It is currently 18:26 Pacific Time on Fri Mar 14 2003.

Currently the moon is in the waxing Gibbous Moon phase (78% full).

Currently in Saint Claire, it is raining lightly. The temperature is 55 degrees Fahrenheit (12 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the south at 9 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.51 and falling, and the relative humidity is 66 percent. The dewpoint is 44 degrees Fahrenheit (6 degrees Celsius.)

Cameron pages: Ring Ring!

Long distance to Cameron: Salem answers curtly. "Yes?"

Cameron pages: The voice is perhaps familiar - it's called out cynical comments every now and then at moots... And Australian accents aren't that common in this country. "Hey. 'Mlooking for Jack? Jack Salem? S'Cameron Fullerton."

You paged Cameron with 'You've reached him. What can I do for you?'.

From afar, Cameron's voice takes a more friendly, and partly relieved note. "Oh good. Right number. Well, I'm lookin' to have a bit of a chat with y' about Family stuff, Jack. You know. It's not terribly urgent, just need to get some info. Wonderin' if there was any time y'd be free today?"

Long distance to Cameron: Salem makes a little 'mm' noise and, after a moment, says, "Nothing pressing this evening. You had a particular place in mind?"

Cameron pages: There's a similar 'hm' noise as the Aussie pauses, then murmurs, "Naah. Somewhere where y'feel comfy? I don't intend to take long, but it'd be nice to be able to talk in something resembling privacy, y'know?"

You paged Cameron with 'Charlie's Tavern. One-twelve Bridge Street.'.

Cameron pages: Cool. When?

You paged Cameron with 'Nine-ish good for you?'.

Cameron pages: MmmmmyeahOK. Seeya then.

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.

The Walker Elder is stationed at the back of the bar with a table to himself; the tables around near him are empty as well. He nurses a cigarette and a glass of beer, his expression flat and humorless.

The Australian wanders in with his hands tucked lightly in the pockets of a rather sharp-looking coat of simple, fine lines. Not a punk or goth statement, unusually, it looks more like a smart-casual garment for keeping warm in style. The young man looks around with a detached air of confidence when he enters the establishment, and spots Salem easily. He saunters over with a faint smile. "Jack Salem?" He extends a hand as he approaches the table.

Cameron

    You could almost pick him for an Aussie before he even opens his mouth - though the pleasant bass voice, and that wonderful accent clinches it. Cameron's looking less like a boy than a man, these days, and where he was lean and rangy a year ago, he's definitely starting to broaden over the shoulders and fill out. Well proportioned and a neat 6'2" tall. And he moves with the quiet confidence that shows he's comfortable with it.

    His descent's very clear: the lad's pure Scot - probably what passes for nobility there, even, though his skin's more tanned than the folks from isles. His hair's blonde, turned towards brown. Short at the back, with something resembling overgrown bangs at the front, that are starting to a more sun-bleached blonde. Particularly striking is a shock of black, which keeps to itself, and appears to go down to the roots. The hair nearly covers his eyes - but can't conceal those deep, bright blues. There's nearly always a hint of some secret amusement, in those eyes; or maybe it's the slight, permanently upwards twists to the corners of his mouth.

    Clothes, today, are the 'classics'. A plain, black t-shirt, loose-fitting faded denim jeans, and an expensive-looking, but well-worn black, suede jacket. The assemblage, put together with decent-sized, brown hiking boots, conspires to make him look even bigger than he really is. The picture is completed by a gold-plated crucifix, hanging out over the shirt, and with a good portion of the gold rubbed off. Most likely never gets taken off.

Salem sets his cigarette down and rises long enough to clasp the Fianna's hand. "Cameron." He sits down again, nodding the younger Garou toward the chair opposite. "Feel free to order yourself something, if you like, but be warned. Quality's not the best." He smiles thinly and takes a drag off the filterless cigarette.

Cameron smiles ruefully, giving the Walker a half-nod of agreement as he settles in to take a seat. "Ta, Jack. Nah... don't think I'll worry about it. I've eaten here before." He chuckles darkly, and folds his hands on top of the table. "So."

"So." Salem taps ash into the well-used ashtray and regards Cameron with a measuring eye. "What did you want to talk about?"

Taking a breath and appearing to consider his words carefully, the Fianna advances, "Ever since... 'the man to see about all things city' died - my condolences - I didn't really know who exactly to see about catching up on affairs this side of the farmhouse. Did a bit of poking, heard you're the new Walker Elder." He pauses a moment before adding lowly, "Rina and I go way back, but I don't like to visit her these days. She's really good at making me feel useless at not being able to help. And what we were back in the day is n'much more'n a memory. So."

Salem's eyes narrow, the dead one squinting down to a mere crescent of white. He grunts. "You heard correctly. I'm Elder of the tribe, such as it is." He takes in another lungful of smoke.

"Yeah..." The Aussie scratches at his nose idly, and folds his hands again. He clears his throat. "Wondering. You got a contact list of all family in town? I had some, but it's been ages since it's been updated, and people have wandered all over the place since the reclaiming and such."

Salem and Cameron are sitting at a table in the back, surrounded by empty tables and talking in low voices, their conversation not carrying. The other tables are well occupied, as is the bar. It is, after all, Friday night.

"Hm," says the Glass Walker, and he nods once. "I can get you that information, no problem. Why?" He tilts his head slightly. "You and Tobin thinking of moving back across the bridge?"

The Fianna's eyes light up a little as he studies the Walker with a slow-forming grin. "You keep up. But no... He ain't thinking anything much at the moment, far's'I can tell. Me either. But I /do/ wanna have facts before I start thinking about thinking. Aside contact details'n'shite, I was also thinking it'd be nice to have a bit of a rundown. Y'know. On who knows what, can do what, and what they're feeling like, at the moment, in regards to sharing the wealth or picking up a few extra housekeeping chores."

Derrick enters through the bar's doors and heads immediately towards the bar for a drink. One of the regulars nearer to the door, getting up probably to use the facilities, gets in Derrick's way and they collide--an intentional act on Derrick's part, as if the other man should have given way. There's a tense moment as the two size each other up, a pregnant pause that signals that moment when a fight may or may not erupt. Those who witness the event hold their breath to see what happens in the next two seconds, to see who, if anyone, backs down before a punch is thrown.

Derrick

Punk. Through and through, this early twenties male has 'Punk' tattooed all across his forehead. Literally. In large block letters. His red hair belies a distant Irish heritage, but there's nothing traditional about him beyond that. His red hair is bunched up into six cornrows that run straight back over his forehead. Inbetween them, his hair has been shaved off to expose a bald scalp. His face looks like he might have swan dived into a bucket full of safety pins, and come out with all of them latched up. Fine black leather pants and jacket complete with metal chrome studs, and backed with studded leather fingerless gloves, just seems to fit perfectly with this guy. And the boots? Steel-toed shitkickers. You expected anything less, perhaps?

"Ah," says Salem. "Details." His eye's drawn toward the brewing confrontation, unsurprised and untense, but watchful all the same.

Cameron, for his part, watches the tense scene with a little more alertness. He's not yet 21, and looking at becoming an illegal immigrant. "Great," he mutters absently. The mouth runs on auto-pilot, murmuring lowly as he continues, "But details. Yeah. Our pack's about picking up some of the more uncommon gifts and rites, or the more useful ones, and spreading 'em around to folks who can really do with 'em. Problem is, we ain't got a clue how to summon relevant sorts yet. So if y'know any..."

Derrick stares the slightly larger, slightly taller looking man down. The tension grows in the air until, wound tight as a spring, something must give. And the regular looks about ready to throw a punch at the insolent young punk. Then Derrick commands with a sneer, "*Sit* down." Amazingly, the man does so immediately and without hesitation. His two drinking buddies look momentarily surprised at the outcome, then start embarrasingly sip at their beers. Nearby people acknowledge the man's sudden loss of face by looking away. The punk turns his back on the man, who looks a bit confused himself, then embarrased. He turns back to his two buddies at his table, trying to crawl under the proverbial rug.

Salem's reply to the Fianna is a vague, distracted 'mm-hmm' type of sound, his attention rather more sharply hooked by the display. His eyes narrow again as they follow the domineering punk across the bar.

The Walker receives something of a light bump from the Fianna's elbow, as the younger man tilts his head up slightly and makes a faint sniffing gesture. The gesture's followed by an inquisitively arched eyebrow.

Salem glances briefly back at Cameron and shakes his head, mouth twisting into an irritated grimace. "Don't have that one," he mutters.

Cameron shrugs with the vaguest of smiles, and a resigned shrug. "Pity..." he murmurs absently, leaning forward and folding his hands over the table as he watches the punk.

Derrick makes his way to the bar, nudging another guy aside just a bit more roughly than what might, maybe, be acceptable in the rough and tumble southside bar. This earns him a 'look,' which he ignores in order to buy a drink. After the nudged man sees that he's being ignored, he apparently writes it off as either an accident or the punk being just a prick that's not worth his time and effort. The bartender places a shot glass with what looks like a triple of something clear--and probably potent.

Salem purses his lips, then gives his head a slight shake. "What's new out east, these days?" he inquires, conversationally. He hasn't forgotten Derrick; neither is he ignoring the punk.

Cameron wrinkles his nose and shrugs, turning his attention from the outlandish punk. Dime a dozen, maybe? "Very, very little. Lot of patrolling. People's backs are all up. Quite a few spirits still apparently got the fear of Groo in 'em. Can't speak for the heavy-hitters, but I don't doubt they're probably doing their 'cleansing' voodoo whenever they feel it's appropriate. Things ain't all back to normal, yet, at any rate. Probably a few more springs and winters to get everything outta the system."

Derrick lifts the shot glass to his lips, tipping it back and taking a small sip from it. Kind of dainty for a punk, actually. He lowers his arm and holds the drink about a foot above the bar's top, looking as if the level of alcohol in it has hardly been lowered at all. The recently jostled man is ignoring him.

Salem grunts, taking a swallow from his glass of beer. "Probably, yes. And years until the trees grow back fully. Is Luke still head of your bunch?"

"Wouldn't know." Cameron scratches under his chin, where he probably needs to be a bit more thorough with his shaving. "Chatted with Eamon today, and I'll defer to him first and foremost. Luke was a cub the same time'sme, and I never saw any justification f'that Challenge." He smiles tightly. "Specially while folks like y'self are still on the same level'sme. No offense."

"None taken," the ex-Ronin replies smoothly. "I've been busy." He inhales another lungful of cigarette smoke. "Somehow, I never seemed to get around to it."

Derrick turns away from the bar, arm holding the drink still outstretched, which bumps into the guy he recently jostled and spill the triple shot of alcohol all down his shirt and crotch of his pants, making it look like he took an explosive projectile piss. "Mother fuck!" the man belts out over the general buzz and noise in the bar, which, again, lessens as a potential fight looks about to break out--depending on the punk's next action.

"Only hope I'm in the same situation, sometime," Cameron murmurs with a wink sent the Walker's way. "The ones most suited for it just don't have the time because there's more important things t'do..." The sentence trails off slowly as his attention's once again drawn to the somewhat enigmatic punk. "Instinct's playing up again," he adds in a wry mutter.

Salem looks up sharply at the yell, his gaze focussing on the source of the trouble. He grimaces, looking a good deal more put out; his body language tightens, control tightening over the hair-trigger temper. "Are you any good in a brawl, if it comes to that?" he asks the Fianna, sidelong.

Cameron - Mister Valium - chuckles lightly. "Quite good. ...Against humans." He eyes Salem sideways, smiling, yet obviously alert. Measuring the Walker for his opinion.

Derrick says to the now wet guy, "Why don't we go take this outside to settle it?" The guy, looking about ready to deck the punk on the spot, apparently decides to wait until they get outside. The bartender encourages them both. "Take it outside." And, almost as one, they move for the exit. Eyes watch the pair of them leave, but no one seems to have a vested interest in either of them or the outcome of any potential brawl.

Cameron sucks on a tooth and smiles at Salem. "Been readin' the paper, these days?" he asks lightly, before getting up.

Salem glances briefly at the Fianna, his gaze flat, and nods once. As the punk and his target leave the bar, the Walker pushes back his chair and rises, stubbing out the cigarette and shrugging into the black leather coat in smooth, economical motions. "Let's take a walk," he says, his voice casual even if his mannerisms are not. He heads for the exit.

As you exit the bar, you both catch sight of one of the punks boots just before it disappears into the nearby alleyway around the side of the building.

"Marvellous idea," the Aussie murmurs faintly, following the Walker whilst rolling his eyes and sighing slightly at the presence of a 'brawling alley'.

Salem says nothing, only lengthens his stride toward the alley.

Traffic and noise from within the bar drowns out any audible speech and most other sounds--except for a thud and a groan. As you both draw nearer to the alleyway's mouth, the scent of urine mixed with alcoholic vomit becomes unmistakable. Unsurprisingly, the alleyway probably serves as an overflow bathroom for Charlie's patrons on busy nights. There's a heavy metal door, scratched, battered, and closed halfway down the alleyway with a burnt out lightbulb in a steel cage above the door. But a nearby streetlight sheds barely enough light to se by. There's a few metal trash cans near the door and, closer to the street, about 20' in from the sidewalk, is a black shadow hunched over a prone figur

Salem knows this alley well enough, even though he doesn't visit it nearly as often as he did in the old days, the Ronin and Ahroun days. He takes only a moment to drink in the scene and then blurs forward, charging toward the shadow and its victim at a dead run, teeth bared.

It's only a few moment's hesitation before the Aussie reviews the situation then follows suit, with the less-than-inspiring battlecry of, "Bollocks!"

Derrick looks up from the downed man as he hears the two charge down the alleyway--hard to miss the "Bollocks!" cry, too. "Stop!" he commands towards Salem as he stands up and takes a defensive posture, prominent canines and blood around his mouth visible as he speaks the single word. And, surprisingly, perhaps mostly to Salem, he stops. Cameron passes in front of the ahroun, unhindered, and within about five feet of the punk.

Blood around the teeth? Supernatural commands stopping a charging ex-Ahroun in his tracks? It's on for young and old, in the Aussie's opinion, as he shifts mid-charge, to barrel towards the vampire with his claws bared and going for the throat. Not particularly well-versed on vampire lore, most of the stories make some reference to chopping off the head doing a decent job of stopping the bloodsuckers...

Derrick is prepared for the incoming attack, but the sudden appearance of a towering werewolf catches him by surprise. He manages to duck the first attack with supernatural speed, but the second strike hitting. Unfortunately, the luck of the Irish isn't with the Fianna tonight as he's metally distracted by something truly disgusting that squishes up between his toes and causes him to slip just a bit, weakening the final strength behind the blow. Still, it does connect and open up a gash across the punk's shoulder, chewing through the leather jacket.

Salem did stop at the punk's command. He did. And the look on the Walker's scarred face shifts quickly from grim determination to shock to pure, mindless rage in the time it takes Cameron to pass him. The command keeps him in place only a moment, and then Derrick has _two_ towering werewolves to deal with, and the older one is ANGRY.

With a roar and the sound of tearing cloth, Salem explodes into a killing frenzy, lunging forward with jaws agape and claws bared.

Snarling with annoyance, the Fianna moves to a better position attack the vampire again - this time, with a little more finesse and care, circling to keep the vampire between himself and Salem before he even considers making any advances. He watched Intervew With A Vampire. They can apparently be /fast/...

Almost simultaneously, the two Garou attack. Derrick dodges Salem's initial lunge, spinning to one side and catching a side full of claws from Cameron, claws slicing through flesh and most of the ribs on his side, in multiple places, like hot knives going through butter. Hissing like a snake, Derrick spin turns into a painful and uncordinated fall to the ground as he is near mortally wounded. Salem, in a blaze of rage, touches the ground after his missed lunge, turns, and attempts to stomp on the prone vampire. Derrick rolls to one side, away from Cameron, and is stopped when he runs into the unconscious body of the man from the bar. A swipe from Salem, already coming microseconds after the missed stomp, strikes close to where Cameron hit earlier. It's less damaging than Cameron's blow, but enough to send the punk into uncontrolled death spasm, broken body flailing about sickly and leaking black liquids.

Stands-the-Charge halts his own advance, now, growling at Salem, ~HOLD! Let it suffer!~ and watching the vampire's death throes.

Too late; the prey is still moving, and a frenzy once begun isn't so easy to halt. Cameron's growl goes unheeded as the Walker tears into the thrashing, dying vampire. It's not going to suffer. It'll be lucky if its carcass ends up as anything other than a pile of shredded meat.

Flinching only /slightly/ at the grisly sight, Cameron shifts down into homid and gives the carnage a wide berth. His eyes turn to the body by the wall, and the open mouth of the alley. The Theurge has never received instructions on how to stop a frenzying Garou, and he doesn't intend to experiment now.

Salem makes quick work of the vampire, which stops moving only seconds after his followup attacks--save for bits that are still attached getting jostled about each time the body hits. The chest cavity is quicky halfway turned into coursely made hamburger, gore and black blood splattering all over the nearby ground, Salem, and the unconscious man lying near the corpse. Odds are that no one brought baby wipes, too.

Shuffling from one foot to the other and looking uncomfortable, Cameron clears his throat to alert Salem to his presence.

Breath rasps harshly out of the Walker's gaping, drooling muzzle. Begrimed, the scarred Crinos hunches over the remains and only gradually responds to the throat-clearing. His head lifts, cocking slightly, one wolfishly golden eye fixing on Cameron with a flat, animal stare.

Cameron coughs gently again, looking somewhat pensive as he gestures towards his own mouth. "You've got a little... uhm."

Salem rises slowly, still growling like a dog that's about to attack. Gradually, he shifts downward, back to homid form. The t-shirt and flannel shirt are ruined, shredded, obviously unDedicated. The rest -- still-clean clothing mixed with grimed face and hair -- presents a not particularly settling picture. He pushes lank hair out of his face and digs into a coat pocket. "My car's parked half a block from here," he rasps, tossing a set of keys to the Fianna. "Orange Yugo. There are trash bags in the trunk, and some rags. Get them."

Cameron catches the keys lightly, frowning a little between the spoilt appearance of the Walker, and the gore and gristle below. He nods minutely a few times, and moves to leave the alley casually, before pausing at its mouth and turning to regard Salem with faint disgust. "Dude. /Orange/?" He shakes his head dismissively and continues.

Salem's face twists into a grimace, upper lip lifting to bare teeth. The growl that follows is more lupine than human.

A faint moan escapes the fallen man near what's left of the vampire next to him. He might come to in the next five or ten minutes. Someone might walk out the side exit to take a leak before that, though. Definitely not a place to be loitering with this kind of carnage nearby. And definitely not the best place to be sucking blood out of people in a discrete fashion.

Murmuring under his breath, "Yeahyeahyeah..." Cameron makes with haste for the car. Not /running/, but definitely looking as if he may be late for something. The situation's unusually stressful. People keep driving on the wrong side of the road in this damn country.

Salem mutters a curse in Serbian and strips off the remains of his ruined shirts while moving further back down the alley. He eyeballs the closed metal door, the prone almost-victim, and the mangled carcass next to it. Calculating. He uses the bits of cloth that are cleaner than the rest to wipe the worst of the gunk off his face and hands and curses again.

Soon, after a beautiful piece of reverse parking, Cameron trots back into the alley with an abundance of towels and garbage bags. He eyes the exit door, the unconscious body, and grunts, "I'll take care of the guy. You take care of the bits, hmm?"

Salem snaps out a curt, "Fine," as he takes the towels and a bag from Cameron. The shirt-rags go in the latter, with the rest of the vampire's remains following quickly after. The Walker works swiftly, efficiently; there's no time to do more than get up the worst of it (if there's even time for that).

Looking up, with an unconscious man being draped over one shoulder, Cameron murmurs thoughtfully, "Try get a sample'a that stuff, mebbe? If there's any fingers, keep 'em. Might be able to do some footwork on this guy."

"Getting into forensics?" Salem asks dourly, without looking up from his work.

"It's an /idea/, dude." Cameron grunts with the effort of pulling along his temporary dancing partner, to the mouth of the alley. "I'm pretty good at finding people, but apparently some folks we might know can do wonders with fingerprints and blood samples and shit. 'Sides. More we know about vampire anatomy, the better, neh?" Pausing, he calls back lowly to Salem, "I'm gonna spin a tale to folks inside. Drag this bloke back to his buddies or whoever, tell 'em our punk friend floored him, then stomped off. Any good?"

Salem straightens up. What's left on the concrete is a good-sized stain, spread out, much like the other stains except that it's fresher. He scuffs it with a boot, grimacing, then tosses Cameron a towel that hasn't been dirtied much. "Clean him up first, at least. And check him for fangmarks." He spits out a foul-sounding Slavic word. "Fucking leeches."

Cameron rests the victim against the wall, stepping back with hands poised to catch him should he - as he inevitably does - slump or slip. It's a finicky process, rather like a mother tending to a child, as the Australian spits on clean patches of the towel and wipes at the other man's face and clothing with it. "Blood. Gah. Never comes out. Where we go from here?"

Salem holds out a grimy hand. "Keys."

Cameron tosses them back to the Walker, wordlessly. Still fussing with the body and eyeing it critically, then himself.

Salem unlocks the trunk, dumps the bags and towels inside, then slams it closed. "We're going to Rina's," he tells the Fianna as he heads for the driver's side door. The Walker pauses, glancing back. "Are you coming, or would you rather play nursemaid over there?" His expression's flat and his tone of voice cold.

Cameron arches an eyebrow, looking over his shoulder. "Well as long as no-one follows us and we don't wind up pulling any heat down on her... fine. S'about time we caught up again." He rises, and dusts off his hands, eyeing himself critically. "Actually, fuckit. Last thing I wanna do is get m'self associated with this shit. Let's go, yeah." The Aussie hops to.

---

A block from the alley outside Charlie's, Salem pulls out his cellphone, dialling Rina's number with one hand and driving with the other. Despite the low, steady anger seething off of him, he drives carefully, never going over the speed limit and always signalling turns.

The Aussie takes a back seat to the Walker, letting Salem do the guiding up to the apartment. It's been a while, and Cameron doesn't particularly feel like knocking on the wrong door, in the slightly bloodied state he's in.

Ring, ring.

"Yo." Rina's voice is hoarse, an unusual silence in the background.

"Rina, it's Jack." The harshness in Salem's tone eases back noticably, but his tone's still curt. Crisp, businesslike. "I've got Cameron with me. Had a run-in with the Anne Rice kind and need to stop by your place to clean up. Is that all right?"

Cameron chuckles darkly, looking out the window and folding his arms.

"No worries. Cat's asleep, though, so come quiet." That explains the silence.

"Thanks," Salem says. "We'll be there in a few." He clicks off and tucks the cellphone back inside his coat. The rest of the drive is uneventful -- the American-born (but Serbian-descended) Glass Walker grim and the Australian Fianna faintly smiling... and both silent. Salem parks and leads the way into the building and up the stairs to the studio.

Rina opens the door; she's wearing black, tonight, fatigues and a lean long-sleeved waffle tee with a few rips and stains. She looks doubly pale in all that darkness, and her eyes have a bruised look that speaks of illness and inadequate rest. The place is dim behind her, with a large hanging canvas to partition off the bed. She takes in both of them and swings the door open to let them in. "Sh."

Salem looks a wreck; he still has traces of vampiric black blood-fluid on most of the visible parts of his body, face and hands especially; it's in his hair, too, which is out of the ponytail and lank with the stuff. His clothes seem untouched, more or less, though the long leather duster's buttoned closed over an otherwise bare torso. He nods at the 'shh' and stalks into the apartment, his mood dour, the Fianna behind him.

Cam leans in and down a little to rest a hand on the girl's arm and give her a quick peck on the cheek. He whispers, "Hey," in greeting, then moves after Salem to give the apartment a good look-over.

Rina stiffens the slightest bit; the dark, flat eyes avoid them both. She gives a jerk of her head. "You know where the shower is. I'll dig up some old clothes." Where those old clothes might have come from... doesn't need mentioning.

Salem glances back in time to see Cam plant that kiss, and his eyes narrow dangerously for a moment... and then he turns away, shaking his head. "I won't be long," he says flatly. "Then we'll talk." He disappears into the bathroom.

As the Walker disappears, Cameron just stands and looks over to Rina. "We were meeting in a bar, saw some odd behaviour from some punk, went out and caught him feeding. We killed it." He jerks his head towards the bathroom. "Jack went unnecessarily mental on it. Nothin' left. The vamp's target's OK, but unconscious in some alley. Worst he'll suffer is a lighter wallet." That out of the way, the young man adds without skipping a beat, "How you doing? You look like shit."

Rina gives a curt, almost absent nod at Salem's words, and starts toward the kitchen. "Never say that to a woman," she says dryly, filling the coffee machine with water. "Coffee or tea?" She still does not so much as glance over her shoulder; her face is masked, the dark eyes veiled.

The shower starts up in the background.

"Yeah, I know how much y'like bein' molly-coddled," Cameron replies softly, moving over to stand at the counter. "Coffee'll do." He stands in silence a while, giving Rina a thorough, concerned inspection.

She goes about the routine business of putting coffee in the machine and starting it--and an awkward silence follows. Needing something to do, she pulls down three cups and sets them out at precise intervals on the counter.

"We won't need the clothes," Cameron notes, after a while of silence. It extends slightly longer before he says, "Jack's got the whole bum-in-coat look going, and I just look fantastic without a shirt." Completely straight-faced.

It doesn't quite earn a smile; a moment's flicker passes across her face. "So does her. Right, cancel shirts." Her voice is quiet, bone-dry and deadpan. "I'll go see what I can find."

Cameron stops her with a light touch on the forearm. "Can I use your phone?" he asks gently.

Rina glances to him--and behind those eyes, he sees not the slightest trace of anything human. Something that still can feel pain, perhaps, but that is all. "Yeah." She points to it, on the kitchen wall. A small whiteboard beside it is full of cryptic notes and numbers.

She turns away, and heads for the closet, disappearing from sight.

Behind the bathroom door, the shower turns off.

Cameron doesn't turn to use the phone at all, but simply folds his arms and follows her to the closet. "Don't. We'll be fine. I already said," he calls quietly in to her. Out of sight.

Rina moves to the bathroom door, and knocks on it gently. "You need a shirt, anything?"

Cameron grinds his teeth, watching the woman, then moves to use the phone after all.

"I'll be fine." Salem opens the door, wearing the BDUs, boots in one hand and coat draped over his arm. Rina's already seen the Crinos-sized, seven-fingered hand impressed into the flesh of the Walker's chest.

Rina's gaze doesn't touch the scar, resting instead on the Walker's face. She swallows. "You sure? I can lend you one a my Army shirts..."

Cameron looks over his shoulder as Salem steps out, and his eyes only narrow at the Walker's scarring. He turns back and simply dials. A few moments later, he's murmuring, "Hey, sorry sweetie. S'me. Meeting with Jack went a little long when we has an unexpected encounter. Gotta keep it down, 'mat Rina's place and there's people trying to sleep..."

Salem catches the Fianna's look. A grimace flicks across his face. "Fine, fine," he answers Rina, not quite looking at her. He stalks over toward the couch and drops the coat over the back of it before sitting down to pull his boots back on.

Rina digs through the closet until she finds something, a long-john shirt with the German Army logo stamped on it. When she steps across to Salem, she hands over the shirt with a sidelong, uncomfortable look. "Coffee?"

Cameron hangs up the phone, shaking his head and sighing. He folds his arms and just stands in the room, watching Rina and Salem dully.

Salem murmurs, "Sounds good." He pulls on the shirt, then finishes tying up his boots. He looks sidelong at Cameron. "You still want to take the remains back?"

Cameron finds something - the kitchen counter - to lean against, arms still folded. Blue eyes still regarding Salem thoughtfully. "Did you isolate the fingers?" he asks mildly.

Rina heads for the kitchen, glancing over her shoulder and then looking to Cameron. "You guys want help cleanin' up?" she asks quietly. Ducking her head, she pours the coffee for all three.

Salem sits up, shifting his shoulders against the back of the couch. "Fingers are in one bag, as far as I could isolate them. Rest of the body's in another. Got his effects, wallet and et cetera, in a third." He looks over at Rina. "We'll have to get rid of whatever Cameron doesn't want to take back for the Theurges. Didn't have time to sift through the other shit."

The Australian just watches Salem grimly. "The other stuff I asked for. When do you think you can have a rough list for me?" He moves over to where Rina's poured the coffee and gives her a tight smile as he scoops up one mug for himself. "Got some more ideas tonight." There's a pause as he simply holds the mug in one hand, staring into it and blowing on it. "Pity y'didn't leave that thing alive a few more seconds. Or minutes, even."

Rina comes out with a cup in either hand, passing one to Salem; then she props herself against the arm of the couch and listens, eyes narrowed.

Salem takes the coffee without looking at the kinswoman; his gaze upon the Fianna is flat and direct. "I dislike having my will interfered with," he says without apology or inflection. "As for the information you requested, you should have it within a few days." Personality seems to have taken a holiday.

The young woman's jaw tightens a fraction. She doesn't speak, merely lowers those dull eyes and drinks.

Cameron nods a few times, looking up from his coffee. He still hasn't sipped at it yet. "Been thinkin' about grading the blights we got by priority. Things really slowed down, recently..." he eyes Rina sideways briefly - only a flicker of a glance. "But some people are making noises about picking up the ball and running with it. Problem is, a lotta people are thinking about doing this without research into what info has already been gathered."

Rina glances to the Fianna, almost frowning, her brow furrowed in faint, thoughtful surprise.

Salem's face betrays nothing; the Walker's mask is quite firmly in place. "Hospital and sewers are the two biggest. I know that the Sept's made at least one attempt to tackle the former, via the Umbra, without success. I hadn't been briefed much on the sewers." Outwardly calm, he sips his coffee.

"It's been tried," Rina says hoarsely. "I don't think anyone ever... managed to make a dent. Not sure." Her gaze is focused on nothing, on the middle distance; her expression remains numb.

Cameron looks sideways and down, a little uncomfortable. "Well pretty much anyone knows that. I was just wondering if there were any... well. Details. Lying around. Or maybe shared amongst your Tribe. Y'know." He looks over at Rina for a while. "I know that, uh... John was putting out the calls in moots, and seemed to have a finger in every pie, and I just thought maybe... you guys might have more concrete details. Observations. Numbers."

"We do," says the Philodox, simply. He takes another sip of coffee.

There is the slightest reaction from Rina, at the mention of the name--a barely perceptible flinch, the look of someone trying to show no response as a scourge lands. The smallest jerk, a tightening of her mouth. She looks straight ahead, and drinks; after swallowing, the girl glances over to Salem, a measured look, as if to divine his opinion of the Fianna's inquiry.

Long distance to Rina: Salem obviously doesn't consider Cameron an Insider. He's not urrah, and he's not Walker. He's a Ranger. And doesn't trust him enough to take him into his confidence.

Cameron locks eyes with Salem for a moment, quite still - if only because there's nothing to do except fidget. After a while he seems to reach a realization and smiles tightly. "Ah. Well. One step at a time, hm." The younger man sips at his coffee a little, and wrinkles his nose. Too hot. He looks to Rina. "In utterly unrelated stuff... you free sometime this week to help a guy out, Rina?"

The Kin's dark eyes flicker to Cameron. "What for."

Salem is, also, quite motionless during the mutual stare. He relaxes subtly when Cameron looks away, though is nowhere near a state of perfect ease. One eyebrow rises at the request.

Cameron hitches one shoulder in a shrug, his eyes measuring the girl's thoughtfully. "Well... Gunstuff, really. Wondering if you could show me around some nice shooting places. Help me get up to speed. Y'know." He smiles sheepishly. "Maybe get a coffee? My shout..."

Rina gives a small, curt nod. "Sure." There is no enthusiasm, no feeling in the answer. She seems ...tired.

After measuring the girl's expression with concern, the Aussie looks to Salem with a faint smile that doesn't quite hide the hard look in his eyes. "Hey. Jack. When you gettin' outta here? If'sanytime soon, y'think I could sponge a lift?"

Salem gulps down a swallow of coffee -- the heat doesn't seem to bother him -- and rises. "I can drop you off, then go take care of the pieces of vampire that you don't want." He turns to hand his cup over to Rina, meeting the kinswoman's eyes for a moment.

She takes it without protest. "Need any help?" Her voice is hoarse, weary.

Cameron doesn't answer, but watches Salem very carefully whilst sipping some more at his own coffee and moving to return it to the kitchen counter.

You paged Rina with 'Hm. Does she sound like she _wants_ to come with?'.

Rina pages: Hard to tell. She seems exceptionally ice-apathetic tonight. Maybe it's Cam being there.

Salem studies the kinswoman carefully for a moment, head cocked to favor the good eye. Then he shakes his head. "It's fine."

Rina's gaze slants down and away; she gives a small nod. "Take care, both of you. He mighta had friends." She turns to walk into the kitchen, to set Salem's cup beside Cam's.

"Well, that's what I'm hoping," the Australian murmurs smoothly, looking at Rina and leaning a little closer to her. "Take care, aright? I'll call sometime." To Salem he adds, "I'll be out by the car," before letting himself out.

Salem shrugs into his coat as the Fianna leaves. Before following, he pauses to look back at Rina. "I'll stop by later, all right?"

Rina glances over her shoulder to him, and gives a small nod. "Sure."

Salem gives her a wan half-smile, then heads out the door and down the stairs to the car.

Montrose District

This is St. Claire's artsy district, a pocket of cheerful liberalism and a particular favorite of the gay community. It consists of a swath of older houses and cramped shops jumbled together on the west side of town between Vandertramp Street and the freeway to the south and the truly upscale residences north of Four Leaf Clover. Many of the old houses have been rescued from disrepair by coteries of college students and artisans, and there's a staunch though quirky sense of community pervading the neighborhood. Even the most organized and determined of renovators can't get to everything, though, and the line between low-income bohemians and the truly poor is fuzzy. The two communities mingle and merge at grimy corner stores, rickety washaterias, and mom'n'pop cafes of varying quality.

The Fianna's waiting for him, leaning against the car with arms folded. The smiles inside and easy looks were all for the benefit of Rina, it seems. He studies the Walker openly, with a quiet, reserved, and critical eye.

Salem's own eyes narrow, meeting Cameron's; he pauses at the driver's side door. "Where would you like to be dropped off?" he asks, with bare courtesy.

The other man seems to consider the question for a while. "How far y'willing to drive? Maybe a place to stash these bags til I can get at 'em proper, then back to my girlfriend's place? I could take them direct to Summer's, but... she's not as hard a girl as Rina."

Salem grunts. "Rina's exceptional." He unlocks the door, gets in, and leans over to unlock the passenger side. "I've a place they can be stored, but you won't have a key."

"Sounds good. I might bring someone who won't need to worry about keys, if it's not too high tech." Cameron slides into the passenger seat, and waits til they're started driving, til he adds, "Now. Talking..."

Salem is, as before, a careful driver, keeping his eyes on the road. The muscles in his jaw tighten slightly, but his voice remains even. "Yes?"

"What's the deal? With you, and Rina?" The Aussie asks it plainly and frankly, looking at the half-moon sideways. A confidently absent consideration.

"We're friends," the Walker replies plainly. "Family."

"Yeah. Good one," Cameron mutters darkly, before shaking his head and sighing. "Y'know, the last time I remember her being really happy - /really/ happy? Two years ago." He stares out at the road. "S'a long time."

Salem is silent for a beat before he replies. "I remember," he says. "About five months ago." His voice is quiet. "Still a long time."

More silence. Cam's content to sit for quite a while, and there's an impression that he's unsurprised by any of the scenery in the route they take.

The big Walker isn't much of a conversationalist, and he lets the silence grow between them.

The silence was a courtesy... or time to digest. Cameron breaks it, murmuring frankly, "Get a girlfriend, man. Throw yourself into work, or the Fight. /Something/ else. You'll go mad."

Salem's jaw tightens. "Mind your own damned business, Fullerton."

"Yeah. Right, Jack." The Fianna shakes his head. "I don't care if /you/ don't wanna pick up the workload, just the personal work. /That's/ none of my business, /if/ you give me the shit I need to do whatever organizing needs doing."

Salem brakes rather abruptly for a light. "Who the hell do you think you are, Cameron?" His voice is still quiet, but dangerously so now. There's an edge in it like a low snarl.

Glaring, now, at the sudden braking and bracing himself a little, the Aussie growls back, "A /friend of Rina's/ who's being /shut out/ and wondering /why/."

Salem snorts. "Friend. Rina has a lot of friends. And _most_ of them don't come around anymore." An accusatory note has crept into his voice. "You want to help? Fine. You can help. I'll put you on the list of contacts."

Cameron snorts, in a similar gesture, though a disbelieving smile has crept onto his face. "Help. .../Help/. Oh, that's rich. Help you, /what/, Walker?" The seat-belt comes off, and the Aussie stares at Salem. "Stop the fucking car."

Salem pulls sharply over to the curb and puts the car in park, keeping the engine on. He turns his head to regard Cameron flatly, his face stone and his gaze granite.

Shaking his head, Cameron watches the Walker with a gaze of ice. Blue eyes intense with emotion that the rest of the face refuses to give a shape or form to. "Boot. The trunk." He jerks his head back towards it.

The Yugo's engine dies with a rumble; despite its less-than-reputable appearance, the car runs remarkably smoothly. It rocks slightly as Salem gets out.

Salem moves around to the back with a measured step, unlocks the trunk, and takes out the lightest of the three bags. "Your fingers, Mr. Fullerton," he says, icily.

The Fianna hops out at the same time. "Mister Fullerton's my Dad, Jack," the young man grunts as he takes the bag. "Personal effects too, please? Unless there's one or two people in /your/ Tribe who have Scent of the Prey."

Salem's mouth thins. He reaches into the bag and removes the dead vampires wallet. He tosses this to the Fianna after extracting the driver's license and credit card from it. What's left is about $423 in cash, half of it bloody. "We have our own ways of finding things out."

"Send those our way once you get a photocopy, hm? Some of us need the real thing." Taking the other effects, Cameron eyes Salem with narrowed eyes. "Some of us know how to do /both/ things." Flipping down through the wallet, he mutters, "To think I was touting you fucking Walkers to the woods tribes as the next great white fucking hope... Thanks for the ride, Jack. And fuck you. Come back when you're out of the pity-party, or thinking that Rina's all yours."

The ex-Ahroun moves like lightning, and almost without warning, the stone face twisting into a hateful snarl as he lunges forward, reaching for the Aussie's collar. Startled, the Fianna neverhteless reacts quickly enough to grab Salem's arm and pull, propelling the Walker past him and himself out of the way.

As Salem turns, he's faced with an image of annoyed confusion in the tall Australian. "What the /fuck/?" says Cameron, just before the Walker closes the distance again, fast, and slams him up against the Yugo.

Glaring, but not struggling too much - he knows his limits, and there's something to get out here - Cameron narrows his eyes in direct challenge to the Walker. Waiting for the foul-tempered half-moon to say his piece.

Salem's nostrils flare; the beast within him isn't satisfied with tearing one victim to shreds and looks like it would gladly make a repeat performance. His mismatched gaze doesn't waver from Cameron's clear blues. "You don't seem to recognize where you stand, _boy_," he rasps. "You want to help out? Fine. Excellent, in fact. Ask, and you'll have the information you need. But the city belongs to me and mine, and we don't need you. Is that clear?"

He doesn't flinch. Doesn't waver. "I got into an argument with a Wendigo, today, about where the fight was. And up until recent months, I was able to point at the city Garou as the way to go. But this morning... I just /couldn't/. I didn't have a leg to stand on. The city's yours, Old Man? Then how about you /do something/ with it."

Salem bares his teeth. "It's not my fault if you're not informed. Hardly knew you _existed_." He straightens up, loosening his hold on the Fianna without moving his eyes. "Then here you come, out of the fucking blue, asking for information and then demanding it, as though you had the right to any respect from us." His lip curls; he glowers down with the weight of generations of noble breeding and half a lifetime of fighting. "So, unless you can _understand your place_, you can go off back to the forest and find yourself a sheep to screw."

"Ahh. The new face of the Walkers." Cameron wrinkles his nose, looking at Salem sourly. "I know my place. And it's doing whatever I can in the city, and you won't do a damn thing about it - know why? Because we'll make it a Challenge thing. We'll do it /properly/. We'll get a /half-moon/ to look and see who's doing the better job. You with your contacts, or me with my determination. I wonder if your pride will be able to handle the results of /that/ contest, rather than a scuffle in the middle of nowhere between an ex-full-moon and a crescent?"

Salem's eyes narrow. He considers this for half a beat. Then, very quietly, very evenly -- he's good at controlling his voice, at least -- he says, "Determination means very little by itself."

"Look closely, Jack. You think that's /all/ I got?" Cameron keeps the gaze locked, watching the Walker's eyes as if he could see the thought processes working away. His voice lowers to match Salem's. "You know how our society works, Jack. We either do our job, hold our territory, and /prove it/, or someone comes up from underneath to take it away from you. That's not what I wanted to do. But I've got a good, tactical mind. I want to know what's going on. I want to influence the people we have into doing what needs to be done. Not just get told where my fists or nose can be used."

It's difficult to read the Walker's face now. There's anger there, obviously, rage gnawing and straining at its leash, and over that, a certain calculating hardness. Fire and ice. "Fair enough. But I don't know you, and I'm not going to hand everything over to you on a golden platter." He cocks his head slightly, still not looking away. "I remember your pack announcing its own little city project, some time back. Cleaning up the zoo. I haven't seen anything happen with that."

"Cos' I ain't the Alpha, and I didn't see fit to rock the boat." The Australian smiles ruefully. Cold fire in his own eyes, too. Harder than the amiable facade ever usually shows. "And I had a bout of ennui. This is a fresh start f'me. Ever wanted one of those? And I'm not going to do it by just tearing up a few vampires, or joining in on one of those mass glory-brawls. I going to do something /right/."

Salem grunts. He jerks his head to the car without breaking the stare. "Get in." His voice is flat.

Cameron holds the stare for a little while longer, body language signalling that he's about ready to turn and comply. "Then what?" he asks mildly, arching one eyebrow in faint curiosity.

"We go to store the refuge from our bloodsucking friend," Salem says in that same calm, flat tone. "And I'll give you a list of a few people you can contact here in the city. People in the know." He pauses a beat. "You can prove that you're more than just words and good intensions."

Cameron averts his eyes then, nodding faintly. "Yeah. That'll do for now," he replies, gruffly. "Do the whole trust thing, instead of automatically assuming. Takes longer, but some people seem to need it." He looks back to Salem again, suddenly - not moving his head, just his eyes. "One condition, first."

Salem's stance shifts, a subtle 'standing down' as the Fianna looks away. "Yes?"

"You and Rina may be close... but you don't block me off from seein' her, and doin' whatever I can, sayin' whatever I think'll help, taking as long as I want in just giving her another shoulder. She's not property. She's a friend. Can you handle that?" The Aussie's jaw is tight with that concern.

Salem's reply may take Cameron by surprise. The Walker snorts and turns away, heading around the car back to the driver's side, slamming the trunk closed as he does so. "Give her as many shoulders as you want. Take her dancing. Buy her dinner. If you can make her happy, even for the evening, I'll even pay the fucking bill." He opens the door, gets inside.

Cameron moves quietly - definitely suprised - to open the back door of the car and toss the bags back in onto the back seat. He closes the door in a significantly more gentle manner, and then hops into the front. "Fine," he notes dully. "We'll see what we can do."

Salem starts up the Yugo and pulls away from the curb. He's quiet for a few minutes, driving, and then tosses an abrupt question at the Fianna. "What do you know about vampires? Had any experience, apart from tonight?"

Cameron stares quietly and expressionlessly out the front window. "Nah. Heard a couple things about what other people've seen and done. Read quite a bit, but I don't know how much is true. All the story/myth stuff. Hurt by sunlight, holy water, sometimes holy objects, but that one seems to be pretty vague. I rather suspect only a priest could pull that off. I know our claws hurt 'em bad. But our claws hurt /anything/ bad. Thought they'd be faster, though. Or be a little more subtle."

"Some of them are." Salem keeps his eyes on the road. "Sunlight kills them. Fire hurts them and will sometimes provoke them to terror, like a fox frenzy. Holy objects... I've never seen that work. Be wary of meeting their gaze, even for a moment. A stake through the heart will immobilize them, but won't kill. Other than that..." He shrugs faintly. "They have various tricks and their own kind of magic, but in that each one's different from the rest."

"Makes sense if they have as many bloodlines as us." The Aussie also keeps his eyes on the road, thinking. "n fact... I'm sure they care quite a bit about blood and its quality. Come to think of it... Age. Power. Much like ours, but... more? They live hundreds of years, right, but not if they're always being killed... And I read somewhere that too much blood in the wrong spot'll bring 'em back to life if you've only... uh. I don't remember that bit. Knocked them around too much? Drained them of all their blood?"

Salem nods. "Best thing, if you kill one, is kill it _thoroughly_." He says this completely deadpan, without a trace of humor. "Tear it to pieces, burn it. Beheading works. Otherwise, yes, they might just be in a state of torpor. Hibernation. Obviously, you don't want to drink their blood, ever." His mouth thins.

Cameron looks out the side window, uncomfortably - his own lips thinning. "Theoretically we're not really supposed to drink anyone's blood." He clears his throat. Then blinks, as if realizing something. "Ah. That's what's been bothering me... That guy must've been a fuckup or the only vampire in town. I mean... newspaper articles about some guy drained bloodless, then we catch - presumably - the culprit. If there's more, they're either not /killing/ people when they feed - which I think you can do? - or they're hiding the bodies really well." There's another blink. "Wonder if that guy who got bitten will turn into one."

Salem shakes his head. "Takes more than a bite to turn someone into a vampire. Otherwise there'd be a new one everytime one fed. And, no, they don't have to kill." His mouth twists into a grimace. "In fact, some don't even have to force things. Between the Anne Rice bullshit and the kind of mind tricks they can do, they're quite capable of getting willing victims." He makes a turn and notes, "Almost there."

"Yeah, well... maybe it's time to start reading up," the Aussie snorts, faintly. "It's like how surprised I was when I first found out that werewolves were real, and started comparing us to the books. Obviously, /some/ things are either quite deep in cultural memory, or someone's been telling more than they should. I'm sure vampires have similar problems. Probably only slightly less, on account of being rich and powerful and making us think what they want us to. And being the bad guys."

"When humans raised the first city and my tribe first moved in, the vampires were already there." The Walker's voice is almost detached. The Yugo rattles down a narrow gravel lane. "If we're lucky, this punk will be an isolated incident. Maybe part of a gang of them, maybe not. We're here." Salem parks the car outside the bunker and kills the engine.

"Fair enough." Cameron stretches, and eyes the bags. "Bloody hell..." he mutters, eyeing them and hopping out to go open the door and fetch them properly.

Salem climbs out of the car and, while Cam fetches the bags, unlocks the door to the bunker and flicks on the lights.

He's a sharper lad than he lets on... The Aussie frowns, hefting the bags. "You're kidding..." he murmurs, with a definite air of someone who's just stepped into an apartment with slightly darker carpet than before, and the sound of running water.

Salem gives Cameron a bit of a look and a raised eyebrow. "Pardon?"

Dumping the bags and scowling, Cameron looks into the back of the car, checking around. "Did these things leak?" He starts sniffing, and eyeing the bags accusingly. "They're lighter," he grunts.

Salem climbs up out of the bunker, frowning. "They had better not have... ah." He grimaces. "Shit. Right. Fucking things probably rotted." He exhales an irritated-sounding breath.

"What?" The Fianna's voice rises in pitch slightly. "Rotted? You're /kidding/..." He moves to undo the bags, then and there.

Salem says, warningly, "I wouldn't recommend..." But it's too late; the bags which now contain year-old rotted flash are opened. "...That."

"Awf'FUCK'S SAKE!" Cameron recoils like he'd been sprayed with something, fending off the odor with his arms. "Geezus fucking christ!"

Salem's nose wrinkles; he's a few feet away, but the odor is pungent. A right foetor. "Their bodies tend to decay rapidly to the state of death that they _should_ have been at. This one must have been young."

Intensely annoyed, the Theurge backs away even more and shakes his head - nose wrinkled and looking for all the world like a dog after a run-in with a skunk. He swipes at his nose with his coat-sleeves. "Awh! What the /fuck/! Jesus! GOD. Augh." He glowers at Salem, and then the accursed bags, from his seat on the ground. "Augh," he repeats, with disgust.

Salem, breathing shallowly, his face set into a tight mask of distaste, steps forward and closes the bags up again. "The freezer will retard further decay." He hefts the unholy load and clomps with it down into the bunker.

Pausing and watching the Walker for a while, Cameron sits in brief, disgusted silence. Wrinkling his face again, he exclaims disbelievingly, "That's fucking worse than my /high school locker/!" He pulls himself up, dusting himself off, and moves to follow the Walker.

The rest is wrap-up.  Truce established.  Cam goes home with a list of city contacts (Garou and kinfolk), some rotted vampire fingers (ewww), a wallet, some bloody cash, and a credit card.  Salem drops the Fianna off at Summer's house... then goes to take care of other things.