2019-06-29 - Building a File

"...and so to summarize," Isabella remarks, whiteboard marker in hand as she quickly scrawls a chart across the pristine surface in front of her. "Aegean art, or at least what we will be focusing on in my class, will be covering the two major pre-Greek civilizations - the Minoans and the Mycenaeans. I chose this era because it is a logical launch point between Near Eastern Art - that is, Mesopotamian and Egyptian art to those of you more familiar with classical archaeology, and what we know as Greek art today."

The green-eyed academic stands in front of the lecture hall, somewhat more populated than normal - it didn't take long for the student body in the community college to hear about the young archaeologist who has joined the faculty on a part-time basis; not just by virtue of her age and attractiveness but her ridiculous academic pedigree, as uncommon as it was to have any visiting experts from one of the most prestigious universities in the world willing to come to a small, nothing school to teach. Plenty are there out of curiosity, but there are clearly more serious students there, their notebooks out and diligently taking notes, their eyes trained to the front at the images that slide across the projector screen on top of the narrow board underneath.

It may just be a small town, but Isabella Reede takes her position as a representative of Oxford seriously, and it shows in her manner of dress. Her aesthetic preferences fall along the lines of timeless classics translated to the twenty-first century: a cigarette skirt that goes an inch or two past the knee, a ruffled, long-sleeved blouse tucked in the broad waistband to accentuate the narrowness of her waist. Black pearls, so iridescent that they look almost blue, rest in thin layered strings over her throat, left visible due to her dark hair having been swept up in a loose coiffure, pinned to the back of her head with a few tresses deliberately pulled forward to frame her face.

She commands the room with the easy confidence of one who is accustomed to presenting, her voice projecting clearly through the space despite being situated in the classroom's ampitheatre-styled seating, her heels making mute little clicks on the ground as she moves around the front on occasion.

"We won't just be discussing the artifacts and the discoveries tied to them around this time," she continues. "But also how their artistic representation expresses cultural values: for the Minoans, for instance, in terms of their relationship to the environment, and for the Mycenaeans, in terms of displays of political power. These two concepts are still very palpable in people's lives today, and throughout this lecture series, I'd like all of you to think about how contemporary visual culture relates to our social, political, and geographic relationships."

She turns back to the board, scrawling a few terms and underlining them. "This is also good chance for me to introduce to all of you the concept of institutional history, or historiography. Both the Minoan and Mycenaean sites were discovered and excavated around the turn of the last century by Western archaeologists, who had their own culturally specific agendas. And finally, I will be introducing the question of epistemology - basically, how do we know what we know? The Minoan culture is an especially good place to make you all question your assumptions about what art means..."

Her hand tilts to regard the face of her silver watch, tucked against her wrist. "...though that'll have to wait until next week."

With her lecture ended, as students slowly start to file out of the room, Isabella moves towards her desk, fingers reaching out to start organizing her materials.

A study in contrasts, although both Alexander and Isabella might be considered part-time faculty: Alexander teaches some 'community enrichment' classes, i.e. whatever the college thinks local people will pay for and definitely nothing that helps with getting an actual degree. His classes on research methodology and unsolved historical crimes are sandwiched between 'Introduction to Word' and 'Finding Your Reiki Spirit Animal' in the course catalog, and he dresses like a man who never, ever teaches in public - over large flannel shirt half open over a 90s band t-shirt, worn jeans, and stompy, mud-spattered workboots. He's come to pick up some paperwork from the few of his students who have proved incapable of operating e-mail, and was about to leave when he heard a familiar voice.

So he sneaks in. Slipping in at the back of the lecture hall and standing in the shadows against the back wall, arms crossed as he listens to the last little bit of Isabella's lecture. He waits as students file out, watching them with interest, then shuffles his way towards the desk and the woman at it. "Miss Reede. That may be the first time most of this population has heard the words 'Minoan' or 'Mycenaean'."

It's the shadow that draws her attention first; those green-and-gold eyes miss nothing, Isabella pausing from her busy movements to regard the man that has just approached her once the students have filed out. One of them has managed to leave an apple, in the grand tradition of young scholars everywhere, and it is this that she tosses in her hand, her clear manicure glinting against the fruit's vibrant ruby skin. He wouldn't be able to miss her surprise, with how easily her face lends to expression - but ever so quick to recover, the line of her mouth tilts upwards, brows following suit.

She has never questioned his tendency to address someone so formally, accustomed to it from her years in Europe and elsewhere. "Mr. Clayton," she greets simply, easing her slender figure against the corner of her desk, tossing the apple in her palm.

That may be the first time most of this population has heard the words 'Minoan' or 'Mycenaean.'

The devil in her resurfaces when she subjects him to the full force of that unfettered smile, tilting her head up slightly to meet his eyes. "I'm sure," she begins, amusement stitched through every syllable. "That the novelty'll wear off relatively quickly once they take a look at their first test. What brings you here, then? Do you take classes here, or do you teach? Visiting someone who teaches?"

Alexander gives the apple a puzzled sort of look. "Apples. They do that, still?" A shake of his head. He stays just inside conversational range, hovering uncertainly as if she might call campus security on him. Even as he says, "I teach one or two classes a semester. Nothing for real credit - people just take them for amusement, I suspect." He lifts his small collection of papers. The one facing outward appears to have been typewritten on an actual typewriter.

His eyebrows quirk upwards. "Are your tests very hard, then?" He turns his attention to the board, scrutinizing it with interest. "I'm not familiar with the era. You make it sound interesting."

She regards the papers he shows her with faint interest; perhaps not for the contents themselves but the fact that he used an actual typewriter to create them. "Only for teachers they really like," Isabella replies, her smile only growing. "Anyway, I don't think you've got a leg to stand on about people doing some old-fashioned thing, still." She gestures to his papers and their typewritten surfaces.

She follows the turn of his head to regard the board. "Art history is difficult even for those enthusiastic about the subject," she says, tucking the apple in her bag as she stands up, gathering up her portfolio, sunkissed fingers reaching for the full-lengthed leather trenchcoat tossed over the side of her chair, dyed a royal blue. "But it depends on how you process information. If you've a great memory with an mind for dates and locations, and if you do the work that's assigned, I'm sure getting a good grade won't be all that hard at all."

Easing back a little, she continues: "You just caught me on my way out, are you doing the same? Do you need a ride somewhere?"

Alexander looks down at the papers, and laughs. It's startled and rusty, but a real actual laugh. "God, no. I use a computer. One of my students refuses to send academic work over e-mail, though, and she has a typewriter. She's seventy. I was here to pick up her work." He shrugs, and follows her movements with his eyes. "Most people don't. Have those things," he points out. The offer makes him shuffle his feet in place, and he frowns. "I was just leaving, yes. I will walk you to your car. If you want." A pause. "You might not want. That's fine."

That smile eases faintly into a grin, Isabella waving her hand as she slips her coat over her shoulders and buttons it up twice. "I was wondering," she says. "I wasn't sure if they were yours or someone else's, but luckily for you, you managed to save yourself from a lot of dinosaur comments from me."

He isn't wrong; many can hardly remember what they did that morning, much less what strangers long dead have done hundreds of years ago. "True," she says. "But if they're interested in the subject, they won't really know how well they'll do until they try. There's something to be said about taking the leap, Mr. Clayton." It is, after all, how she lives her life six days out of seven. With her coat on, she gathers up her papers.

If you want, he says. In response, she simply hands him her leather satchel, for him to carry like a proper gentleman should.

"I'll give you half the apple when we get there," she promises, mischief in every line of her.

Whenever they start moving, up the stairs to vacate the room, she lifts a free hand to rub against the back of her neck, rolling her head in an effort to work out the knot of tension that has remained there since her arrival. An injury that has yet to fully heal, in truth, the night of the storm. "I've kept trying to reach someone in the Register of Deeds," she remarks, ever tenacious in the search for answers, whenever she chooses to invest herself in the effort. "But no luck, like the last hundred times. At this point, I'm likely to kick the doors down once we drive up there and see what's what."

"If an archaeologist compares you to a dinosaur, is that a compliment?" Alexander wonders, his head tilting to one side. There's a flash of something almost teasing there, light-hearted for a heartbeat or two before his expression falls into its usual blankness. "I hope they do. Your students. It would be educational."

And then she's offering him the leather satchel. He stares at it blankly, for probably far longer than is polite. But, eventually, he reaches out to take it from her, careful that their fingers don't brush. "I don't need your apple," he says, a touch defensively as he falls in just behind her. "I do eat."

He watches her motions, focusing in on the movement of her hand. But doesn't pry about it. Right now. Instead, he says, "It's often like that, Miss Reede. It may be difficult to get inside. I don't suppose you know how to pick locks?" Is he joking? He does not seem to be joking.

If an archaeologist compares you to a dinosaur, is that a compliment?

Isabella laughs, the sound of it just as unfettered as her smiles; borne of a thousand different joyous expressions when it spills down the hallway and causes some heads to turn as they walk down the dingy linoleum floors. She doesn't seem to notice, or very much care, the effervescent look of her directed his way. "Yeah, it is," she tells him gamely, eyes glittering with expended mirth. "If I were a paleontologist, you'd have to worry more as it'd depend on what kind of dinosaur you are. As for my students, I hope so too. I'm doing this because my phD candidacy requires a few lecture hours, and considering I have to remain here on the interim, I have to make up for what I'm missing in Oxford, somehow."

She doesn't let him walk behind her, falling a step next to him as they move, the readjustment made to make it more conducive to conversation. "It's not a question of you needing it, Mr. Clayton, but me wanting to give you half of it," she replies about the apple, a touch exasperated.

They move away from the hallway proper, bodies in motion fading from sight in the near difference once they reach a less occupied part of campus. Summer classes have started, and Gray Harbor has embraced their coming with the flood of vibrant green, and the scent of minerals in the air from freshly turned earth. Flowers, too - her hometown was always at its most beautiful during the bright, warm months, recalling dimly what her twin brother often said about it...

"I'm afraid I don't. Why, do you?" She turns a curious glance his way. "I was told you were a private investigator of a sort."

"Archaeology. Paleontology. You only think there's a difference because you think humans made all those ancient structures, when it was actually the reptilians descended from the dinosaurs, who concealed their true identities with their highly advanced stealth technology and walk among us even now, carefully guiding our development. The artificial division between disciplines is just one of their clever ploys," Alexander says, his voice soft, rapid, but otherwise without emotion. As if just conveying a fact that everyone knows. As she falls back to walk beside him, he nearly trips over his own feet until he figures out what's she's doing and decides - after a clear moment of thought - not to make an issue of it. When they reach the doors, he steps forward just enough to catch and open them for her.

"Do you not like apples?" he wonders, giving her a sidelong look. "I didn't earn it. You did. But if you want to give me half of it, you can." A roll of his shoulders, like it's an eccentricity he doesn't understand but will generously accept.

His eyes skip over each person they pass, and his path weaves a bit, trying to keep a certain amount of distance between himself and all the strangers. There's always a hesitation before a corner or an intersection, a moment where he pauses to evaluate for threat before moving on, giving him an odd, jerky gate. He's more relaxed once they step outside and the sightlines widen. "I don't know how to pick locks. It's a flaw. I don't usually break into places," he admits. "They frown on you doing that, and the local police would love to find better reasons to lock me up for a while." A pause. "Not all of them. But most."

What.

Disbelief tumbles over Isabella's face when she hears about reptile people and their advanced technology roaming the earth. To her credit, however, she doesn't even pause from walking, as if she hadn't been within the blast radius of that casual bit of weirdness. She falls quiet after that, perhaps in the effort of trying to determine just what to say, to find the careful balance between not sounding dismissive while also not subscribing to the idea.

In the end, she goes: "Well, I'm not in the habit of ruling anything out, but I'll believe that when I see it," she tells him.

She pauses to let him open the door for her, and she steps through with those perilous heels, reducing the height difference between them by just an inch or two. "I don't usually like sweet things," she confesses when he asks about it. "I've usually skipped dessert since I was a child. But it's not in me to turn away a token of consideration either, and fruit's good for you. Really, you'll be doing me a favor."

His careful insistence on keeping some manner of gap between himself and the rest of the world is one that she takes in stride; it hints at many things, but at the moment she chooses not to speculate or assume. Taking in an appreciative breath of the clean, outside air, she slides her hands in her pockets, her steps in time with his despite her footwear. God knows how a tomboy like her managed to become such an expert in wearing them, but she doesn't struggle to keep up with him, her strides brisk and businesslike; a woman who always has someplace to be.

"I suppose some level of risk management in that way is essential if you want to keep working," she allows. "Still not a bad skill to learn though, for emergencies. We're just going to have to find an alternative way inside, if it's on lockdown. Or be a little more clever than that, it depends. I've never been there before, I don't know the terrain. I'm going to have to improvise."

Said in a quiet, thoughtful murmur, as if she's done similar things before. Not surprising, in the end. Despite her scholastic elegance at the moment, Isabella was a professional adventurer, accustomed to following such train of thought.

"It's always best to wait for evidence before supporting a theory," Alexander says. His voice remains deadpan, but there's a twinkle deep in his sunken eyes that she might actually catch. "I have some very interesting literature on it. If you're interested. Maybe you'll come around to the idea. Publish." With his curt, often toneless manner of speaking, it's a 50/50 shot on whether he is dead serious or just seeing how far he can take the reptilian revolution.

To the other, he nods, thoughtfully. "What do you like, Miss Reede? Other than dangerous adventures and ancient art." A mental file must be built, and it requires data, clearly.

If anyone holds them back as they walk, it's Alexander with his twitchy wariness, but most of his attention remains on her, rather than looking for invisible enemies. "The records themselves probably won't be well-guarded. Best strategy would be to try to get into the room. I suspect if we ask for records to be brought out, we'll be forgotten, overlooked, or the records themselves will be. You're an archaeologist on a project. Pick something plausible but incredibly tedious that isn't about Gray Harbor, and try to convince them that it'll be better to let you and your research assistants sort through the boring documents ourselves. Ask in person, with Mister Thorne and I there. We'll back you up." He doesn't say HOW they'll back her up, just adds, "If we can get eyes on whoever it is, I think they can be amenable to a harmless request. It's easy to hang up on someone. Harder to tell them no to their face."

It's the surprising twinkle in the depths of his dark eyes that clues Isabella in on the truth of the matter, and she laughs again, tilting her head back and wincing when it aggravates her injury. It doesn't cut her off, however, and instead points her index finger in his general direction. "It's less a question about interest and more about a question of time," she banters back easily, her expression such that it forces that rare dimple to appear on her left cheek. "I think it might be well too late for me to publish on that front when I'm so busy trying to publish in the one I've already got. No, no, Mr. Clayton, I think you've got this one in the bag."

The last query might be startling to some; Alexander doesn't strike anyone as a type to be interested in people, but that's deceptive also - investigators tend to be, regardless of stripe or mannerism. Still, there's no wariness visible in her when she provides him with her answer. "Scotch," she tells him. "Eighteen years and older. Jazz. Cajun cooking, spicy things, though really, I love good food from any corner of the world, it doesn't matter if it's cheap or expensive. If I had to absolutely pick a dessert, it'd be something mildly sweet - like panna cotta. I took a few Flamenco lessons when I spent a summer in Spain while I was twenty-three, some Salsa, Tango. I enjoy it, but I don't go dancing very often. I love reading, but that's a given, as with almost everything about the sea. Have you ever gone diving, Mr. Clayton?"

The idea that Alexander proposes is sound and for a moment she looks at him, visibly surprised, that gives way to a face that is grudgingly impressed. "I wonder why, despite my big brain, I didn't think to ask someone who must have extensive experience being in a place that he shouldn't," she wonders with her dry, self-effacing humor. "I'll keep that in mind, but as we already discussed before, no plan survives first contact with the enemy. It's still a good launching off point, though."

The parking lot stretches out before them, slowing down so she can carefully, very carefully, walk down the steps leading to it in her heels. "That one's mine," she indicates, gesturing to the cherry-red Jeep. Not the newest model around, but perfectly capable of offroading when necessary.

Alexander studies her for a moment. "So, you're saying that when you have more time, you'd like me to send you some reading material." Again, perfectly deadpan, but with that well-hidden glint of humor. "I'll remember that."

He listens to the list of her likes with grave intensity, as if he was hearing the sort of interview that might solve a mystery or crack a case wide open. His eyes flick down and up, over her, when she mentions the Flamenco lessons, but he doesn't speak until she asks him the question. He shakes his head. "I have not. Is it fun?"

If he's offended by her surprise at his suggestion, it doesn't show. He just rolls his shoulders in a shrug and says, "I don't see it as being a place I shouldn't. Just a place someone doesn't want me to be. There's a difference. He falls silent, then, until they reach her Jeep. He stops near the front of her car. "Useful for this area," he remarks, looking it over. Then he refocuses on her. "You're hurt. What happened?"

"If you're going to threaten me like that, you know you're gonna have to deliver, right?" Isabella remarks, as usual quick with her return fire, but she's still clearly laughing, bolstered by the strains of his own good humor. One would think to find it rare, where the investigator is concerned, but she wouldn't be able to tell either way. She mostly knew of him by reputation, and their last meeting had him exhibiting such things already. He's thus proven that he's perfectly capable, it's just that the urge tends to be buried quite deep.

A good thing in the end, she thinks. She tended not to abide by the company of anyone completely devoid of a sense of humor.

Is it fun?

"It's not for those who lose their cool easily," she tells him as they approach her Jeep. "Especially when you're diving in pairs under water, anything can happen down there. If one starts panicking, it can become dangerous for that person and his or her buddy. Once you learn how to breathe with a regulator though, it's..." Those emerald eyes take on a more far away cast, taking over a dreamy visage. "Beautiful, down there. Peaceful. You get to see a mysterious, alien world not many get to see, or appreciate up close." Her gaze refocusing, it falls back on him. "It could be therapeutic for your nerves." She has noticed - it's hard not to.

He stops, though she's still moving, unlocking the door and tossing her portfolio in, extending a hand and lifting it, palm up, in a silent request for her satchel, and in the doing, he demonstrates relatively quickly that she isn't the only one who's perceptive.

She falls silent, watching his face for the time being, though after a moment, she sighs, rolling her thumb at the base of her skull. "I was attacked the day I returned to Gray Harbor," she replies. "I mentioned that the entity looking for 'Billy' killed a man, and tried to kill a woman. What I didn't tell you was that he almost succeeded in killing her, and in his escape, brought the dead man back to life. The corpse tried to break my head on the ground like an egg."

"I rarely offer anything I don't intend to follow through on, Miss Reede," Alexander says. The faintest ghost of a smile lifts the corners of his mouth. It falls away in the next moment as she moves on, and he glances down at his feet as she explains the risks. "Probably not for me," he admits. "I've never been cool. In any sense." He looks up and catches the gesture, thrusting the satchel at her in an awkward sort of motion. Again, careful not to let their fingers touch.

He stares at her with dark eyes as she explains. "That happens here," he says, with more weary resignation than anything else. "I'm glad you aren't dead. Have you had it checked out? Do you need someone to?"

I rarely offer anything I don't intend to follow through on, Miss Reede.

"I'll hold you to that," Isabella replies.

Her satchel retrieved, she tosses it towards her passenger seat. If she notices his aversion to physical contact, she doesn't show it, electing instead to reach into her bag to produce the apple, as well as a knife that she keeps in the inner pocket of her trenchcoat. She flips the blade out from its handle, and proceeds to cut into the fruit's juicy flesh, working carefully through the core.

"You never have been cool, but maybe you can learn." Her eyes lift to lock into his. "You never know unless you try, and you can't expect to become adequate at anything without some practice." With that, she hands him the promised half an apple.

She smiles when he professes his relief over her well-being, inclining her head at him. "It'll take more than a corpse to kill me," she reassures him, with that same casual bravado she demonstrates in almost every aspect of her life. "I know I don't look like much, but I was raised to be resilient. My father's influence." She takes a bite out of the crisp fruit in her hand. "The attack happened in the hospital and he hurt me enough that I did have to get checked out, luckily I was already there. It's still a little sore, but it's getting better by the day. Thank you for asking, though."

Alexander takes the apple, scrutinizes it with a thoughtful suspicion that many people would find insulting just on general principles. His first bite of it is tentative, just a nibble from the edge, which he chews slowly, then swallows. "I'm not sure if circumstances where failure equals suffocation and probable death are the best testing grounds for new skills." It's a bland observation. The rest, he accepts with a simple, jerky nod, although he seems surprised for a moment. Then visibly remembers that hospitals are things other people use. "I'm glad. Be careful. Unless you're Lara Croft, most of your expeditions probably aren't actively trying to kill you. Same can't be said of Gray Harbor, I fear."

He takes a step back, resettles his papers in his non-apple arm. "Thank you. For the walk. It was pleasant."

"Yeah, but even master divers start somewhere."

It must be easy to say, for someone like Isabella, who often revels in the chance to push through a debilitating fear in order to do something extraordinary. Life was too short not to at least try new experiences, and if Alexander was correct and something was out for Baxter blood, then if she manages not to make it out of the tunnel, she can go onto the beyond without too many regrets. His warning earns him another brilliant smile.

"Me?" she wonders, swinging long legs into her Jeep and closing the door. She leans out slightly from the open window, that familiar spark of her devil's mischief returning in her eyes. "I'm always careful. Good afternoon, Mr. Clayton. Thank you for walking me back to my car."

She revvs the engine then, and backs out of her parking space.