. Just as well, I guess." She chuckles and fast-forwards to the previews, where she stops. "Now shaddup. You'll ruin the previews."

Salem arches an eyebrow, then twists his lips into a wry smirk. "Yes'm," he murmurs, and takes a sip of vodka.

Bad seventies previews show. The redhead starts giggling already, smirking faintly and resting her teeth on the edge of her glass. Transfixed by the bad hair and soundtracks, and the hackneyed plots.

Salem makes a little 'hrmph' noise but refrains from further protest. Eventually, the tape gets around to the opening credits of the main feature.

Mel leans back without looking and pats the poor man on the thigh. "Sorry sweetie. I'll behave," she murmurs, leaning back into the couch and crossing one leg over the other as she stretches and sips.

"Oh, don't restrain yourself on _my_ account," says the man. He adds, deadpan, "Dear."

Mel murmurs thoughtfully to the ceiling, over her glass, "Well, at least he's beginning to take instruction..." She looks over her shoulder and adds - with a smile obviously too wide to be that sincere - "If you wanted to make a quick trip back down to the liquor store, we could have a drinking game. Shot'a vodka every time they use apalling cinematography or a cliche."

"I'd win," Salem states, firmly. "No contest." He cocks an eyebrow at her.

Mel arches /both/ eyebrows at the challenge, and makes a faint 'hmph!' of surprised amusement. Looking back to the screen, she sips and murmurs wryly, "Well the whole idea behind drinking games is that /everyone/ wins, but anyway..."

Salem's faint smirk has a touch of the insufferable about it. "Simple logic, Mel. More body mass, more drinking experience..." His attention's drawn back to the screen, and Jonathan E.

Mel tsks and shakes her head slightly. "Methinks," she murmurs faintly with an impish grin, "We are not thinking about the same thing."

Salem cocks his head. "Ah. You mean a _non-competitive_ drinking game. Pft." He takes another sip.

Mel considers for a while, and it's some time before she shakes her head and replies frankly, "No, actually." Then hoists herself off the couch and puts her glass back onto the coffee table. She gestures towards it, murmuring, "Top me up. And make room for the pizza." She pads silently into the kitchen.

"Yes'm," Salem replies, well-trained. He pushes glasses and magazines aside to make a pizza-sized space on the coffee table and tops off Mel's drink.

When she returns, with steaming pizza, Mel burps, flops back onto the couch, and scoops up both pizza and drink. Rolling her head around slowly and then her shoulders, she mmmms and wiggles her toes. "Kicks the shit outta going to the movies." Chomp.

Salem shifts his weight slightly, getting comfortable. "Commissions are cheaper, at any rate. No surround-sound, though."

Mel wrinkles her nose and grunts, "Most of the theatres have the sound up too high, anyway. I get enough ear-damage from my already-established schedule of clubbing, I don't need extras throwing my balance outta whack."

Salem takes another sip of vodka on the rocks. "Good point." The grindingly slow pace of the movie -- its biggest fault, if you discount the seventies fashions and hairstyles -- picks up as Jonathan E. and his teammates actually get involved in a game of the violent sport. Cinematic injuries abound.

Mel's not quite as entertaining to watch, at least, when the action gets going, but still amusing - biting her lip in sympathy, or wrinkling up her face and covering with a hand to avoid bursting into laughter, at other points. She's otherwise true to her word and behaves with no more than the odd one or two comments. "Oh come on, you /have/ to acknowledge that as utterly hackneyed?"

Salem responds to these with nothing more than a 'hrmph'. He's finished with his drink by the time the game's over and refills his glass. "Heathen," he says, repeating his earlier comment.

Mel just laughs, amused more by his responses than the movie's age. She pivots a little, leaning back to stretch along the length of the couch. She tilts her chin up and opens her mouth. Cradling her hands around her glass, she has to use her tongue to gesture, and demand, "Pizza. Ahhhhh."

Salem lofts an eyebrow at the girl. "I'm feeding you by hand, now? You can't get it yourself?"

Mel rolls her eyes. "It's less fun," is her simple excuse.

Salem snorts. "For whom?" But, obliging soul that he is -- when the moon's thin and he's in a good mood, anyway -- he sets his glass down and gets Mel a slice of pizza, holding it just out of reach of her teeth.

Mel actually sits up a little to snap at the tip, sharp teeth closing quite viciously around the food. She sinks back, chomping noisily and slurping with satisfaction. "Mm. Good," she notes, around the mouthful of food.

"_Down_, girl," he says, much like one would say to an aggressive dog, and settles back as she devours the hapless slice of pizza.

Mel seems to be quite happy and content to lie there like that, devour the pizza, occasionally sip at the Bailey's, and watch the pretty violence.

The pretty violence intersperced with slow-paced scenes showing off the decadence of the 'futuristic' society and the struggle of the Corporation to deal with Jonathan E. thwarting their intention to use Rollerball as a way to demonstrate that one individual's actions don't matter. Rules get changed, games get more and more violent, and Jonathan E. keeps winning.

Salem watches with laid-back satisfaction, quite relaxed as he nurses his vodka.

For some reason - maybe it's the alcohol - Mel's expression grows slowly and quietly more morose. And she watches in more silence, with less stirring.

Sometime before the climactic scene -- the no-rules, no-penalties, doesn't-end-until-everyone's-dead last game -- Salem glances over at her. "Something wrong?"

Mel wrinkles her nose and shrugs a little. Quietly the redhead murmurs, "Nothin'. S'just funny. How some things in life can make y'see old things in a new light."

Salem considers this, head slightly tilted. "Mm. Anything in particular?"

Mel shakes her head slightly, transfixed by the screen. "They never make the movie where he /doesn't/ make it. Where the dreams of one man trying to make a difference are crushed. And not for lack of trying... but just because sometimes the other guy's just too big."

"I'm sure if you dug around in the independent film section, you'd find something like that." Salem's tone is dry, lightly sardonic. He drains his glass, half-melted ice cubes clinking against his teeth. "But, personally, I dislike deliberately depressing movies. Most people don't."

"Yeah, I know, I know... it's good to give people hope and all that shit. It just feels... Yeah. Don't mind me. It's nothin'." Mel shakes her head and just watches, expression blank.

Salem toys with his glass, his eyes on the television screen, his expression solemn. "You're thinking about John Smith." There's no accusation in his tone, and it's not a question.

Her expression crumbles entirely, eyes still fixed on the screen. Fully recognizing the seriously downturned corners of her own lips, Mel rests a hand idly over her mouth and nose, rubbing distractedly at her cheek to cover the gesture. She shrugs once; casually. Noncommittal. A few moments later a tear falls.

The game rapidly turns brutal. Bloody, even. The protagonist's teammates are eliminated, one by one. And he continues to fight on -- battered, stubborn bastard that he is. "Jon-a-than!" chants the crowd. "Jon-a-than! Jon-a-than!"

Salem glances over at the girl sitting next to him, then reaches over and squeezes her shoulder, lightly.

"Just f'getit aright?" she says very quietly and very calmly, in a shaky voice, from behind the hand. She sniffs once, noisily, more an effort to just clear her nose, then breathe out properly. Tears are blinked back, her expression is mastered. Cold. Serious.

The hand is withdrawn. Salem studies her for a moment and then nods, turning his attention back to the screen.

One hand goes quickly over her shoulder, pulling his hand back to her shoulder. Squeezing it tightly, despite the calm on her face. Tenuous, at best. She just sniffs quietly once more and watches.

Salem arches an eyebrow. The hand stays, then. He doesn't say anything more, just watches the movie as it procedes to its end, and credits.

When the credits start, she rises quickly, head down. Nodding a few times, she sniffs again and starts gathering up the pizza and glasses. Her mouth's too moist, audibly so when she says weakly, "Thanks Jack. It was a good night. 'Preciate it. Pizza'n stuff." Nodding some more, she fridges the pizza as quickly as possible and leaves the glasses in the sink for later.

"Welcome," says the scarred man quietly, his gaze following her across the apartment. "Going to bed?"

Mel simply nods repeatedly, as she moves quickly and noiselessly to her room, arms folded over her chest. "Yeah. Night."

Mel pages to the room: Head still down.

Salem exhales a sighing breath and says, "Good night. See you in the morning."

She retreats - head still down and nodding - into her room, closing the door with an excess of care. The light turns off almost immediately after.

You paged Mel with 'He will, of course, clean up and wash the glasses before he goes to bed himself. Which won't be for hours, of course.'.

Later... after the crying's faded into inaudibility, and he's eventually decided to retire. After he's stared in the darkness for a while, and time's started to blur. There's noises, and shuffling, and then his door opens. Mel stands there, folding her arms defensively and leaning against the door frame. One foot tucked behind the other. "Jack?" she asks quietly.

"Mnh?" The bedroom's dark; in the shadows she can just see him rolling over, propping himself up on one elbow. Peering at the figure in the doorway.

Her head's down a little, though turned so she can still peer curiously into the room. "Hey, uhm..." She takes a breath and stands in silence for a little while, uncertain.

Salem's Bedroom

The right-hand bedroom is the larger of the two and possesses a spartan neatness. The twin-sized bed is set along one wall, under the window, the dark blue bedsheets hidden under a black comforter. Next to the bed is a nightstand with a small reading lamp and a digital clock with large red numbers, while the dresser sits along the opposite wall.

Only a few items sit on top of the dresser, but among them is a fist-sized potting jar made of shiny red plastic, containing red primroses. The glyph for Gaia has been painted on it in black. Next to the primroses is a second, much taller potted plant, a phaleonopsis orchid -- broad green leaves, a tall, thin stem, and several lilac-colored blossoms at the top. Nothing hangs on the walls, and no pictures are displayed anywhere.

The desk that sits next to the dresser holds a portable stereo and a small collection of CDs. Most of these are classical, professionally produced and probably store-bought, but there are two of the 'burned and bootleg' variety. One's titled 'Stuff' and the other 'Nonsense' and the list of songs on each -- a quirky mix of modern music -- is written in the same perky printed handwriting, with smile-faces between each track.

A closet at the far end of the bedroom holds clothing, almost all of it black, a padded rifle case, and a locked strongbox. A full-length mirror hangs on the inside of the closet door.

Salem sits up, rubbing at his face with one hand and pushing overlong hair out of his eyes. "Yes?" Curious, vaguely wary.

Mel hitches one shoulder in a dismissive shrug, looking down and nodding. Collecting a thought before looking back to him. "I just wanted to... apologise. I had a really great time tonight. I didn't thank you properly, just ran out."

"It's all right," he answers quietly. "I enjoyed it, too. We should do it again sometime."

"Yeah, I know... Just. Y'deserve better. So. ...Thanks." Mel nods a few more times, then turns to close the door.

Salem nods. "You're welcome, then." As she turns to go, he adds, "Sleep well."

There's something grim about the way she replies, "Yeah..." before closing the door. It clicks shut. There's no lights to turn off, but he hears the shuffling and the bumps. Then the return to silence and the shapes of the cockroaches moving over walls.