It is currently 18:52 Pacific Time on Thu Jan 2 2003.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is raining heavily. The temperature is 52
degrees Fahrenheit (11 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in
from the north at 6 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.76 and
falling, and the relative humidity is 93 percent. The dewpoint is 50
degrees Fahrenheit (10 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning No Moon phase (3% full).

The Underground

Down a flight of stairs and through an unmarked door to the left, this
music store's whereabouts are betrayed only by the coming and going of the
punk clientele and occasional bills posted around town.

The ceiling is painted matte black, as are the walls, the darkness broken
only by occasional panels of floor-to-ceiling smoked mirror. The bare
cement floor of the remodeled basement remains, resounding occasionally to
the bootheels of one punk or another looking over the arrays of new, used
and abused CDs. Old vinyl is to be found here in plenty as well, choice,
rare specimens locked in the glass counter under the cash register. The
atmosphere is hazed with cigarette smoke, faintly tainted with scents of
clove and ganja, the smoke seeming to effervesce under the store's dim red
and blue lighting.

The small store is very densely packed, a few rebelliously ragged punks of
all flavors working their way slowly between the tables down narrow aisles
that do not permit one to pass another. Dark music plays steadily at high
volume.

Cassiel makes her way down one of the aisles, shoving past a dazed looking
guy to her right as she heads for the vinyl records. She doesn't seem to
be looking for anything in particular, and appears to be perfectly content
with browsing.

	A young girl, around 18 years old, standing no taller than 5 feet
5 inches in height. She's a little on the thin side, probably weighing 103
pounds when soaking wet, if even that much. Her skin is a shade of golden
tan, hinting to a mixed ancestry that probably has a good portion of
Caucasian and African in it. An unruly mop of curly copper red/brownish
hair covers the top of her head. She's somehow managed to tame it long
enough to pull it back, ending up with a mini afro-puff instead of a nice
ponytail or something like that. Her eyes are a shade of brown, not too
dark, usually hidden behind a pair of wireframe glasses.

	Her outfit is simple, consisting of a black long-sleeved t-shirt
with a guy's black button down shirt worn open over it; the shirt is
decorated with pictures of the infamous Decepticon Megatron in various
poses, with the words 'Transformers: More Than Meets the Eye' written in
sparkly purple letters on the front pocket. The large shirt hangs down to
her hips or so, obviously too big for her but it doesn't seem to bother
her in the least. Worn around her neck is a spiked black leather dog
collar complete with bone-shaped metal tag dangling from it. She also
wears a pair of baggy purple UFO brand pants, the kind that have the
reflective silver stripes down the sides and on the pockets. Her shoes are
a pair of black high-top hiking boots, laced with some type of glow in the
dark plastic string. Usually slung over her shoulder is a black backpack,
the front of it covered in cartoon character patches.

Salem clumps down the stairwell into the music store, removing a pair of
mirrored sunglasses as he does so. Unnoticed by anyone else, a slightly
sparkly cockroach scuttles across the floor in front of the Glass Walker,
pauses right by Cassiel's boots, and then vanishes in a puddle of static.
The Garou considers the girl thoughtfully for a moment, mismatched eyes
narrowing, then relaxes, putting on a bland face as he makes his way
toward the vinyl section.

Cassiel flips through the 'S' section of the records, humming softly to
herself with whatever's playing in the store at the time. Finding nothing
of interest in that collection, she moves down to 'T' to continue her
search for something worthwhile. She hasn't noticed the odd figure moving
towards her just yet.

Odd indeed, since he looks like Satan's forgotten half-brother and there's
an aura of latent violence about him that makes the store's other
customers, not to mention the multi-pierced girl behind the counter,
uneasy. Without giving Cassiel another look, he starts browsing at the 'Z'
section, working backwards.

Cassiel glances up a bit as the out of place man comes to stand near her.
He doesn't look like the kind of person who'd be shopping in a place like
this, so she just assumes he's here shopping for a teenage relative. She
returns to her search, about 2/3 of the way through the 'T' section by
now. A couple of the records have caught her eye, and she's placed them on
top of a bin of other records nearby.

Salem's perusal takes him closer to the girl in the purple pants. He pulls
out the occasional LP to eyeball the cover or the back, but none are
apparantly worth selecting for purchase. "Hm." He glances sidelong at the
girl; she's fortunately on his good side. "I don't suppose you've run
across any Thorazine albums, have you?" The question's pitched low, its
tone detached but amiable enough.

Cassiel blinks, record partially raised in one hand as she shakes her
head. "Nope. Haven't come across any of those. Sorry." She's polite, but
distantly so, the way most strangers will regard one another. "Try eBay?"
the girl suggests, placing the record in hand back where she got it from.
"Flea markets are good for this kinda stuff, too."

"Mm. True." Salem arches a brow at a record by a band called "Tuna Orgy"
-- the cover art shows a bikini-clad supermodel with a fish's head -- and
then shakes his head slightly and puts it back. "My sister's birthday is
in a few weeks, and she's got a fondness for punk, but only if it's on
vinyl." He casts a glance ceilingward, in a long-suffering kind of way.

Cassiel chuckles quietly at Salem's reaction to the cover of the record,
then folds her arms across her chest. "Good choice in music, then. She a
DJ or something? Or just nostaligic? Most people tend to like CDs these
days, 'cause they're easier to take care of. And no having to get up every
time you wanna hear the same song over and over again. But then, I still
know people who worship 8-tracks, so..." She shrugs, a smile creeping onto
her face.

"I remember 8-tracks," the scarred man replies, one corner of his mouth
quirking upwards in a wry sort of way. "My parents had a collection of
them. My sister's, mm, nostalgic, right. Though a bit obsessive."

Cassiel's smile gets a little wider. "My mom used to have some, then she
sold them once she found out how much a couple of them were worth.
So...why not just buy your sister a gift certificate or whatever they sell
at places like this, and let her choose her own? Better than screwing up
and giving her something she already has, or doesn't like."

Salem rubs his chin. "Mm. I may have to do just that." He extends a hand.
"Jack Salem, by the way."

Cassiel takes the offered hand in her own and shakes it. "Nice to meet you
Jack. Or do you prefer Salem? Some people are odd like that. I'm Cassiel
Burton. Or Cass, or whatever's cool for you."

"Most people call me Salem," he says. His grip's firm, but not painful. He
casts a look down the row of records, then effects a sigh. "I think I'll
try elsewhere. Nice meeting you, Cass."

Cassiel nods. "I'll remember that. And sorry I couldn't be of more help
there, Salem. But I'm more into R&B, rap, and techno-type beats. Just
wandered in here because I didn't feel like going home just yet. Needed to
get out and relax before bedtime, I guess."

Salem gives her another of those wry-looking, crooked half-smiles. "I see.
Still living at home, then?"

Cassiel shakes her head a bit. "Nope. Moved here to start college, a
little on the late side. It's just me and Godzilla, and he's not really
much of a conversation starter." She grins, then giggles. "Godzilla's my
pet iguana."

Salem utters a brief chuckle. "Apt name. Well, good luck on finding what
you're looking for." He dips his head slightly and moves toward the exit.

Cassiel raises a hand in a quick wave to Salem as he leaves. Then, it's
back to browsing. After records she hits the CD section, and after that
skims over the tapes. Once her little exploration's done with, she nods to
the cashier and moves for the door. Pushing it open with one hand and
getting a good grip on her bookbag strap with the other, the girl emerges
onto the street and looks for where she parked her car.

As the night starts getting into full swing, the city comes alive under
streetlamps and neon, and in this part of town, the hookers and gangers
are out in force. A knot of rough-looking boys, none of them older than
sixteen, call lewd things at Cassiel as she searches for her car.
Traffic's thinned out considerably, but every parking spot alongside the
street is filled with a vehicle -- battered sedans, SUVs, a van or two,
even a big black motorcycle.

Cassiel jingles her car keys in her pocket, as if to reassure herself that
yes, her car is out there somewhere. The group of boys are ignored, not
even spared a glance in their direction as she makes her way down the
street, keeping an eve, but quick pace. No sense in her staying here any
longer than she has to, and she didn't think she'd parked that far away
from the store.

The gang is not so easily ignored, however; they start following her,
still talking, every face plastered with a grin or smirk.

"Yo, bitch, yo yo."

"Hey, ho, what'cha doin'?"

"I think she's lost, Dex."

"Lost, yeah, you lost, Puffy?"

Cassiel shakes her head, stuffing her hands into her pockets as she
remains playing ignorant. Perhaps if she doesn't pay any attention to
them, they'll go away, but even she knows the chances of that are slim to
none.

The gangers continue to follow. They're closing in, and where the hell
_did_ she park?

"Yo, she's not answering us."

"Yeah, I noticed. Stuck up bitch."

"C'mon, Puffy, we jus' wanna party. You too good to party with us or
somethin'?"

Cassiel sighs quietly to herself, then resists the strong urge to smack
herself in the face. She left her cell phone in the car, which means even
if she did need to call for help, by the time she got to it it'd probably
be too late. But not one to panic, she steels her nerves and walks a
little faster. Is that her car up ahead? She can only hope.

They catch up with her, four of them, just as she's passing by a adult
bookstore. (A sign in the window shows an ad for a video called _Hairy
Porker and the Sorcerer's Bone_.) Everything happens rather quickly after
that -- the two biggest ones flank her while the dirty-blond one steps
right into her path. The fourth she doesn't see, but something sharp
pricks into the small of her back.

"We jus' wanna party, Puffy," says the blond, grinning toothily. "Be nice
an' party with us."

They are, every one, taller than her.

Cassiel winces, biting her lower lip just to the point where any harder
and she'd draw blood. "I'm not the partying type. Least, not this kind of
party," she states in a calm, even tone of voice, while staring dead at
the blond guy in front of her. "Now shouldn't you guys be off stealing
some little old woman's purse, or torturing a defenseless animal?"

The blond's grin turns harder, curving into a sneer, and the boy on her
right takes hold of her arm. He, like the other flanker, has a thickset,
heavy appearance, soft and wide around the belly.

"Be nice, Puffy," says the blond, the gang's apparant leader. "You'll like
it, honest. Otherwise, Dex'll gut ya right here. He's fuckin' psycho, yo,
an' I bet he'll _still_ party wit'cha, even after you been gutted."

Dex pokes her with the knife a little more, snickering. "Yeah, an extra
hole, yo!"

The meadwad on her left rolls his eyes a little, but sticks close.

Cassiel frowns; this is too much even for her generally passive nature.
"Listen guys, as much as the thought of being torn apart and then violated
gets me all hot and bothered, I really need to scoot along on home. So run
along before you irk me." She's not all that great at giving threats, and
it doesn't help that the guys are both taller and weigh more. However,
that doesn't stop her from trying to pull her arm free.

The grip on her arm only clamps down more tightly, and the guy on her left
takes hold of her other arm. And then, probably much to the girl's dismay,
they start herding her toward a nearby alleyway, between the adult
bookstore and a pawn shop that's closed and shuttered tight. The
knifepoint continues to dig into her back.

"Don' be a bitch, Puffy," says the blond, with complete confidence. "Jus'
come along quietly. Like I said, be nice an' everythin'll be cool." He
grins again.

Cassiel's eyes narrow. "All right. I've had it up to -here- with you
wastes of flesh. So just let me go, and we can pretend like this never
happened." She squirms around a bit, trying to relieve the sharp pricking
sensation in her back, while trying to get both arms free now. "And trust
me, I'm nowhere -near- bitchiness yet, buddy. You haven't seen bitch
mode."

"She ain't gonna be nice, Burke," remarks the boy on Cassiel's right. He
and his chunky partner have a good, firm grip on the girl, and the alley's
darkness is getting closer; the two boys look big enough, between them, to
pick her up and drag her there if she won't walk it.

"I see that, man," says Burke, the blond. He shrugs. "Whatever, yeah.
Ain't like we din' warn her."

Then it hits her. These guys aren't going to let her go unless she
actually does something. So, taking as deep a breath as she can manage
with a knife jabbing her in the back, Cassiel lets out the most piercing
screech her lungs can conjure up. And it's pretty loud, at that.

"Ah, shit!" It's hard to say which one of them utters this, though the
sentiment's probably shared by all. But the scream doesn't provide escape,
and she's quickly dragged, kicking as well as screaming if necessary, into
the alley.

The scream does draw attention, of course; people look up and some even
point. But it's a bad part of town, and there are no cops in sight. And no
one seems to want to interfere.

Cassiel flails as hard as she can, feeling her temper actually flare up
for once. It's a rare occasion as she normally prides herself on being
pretty laid-back, but even she has her limits. "Let go of me, or so help
me I will personally hunt you piles of puke down and make your lives worse
than any hell you can conjure up!" she yells, eyes narrowed and turning a
deep shade of brown in the process. She's also started to tense up, both
out of fear and anger.

"Shut up, bitch!" It's not the most original of statements, but having
gotten her out of the street and surrounded four-to-one, Burke doesn't
need to be original. A fist slams into her kidneys, bringing about a stab
of pain, and then a dark pillowcase falls down over her head, cutting off
her sight; the two meatballs are wrenching her arms behind her and not
being very gentle about it.

Just before the pillowcase drops down, Cassiel catches sight of a blue van
parked at the other end of the alleyway, its closed rear doors pointing
toward them.

To her credit, Cassiel keeps from crying out as she's hit, but it does
knock the wind from her, causing her to cough and gasp for what air she
can get while trapped in the confined breathing space of the pillowcase.
The fiesty anger she had but a moment ago is being overwhelmed by the
ever-growing sense of fear, panic to the point where she feels like she's
going to be sick unless she can get enough oxygen into her lungs. There's
also something else, an unknown feeling that's creeping through her blood,
a low, tingling, burning sensation that she can't quite place. And it's
getting stronger.

"Fuckin' bitch," one ganger voice growls. It sounds like Dex. Something
strong and sticky, some kind of electrical or duct tape, is being wrapped
around her wrists, binding them tight behind her. "Fuckin' stuckup
_whore_." Someone punches her in the kidneys again.

And then another voice speaks up. Older. Familiar. But with no hint of
pleasantness or amiability; it's a flat, cold voice. "That's enough. Get
her over here." There's a sound of van doors being opened.

Cassiel lets out a slightly muffled whimper as she's punched again, her
knees shaking as she tries her best to remain standing. Beyond all
rational realms of confusion at this point, her heart practically jumps
out of her chest as the new voice speaks up. Her mind brings up a quick
image, the guy she saw in the music store...Salem? A low mutter emerges
from her throat as she mentally slaps herself for being so stupid, to
inform that creepy guy that she was here by herself.

Hindsight's always twenty-twenty, alas. Cassiel finds herself shoved into
the back of the van, dumped onto a thin, scratchy carpet that doesn't seem
to insulate her at all from the cold metal beneath it. Something wraps
around her neck, tight enough to keep the pillowcase secured but not so
tight that she can't breathe... though it's definitely uncomfortable. More
tape goes around her ankles and above and below her knees.

Burke demands money from Salem, what the man owes them, though underneath
the bravado is a hint of deference that wasn't there before, a touch of
fear. Salem replies with a grunt. Then the van doors slam shut behind her,
leaving her in deeper darkness.

Cassiel is silent, save the occasional gasp that emits from her throat.
Her head turns slightly, first to the left then to the right, as she tries
to hear what's going on around her. All the while she's flexing and trying
to stretch the tape binding her, hoping to locate a weak spot in it so
that she can at least get one of her hands free.

The bindings are secure, unfortunately, like they've done this before.
Then again, maybe the big creep helped them; he certainly _looked_ like
someone who'd know how to tie young women up for kidnapping. She hears the
driver's side door open and shut, and then the motor starting. The van
pulls out, and the girl is treated to a long, cold, uncomfortable drive,
feeling every single bump in the road.

Cassiel closes her eyes, shivering as she tries to keep herself warm. She
attempts to will her thoughts elsewhere so that she won't be reminded of
the situation she's in, but it doesn't seem to work. A few tears start to
well up in the girl's eyes, before they break loose and roll down her
cheeks, only to be soaked into the fabric of the pillowcase.

Eventually -- and it's hard to tell how much time goes by in the frigid,
noisy darkness -- the van slows and stops, motor dying with a final
rumble. Again the driver's door opens and closes, and a moment later, the
back doors open, bringing a cold breeze. The van rocks slightly as a large
person -- Salem? -- climbs into the back and drags her out of the van. She
finds herself lifted bodily, with no hint of effort, and slung over a
massive shoulder as though she were no more than a child.

The girl's body goes limp as soon as she feels herself being picked up,
and now she's little more than dead weight on the person's shoulder. Eyes
still closed, she continues her futile attempt at trying to listen on
what's happening around her, so that she can get somewhat of an idea of
where she's at. Least she's no longer stuck in the back of that van, but
Cassiel dreads to see what's going to happen to her next.

Sirens sound form somewhere distant. Too distant. Otherwise, there's
nothing but the vague background mutter of an urban area at night and the
smells of garbage and tar and car exhaust and gasoline -- all muffled
somewhat through the pillowcase covering her head. More clear is the sound
of the van doors beind shut and then the clomp of heavy boots on concrete.
The wind drops, and the bootsteps echo -- they're inside. The place sounds
big and empty, to judge from the echoes.

She's certain that they pass through a couple of doors and climb up some
stairs. Then, abruptly, her captor stops and dumps her down onto something
less hard than concrete or carpet on a van floor. Springs creak underneath
her... a mattress? The footsteps move away again.

Cassiel's blood runs cold, a drastic change from the odd burning of
earlier. She's scared now, to the point where she's visibly shaking, even
with being restrained and all. "Hello?" she manages to cough out, voice
almost too low to hear due to her throat being dry and since she still has
her face covered. "...someone there?"

No answer, though she can hear a door being closed and the rattle of keys.
Then the footsteps return and brusque hands slice through the bonds around
her legs and wrists, then cut the cord around her neck, freeing her with
swift efficiency.

As soon as the restraints are gone she rips off the pillowcase and scoots
herself as far away from her captor as the room and they will allow, her
eyes partially red and face a bit puffy from crying earlier. While trying
to keep an eye on the person, Cassiel also scouts around for anything that
could be used as a weapon; broken glass, old chair, anything within
reaching distance.

The room is bare but for empty metal shelving -- all of it bolted securely
to the floor -- and the single bare mattress that she'd been dumped on.
And Salem, folding up the pocket knife and tucking it into the back pocket
of his jeans. He watches her with cold, flat eyes, one brown, one blind.

Cassiel conjures up the most nastiest glare she can manage and aims it
directly for Salem. "What the -hell- are you on, you psycho?! Look, if you
kidnapped me for money, then you've come to the wrong person. Neither I,
or my mom, are rich so looks like you failed there. Now if you let me go,
I won't even report you to the police. This never happened. Okay? Is that
a deal to you?" She tries to keep her tone level, but it wavers every now
and then.

"I'm sorry, Cass, but it's much worse than that. And better, in a way."
Salem voice is calm and completely self-assured as he takes out a black
cigarette case and extracts one filterless smoke. "I didn't kidnap you for
money." He sets the cigarette between his lips and tucks the case back
inside his pocket.

Cassiel keeps her gaze locked in on Salem. "Then...what do you want?" she
asks, in a much softer voice this time. She's heard stories of kidnappers,
seen what they do in movies and read about them in books. Horrible stuff,
all of it, but she never thought it would happen to her. "Listen, I just
want to go home, feed my pet, and maybe get some sleep. Please, can I go?"

"No." There's something terribly _final_ in the way he says that, like
she's never going to see her pet iguana or her own bed again. "In fact, I
suggest that you make yourself as comfortable as possible, since this will
be your home for the next few days or so. Give me a moment, and I'll
explain." Cool as a cucumber, he lights the cigarette and inhales a long
drag.

Cassiel glances around, then starts to chuckle to herself. "You've got to
be kidding, right? There is no freaking way that you could convince me to
stay in this...place. This cold, empty hellpit which is probably in the
middle of nowhere. Are you insane?"

Salem wrinkles his nose, then exhales a stream of smoke. "I've been called
worse. And there's no need for me to convince you... quite frankly, Cass,
you have no choice. Whether you like it or not, you've been marked by fate
to fight in war that began before humanity erected the first mud hut. You
are, bluntly speaking, a werewolf. As am I."

Cassiel starts to say something, then closes her mouth and shakes her head
a few times. "You've gotta be kidding me. May I ask exactly what kind of
cigarette you're smoking? Is it homeade? Spiced up with anything? Because
last time I checked, werewolves only existed in movies, old legends, and
video games. Books too..."

Salem takes the cigarette from his mouth. "There's a lot that you don't
know. However, I don't blame you for doubting, so allow me to
demonstrate." Right before her eyes, he transforms, growing massive and
brutish, growing hair and fangs and height until a shape that's half man
and half wolf stands before her, towering nine feet tall, black-furred and
white-fanged, with a burning cigarette held between two massive, clawed
fingers.

Cassiel begins to stammer and tries to look away, but she just can't.
"That...that's one hell of a costume there," she mutters, while getting to
her feet. She's ready to run as fast as she can away from that -thing-
looming nearby. "I mean, it's just great, and thanks for sharing, but I
really need to be going now."

Is it her imagination, or does the beast look... disappointed? He snaps
back into human form and takes another drag on the cigarette. "You'll
stay. Because you _are_ one of us, and you _will_ accept it and realize
your potential." His lips thin. "Your life quite literally depends on
this."

Cassiel blinks and rubs at her eyes. "And why, pray tell, does my life
depend on this? I don't want to belong to some wacky costumed cult, all
right? I just want to go home to my nice comfy bed, maybe have some
dinner, and forget this night ever happened."

Salem grimaces. "You're a werewolf, Cass, whether you like it or not. A
Garou, to be precise. If not, then..." He shrugs, flicking ash carelessly
onto the concrete floor. "In any case, are you so certain that I'm wrong?
Completely certain?" He takes another inhale. "Ever had dreams about
wolves, for example? Running? Blood? Violence? _Recurring_ dreams? Or did
you ever know someone in your family, a parent or aunt or uncle who was,
shall we say, strange? Moody? Prone to disappearances?"

Cassiel frowns, mentally considering the answer to each question before
she replies. "No, no, no, no, no, and maybe. But I don't have to tell you
anything. You -kidnapped- me, man! And here you are, wanting to play
twenty questions like nothing strange is going on? I don't think so." She
sits herself down on the floor, hands palms-down in front of her, as she
stares towards the ceiling.

Salem's mouth twists, his irritation growing. "Fine. Stew for a bit, then.
I have some errands to run. I'll bring back a few things to make your stay
here slightly more comfortable, but you _will_ stay here until you accept
your nature." He turns his back to her and starts walking toward the door,
the cigarette dangling from his lips.

Cassiel sighs. "Can you at least bring me Godzilla and his cage? I swear,
if you keeping me here is the death of my pet, I will hunt you down and
make your life miserable! You don't know how much that lizard means to me.
Of course, I somehow doubt you even care..." she trails off, lowering her
head as she draws her legs up to her chest.

Salem pauses, glancing back. "Toss me your wallet, and I'll see what I can
do."

Cassiel squints her eyes, displeased at the request, but she does fish her
wallet out. After removing all of the important stuff, save her license,
she tosses the object at Salem. "And try not to steal any of my stuff. I
don't have much, but what I got I'm a bit attached to."

Salem catches the wallet and pockets it. "There's a bathroom past those
shelves there," he says, nodding toward the far end of the room and
ignoring the implication that he's a common thief. "The water's off,
unfortunately." He turns back toward the door. "I'll return shortly."

Cassiel hmphs. "You'd better," is the girl's low reply, as she makes her
way back over to the mattress to slump down onto it. "Some food wouldn't
hurt either. I haven't eaten since lunch."