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Cockroach Mansion -- Elder's Office(#3805R)

Salem's office is an extension of the same elegant display of wealth which
      characterizes the rest of the mansion. Most noticeable, from the doorway 
      in the southern wall, is the large black-veined white marble fireplace 
      taking up half of the northern part of the room, contrasting sharply with 
      the ebony-paneled walls. A rug of forest green carpets the floor from 
      wall to wall, while red velvet frames the wall of windows to the west.

The other decor is typical of the private office of a wealthy, old-world
      businessmen, from the ponderous mahogany desk along the eastern wall and 
      the equally heavy chairs set before them, to the brass and glass 
      chandelier dangling from the ceiling. A reproduction of Van Gogh's 
      _Starry Night_ hangs above the fireplace, and the bookshelves behind the 
      desk are, so far, nearly empty.

A door at the far end of the office leads into an adjoining bedroom and
      bathroom. This door is usually kept closed.

It's around nine AM when she comes in, bringing the smell of food with her.
      Peppers and eggs, and hot coffee. There's a token knock first, and then 
      she manages the door somehow, juggling that and the balanced tray. 

The office, which she heads through to get to his bedroom, is dim, the curtains
      closed and the fire burned down low. But there are shards of glass on the 
      floor near the marble fireplace, and the door to the liquor cabinet is 
      slightly ajar. Ominous signs.

The bedroom windows are curtained as well and, if anything, that room is even
      darker than the office. A Salem-shaped mass is sprawled on the bed atop 
      the covers, face up, still in the clothes he was working in last night. 
      The Walker's not asleep so much as passed out. He hadn't even removed his 
      shoes.

The cheer is gone the moment she sees--replaced by a crashing wave of
      disappointment. When she enters the bedroom she is silent, careful...and 
      full of concealed anger. She sets down the tray on the bedside table, and 
      draws the curtains back with several hard jerks and the quiet sliding 
      noise.

Unfortunately for Jack, the windows face east, and sunlight streams in. It's a
      cloudy, watery sunlight, but it's enough to pierce the sodden gloom. His 
      face twists in reaction to it, a thin, peevish-sounding groan worming 
      from his throat as he rolls over, instinctively trying to get away from 
      the bad, evil daystar.

"Oh, /none/ of that shit," Rina snarls. The covers are yanked away violently.
      Then the pillows, stripped from him savage and merciless.

As the last pillow is stolen, he bares his teeth, snerling like an unhappy
      terrier, and rolls back over. A hand comes up and covers his eyes. "Ngh," 
      says Salem, articulately.

She dumps everything on the floor and then opens /more/ of the damned windows,
      letting in the cruel horrid sun. "GET UP."

Salem lifts his hand and cracks open a bleary, bloodshot brown eye in order to
      peer at her with a mixture of irritation, bemusement, and embarrassment. 
      "What the--" he says, and then his throat works and he cuts off the 
      protest in mid-whine. The eye closes again, tightly.

She moves to the tray--and then he is doused with cold water. Not iced,
      luckily--but cool enough for a shock as it soaks into his head. "I /said/ 
      get *UP*," she snaps, merciless.

Salem yelps out an 'augh!' as the water hits, the sound followed quickly by an
      unthinking snarl of, "God _damn_ it!" before the giant silver spike 
      drives itself into his head. (That's how it feels, anyway, judging by the 
      expression on his face.) The water has the desired effect, though; he 
      sits up, albeit with ill grace and biting back another groan.

"I don't fucking /believe/ you," she says, way too loud. The dark eyes are
      fixed on him in a bright glare, shimmering slightly with tears.

Salem leans forward, resting one elbow on a bent knee, hand covering his eyes.
      "Shutupplease," he mutters -- certainly more whiningly than he meant to 
      sound.

"No," she says sharply. "I will /not/ shut up. You fucking /promised/, didn't
      you? And now I guess that doesn't mean /shit/."

Salem squints painfully over at her, nose wrinkled. "The fuck, promised? What
      the fuck're you _talking_ about, woman?"

"I /THOUGHT/ you weren't drinking anymore," she says fiercely. "Maybe I was
      high myself, when I heard it."

Salem winces as the kinswoman's voice drills another silver spike into his
      head. This time, though, he has enough presence of mind to stifle the 
      groan, his own voice being as painful than Rina's sharp anger. He shakes 
      his head a bit in answer and mutters something about not remembering any 
      promise.

"Oh, what was that?" she says, leaning forward slightly, her eyebrow raised.
      "I'm sorry. I didn't /hear/ you."

Salem shoots her a look of disbelief, the expression mixed with humiliated
      anger. "Are you _mocking_ me?"

"No," she says acidly. "When I mock you, you'll fuckin' know, you pathetic
      piece a shit."

Salem just... stares at her, struck dumb. Stares at her like she's a complete
      stranger, like she's suddenly sprouted wings and horns.

She glares back at him with all of hell's fury in her eyes. When she speaks
      again, though, her voice is much quieter--a dangerous, controlled anger 
      behind the words. There are tears in her eyes, the barest shimmer. "You 
      do not live in your fucking bachelor pad anymore, /Jack/," she spits out. 
      "You live in the same house with this tribe's fucking /future/. And you 
      will /NOT/ disgrace yourself, the Glasswalkers, or /ME/, like this. You 
      wanna go on a bender, you do it somewhere /else/. And don't come back 
      until you're a decent man again."

Salem's lip wrinkles away from his teeth, his face contorting into an ugly
      snarl as the words strike home; his face flushes, the scars standing out 
      whitely. She can almost see the veins pulsing in his temples. "Who," he 
      says slowly, deliberately, trying hard to get the Jackal whine under 
      control and failing rather miserably, "the _fuck_ do you think you are?"

Her jaw works for a moment, and then she says, softly, "I'm the one in charge."
      Her hand tightens around the glass, for a long moment, and then she 
      carefully turns and sets it on the tray with everything else. "Eat some 
      breakfast." Her expression twists slightly. "If you even /can/."

Salem glances over toward the tray as if he hadn't noticed it before now, and
      some of the impending ragefest gives way to a sickened expression. He 
      looks away and mutters, "In charge." Then he laughs shortly, an ugly, 
      hyenaish sound, bitter and humorless.

Her expression twists. "At least you're fucking /talkin'/ to me now," she says
      hoarsely. Dark, shimmering eyes flick toward the window. "He'd be so 
      fuckin' disappointed in you."

Salem grits his teeth. "Fuck _him_." His voice is low. "Fuck him, he's _dead_,
      he's jesus-fucking dead AND WILL YOU FUCKING SHITEATING BASTARDS FOR ONCE 
      JUST SHUT THE FUCK _UP_?!"

The last comes out as a roar, or as close to one as he can voice right now, and
      it's directed at the empty air rather than at the kinswoman. Salem 
      lurches to his feet, blindly reaching for something to throw; his hand 
      falls on the alarm clock, and he hurls it across the room to smash 
      against the wall.

Then he sinks back onto the bed, leaning forward over his knees and putting his
      head in his hands.

She turns away, her back arrow-straight. "Have some breakfast," she says
      numbly, hoarse with the sudden crying. "There's coffee." Then she walks 
      out.

Salem looks up, his mouth opening to speak her name, but he doesn't get past
      the first syllable when she's already gone. Groaning softly, he lowers 
      his head again, cradling it in his hands.

Through the open door, he hears a faint choked sound from the hallway--and then
      the sound of the front door, opening and closing violently. Smells that 
      would normally be appetizing waft from the tray, and he is left alone 
      with broken glass and spilled water.


[Much later...]


Currently the moon is in the waning Full Moon phase (90% full).

Rina works quietly in the kitchen, tossing a salad while stuffed shells bake in
      the oven. She is silent, wave for the occasional quiet closing of a 
      cabinet or drawer.

Salem appears in the kitchen doorway, only recently showered and dressed. His
      eyes are shadowed, his expression still rather pallid. He watches her for 
      a bit, silent and pensive.

She glances over once, and then looks back to her work--somewhere between
      shamed and still-piqued, a faint flush rising to her cheeks. After a 
      moment she leaves the poor abused salad alone, and looks over to him, 
      careful to keep her expression steady and neutral. "Are you feeling 
      better?"

Salem looks away, hands vanishing into his pockets. He studies the fruit bowl
      on the center of the kitchen table; broad shoulders lift and fall, and 
      then he nods.

You paged Rina with 'He skipped face shaving today. Hair's still mostly
      stubble, but it's growing back since he last shaved it back on Judgement 
      Day.'.

"Good," she says shortly, and turns to start dishing the salad into a small
      bowl. Another glance to him, as she says, "You want to take up Joshua's 
      dinner?"

Salem nods again. Considering that the moon is still quite full, the former
      Ahroun seems terribly subdued. His gaze shifts from the fruit bowl over 
      to the clock near the telephone.

Rina swallows, and returns somewhat stiffly to her work--pulling out a tray
      from a lower cabinet, getting a glass and a plate. Ice for the glass, a 
      can of soda out of the fridge, a bottle of water; she's in the midst of 
      squeezing it all onto the tray when the oven timer goes off. With a 
      practiced yank she opens the oven door, and at the same time grabs a 
      couple of potholders from a drawer to take out the pans of baked pasta. 
      Giant shells, smothered in sauce, occupy two pans. The only discernible 
      difference is that one pan has melted cheese on top. A knee comes up to 
      push the oven door closed, and then she serves up a couple of shells from 
      each pan onto the waiting plate. Her manner is almost as subdued as 
      Salem's, her expression bleak, as if her spirit is simply elsewhere.

Rina pages: Nobody home. Much safer that way. Can't get hurt, or mad, or upset.

Salem sneaks a look back over to her, watching her when she's busy and not
      looking his way. Once, his jaw tightens, anger flickering briefly across 
      his face, and he looks away again, studying the floor now. It's nice and 
      clean.

"The cheesy ones are meat, the plain ones are just ricot' and spinach," she
      says quietly. "Make sure Cat eats tonight. I'm goin' home." Taking up the 
      tray with both hands, she comes over to hand it to him. "Here. I'll come 
      with you and get the door. I wanna make sure he's okay."

Her eyes flicker up at the last, briefly.

His eyes meet hers for a second as he obediently takes the tray. Then he looks
      away, nodding.

Cockroach Mansion -- Tower

Unlike the rest of the mansion, the interior of the four-story-tall tower has a
      rough and almost medieval feel to it. It's all concrete and stone and 
      exposed lightbulbs. There's one room per floor, plus a basement 
      underneath; a winding iron staircase leads from one level to the next.

The highest floor of the tower provides the best view of the grounds and
      surrounding neighborhood; there are several windows with dark brown 
      curtains and a couple of chairs to sit in. A black trunk acts as a 
      makeshift coffee table and footrest, and there's even carpeting. 
      Interestingly enough, all the windows are set with heavy black iron bars. 
      On one wall hangs a whiteboard and some dry-erase markers and matching 
      eraser.

The rest of the rooms are used mostly for storage and have a chilly, shadowy,
      dusty feel. In the irregularly-shaped basement reigns the boiler.

There are cockroaches everywhere, on every floor of the tower.

Was it cold? Yes. It was definitely cold today. The concrete of the tower was
      not exactly a heat retaining material, instead, seeming to sap the very 
      heat from what ever was inside it. The room was slightly better 
      decorated, though: all the glyphs where hung on the wall, with nearly 
      true reproductions of them on the whiteboard. On the papers themselves, 
      seemingly reams of notes where scribbled, none of it in English, all of 
      it in Japanese. Note books left by Cat where now carefully filled, pages 
      on everything that they taught the youth. The Cub himself sat on the cot, 
      scribbling on one of the note pads everything he could think of. Dotting 
      the pages where crude sketch illustrations: ghosts, wolfs, Crinos Garou, 
      and even the Ex-Russians. Josh wore a blanket like an over-shirt, barely 
      keeping him in the tolerable heat range. Why it had to be so cold on a 
      day that he promised himself that he wasn't going to shift was beyond him.

Rina holds the door for Salem, who is carrying a heavily laden tray: a glass
      with ice, a can of soda, a bottle of water, a bowl full of salad, and a 
      plate laden with stuffed pasta-shells smothered in cheese and sauce. And, 
      of course, Salem is the one who comes in first. Rina follows after him, a 
      bleak shadow. She looks as if her spirit is elsewhere: empty-eyed and 
      hollow.

The Walker Philodox doesn't look much better; he hasn't shaved today and there
      are dark circles under his eyes. The grim aura about him is nothing new, 
      though. Wordlessly, he walks over to the trunk that's acting as a kind of 
      table and sets down the dinner tray.

Joshua closes the notebook, looking up to Salem and Rina. Even he, the socially
      inept, can see something's wrong: he furrows his brow looking between the 
      two. "'Evening Mister Salem 'n Miz Rina..."

Rina closes the door, and glances to him. "Hey," she says quietly. "You aright?"

Salem gives the cub a curt nod, then moves off to one side. He shifts smoothly
      down to wolf form as he goes, making the transformation look effortless, 
      and then lies down near the dry erase board.

Joshua nods, clenching the blanket tight to himself. "Uh-huh." He replies
      nervously. "... uh, whadda bout you...?"

Rina nods, dismissing the question with a half-shrug. The dark eyes study him
      for a moment, thoughtful. "We'll hafta talk, sometime, about the ghosts. 
      Have some dinner." That's apparently all; she turns for the door again.

Scar's tilt backwards as Rina departs, displeased, but he doesn't do anything
      to prevent her from going.

Joshua lets out a long beleaguered sigh, picking up the fork. "I don't
      wanna..." He murmurs softly. "Every time we do, Either you get angry 'er 
      I get angry." But the minute noise would be lost to the KinWomans' back.

Rina pauses with a hand on the frame. "If you'd rather not," she says numbly,
      "fine. You can talk to Ant'ny or Jack about it, then." Sharp ears, 
      evidently. She doesn't bother turning back, but slips out and closes the 
      door after her. The booted clatter is heard a moment later, as she jogs 
      down the stairs.

Scar huffs, then looks at Joshua. His jaws snap together. Eat, he commands, and
      like most of the most basic concepts in wolf speech, it's silent.

Joshua, now locked inside the room with Salem, nervously lifts the Fork, trying
      to work his way though the meal. In-between almost ever-other bite, the 
      Cub glances at Salem as if he expects the Elder to start gnawing on him 
      any moment. The food is scarffed down as fast as he can manage, and it 
      isn't long before he's already starting to finish off the Salad.

Scar shows signs of irritation at the cub's nervousness and eventually gets up
      and shakes himself. With bad temper, he asks: You wish to be alone?

Joshua shakes his head rapidly, even though it's untrue. "No... 'm just not
      used to you bein around, 'sall..." The salad is now eaten as well, and 
      it's a bare moment before the last of the Soda is downed. He covers his 
      mouth as he belches from eating all the food so fast.

Scar huffs again, looking irritated. Then he tells Joshua, curtly, that perhaps
      in a few days the cub won't be confined to this room. Shifting back to 
      homid, he collects the tray and dinner leavings.