2019-07-05 - The Archivist Has No Bones

Alexander is, in common parlance, 'cleaned up'. His shirt is a crisp, blue button down, his slacks have /seam creases/ and would be appropriate for any office, and his shoes are even leather. And polished. He even has a small, leather satchel, a battered thing that exudes a shabby but professional air. His hair has been combed and arranged into something approaching style, but it's still a bit too long, and the bangs have escaped the attempt to tame them, hanging down into his eyes. He's sat with rigid precision in the car this whole time, but his expression sharpens a little when they climb out of the car and take a look at the building. "'Reede party'. Huh."

While some slackers like their holidays, Byron is dressed in full business attire. Probably, because he has an entrepreneurial mind and always has this urge to hustle. No super long weekend for this group. As they've all traveled together --his car is still in the shop after having broken down last Saturday afternoon -- they arrive together. Seeing the Closed sign in big, bold letters, his eyes flicker to the hand-written note beneath it. "Not entirely professional, but can't complain too much. It was a bitch to try and schedule anything for the most part."

He'll enter with the small group, his attention caught by that 'Yoo-Hoo' that calls out to them when spotted. He'll offer a polite-enough smile to her, that dark gaze quietly darting to the others, watching them from a side eye, before they refocus on the receptionist. "Thank you for allowing us this time, despite it being a long weekend and all."

Finally, some good news.

Though Isabella Reede, archaeologist, historian, and professional adventurer, has already been skeptical in the last few days or so after being given the runaround. Her inquiries have had her changing identities every so often, pretending to be other people in hopes that some fictional persona would produce the right result. Finally, in her last phone call, she had introduced herself as her - Isabella Reede, doctorate candidate of the University of Oxford, doing some research on Gray Harbor and its history because she was on the trail of a potentially spectacular find; a long-lost ship that had been spotted in the bay at around the 1880s, laden with artifacts and treasure.

She couldn't give any details over the phone, of course, given a binding non-disclosure agreement to the company she was consulting.

She and her team of 'research assistants' arrive right on time, ever prompt - having spent most of her adult years in Britain, she knows the value of being punctual, and she scrutinizes the sign left for them in front. She is dressed more casually than the last time Alexander saw her, and at the same time more formally than the last time Byron saw her, in a pair of fitted black dress slacks, chunky wedge heels and a tailored, button-down shirt dyed a deep crimson, tucked under a matching blazer. Her hair has been pulled back in an artfully messy knot.

The investigator's skepticism is one she shares. "Yeah, and why see us during the holiday weekend," she murmurs, grabbing her satchel carrying some documents - copies, and nothing confidential.

She takes a breath and smiles faintly at those with her. "Either way, I'm glad to have the company. Let's hope we didn't come all this way for nothing." And with that, she starts for the doors, to venture inside to the receptionist, though she lets Byron do the initial greeting. Tall, handsome and in a suit, some part of her hopes he can charm whoever they need to in order to get to something that would make this chase worthwhile.

Alexander lurks behind the two more personable and social people, although he does make an effort to try not to slouch and sidle his way everywhere. He studies the receptionist. Okay, he /stares/ at the receptionist, but hopefully it's mostly hidden behind the others, or can be excused by his attempt at a friendly smile. The attempt dies abruptly as the receptionist says his name. His nod is wary and jerky. As he passed by her, he tries to get a look at that little note.

Byron keeps up that mostly friendly smile, watching as the woman peers down at her notes. If he's curious about what's written, he doesn't look as if he pays any of that any mind. The way that she pauses to mention this archivist is, well, not exactly amusing but interesting all the same. Walking pass the receptionist, he makes sure to call out, "Thank you again." Though only once they seem out of earshot of the woman, does he mildly comment to the others as they descend the stairs, "I don't think she knows this archivist's name, but from what it seems, with the difficulty we've had in scheduling this meeting, they don't show up her often."

The note, also, catches her notice, but pretends to dismiss it with a returned smile towards the receptionist. "Grand," Isabella replies. "Thank you very much." And with that, she moves towards the direction of the staircase indicated.

Byron's quiet comment has her head turning to regard her childhood friend. "If I were more of a paranoid person, I'd be wondering how she managed to know that you were Thorne and he was Clayton when the appointment was made by phone with no indication as to who was who, but there's a fifty-fifty chance that she would get it correct at the first shot," she states, before lifting her fingers to roll the pads of them over her eyelids. She looks exhausted, for some reason, but she shakes her head once in an effort to clear it and focus on the task at hand. "Returning to the city's been playing on my nerves a strange way....but I think you're right about the archivist."

Steps ease her through the staircase and towards the door that they were shown. After a quick knock on the wooden surface, she waits for an acknowledgment - it's only polite, and then shows herself and her party in.

Alexander mutters to the other two, "Note just says 'archivist'. That's even worse than a nickname." A smile flickers to life, briefly, at Isabella's observation. "Maybe he just looks very Thorne-y, Miss Reede," he says, with a nod towards Byron, his tone studiously bland. When the door swings open, though, he goes quiet, and his posture loses the 'trying very hard to be normal' squareness and slides into something more defensive and wary. He slides inside, though, and takes a flanking position to the other two, studying the room with an expression of deep suspicion.

While it didn't alarm Byron overly much that the receptionist would know that he was Mister Thorne, it took his notice. "I come here often enough for other business," Business that doesn't give him nearly the same amount of difficulty as this one did, "So I just assumed that she recognized me from one of those times." His voice trails off into another murmur, only putting the faintest bit of thought into it, "Though I don't recognize her at all."

Once inside of the very strange office, especially one inside of a building such as this, rather than a wizard's castle, Byron's just blinks, though doesn't pause in his steps, allowing everyone else to see the madness as well. He wanders off to the side, at a slow steady pace. And yes, he attempts, briefly, to try and read some of these texts, but he drops that idea quickly enough. He'll wander towards the mysterious speaker, alongside the others, piping up, "This is some office you have here." Yes, like Alexander, he's already suspicious with just how bizarre this whole thing is. "We were told that you could help us search through the archives for information."

Sharp, Byron once called her - like a blade ready to strike at a moment's notice. In many ways, this is how Isabella has always lived her life and now that she was on the trail of something potentially interesting, she is ready to play the game. Restless energy emanates from her in waves; she poses a direct contrast to Alexander's defensiveness, and looking upon her now, there is something almost anticipatory about her - a woman on the hunt, the spark of exhilaration rendering her green eyes almost luminous, and the golden flecks within each iris shining like stars.

"Maybe," she acknowledges, in response to the investigator's smile at her remark. Meanwhile, Byron's own statement nearly wipes that look of mild consternation from her face...only for it to return when the career investor admits that he doesn't recognize the receptionist.

"Curious," she murmurs.

Those eyes widen further when she takes a look at the room, which feels large in some corners, and constricted in others. The plethora of records, charts and maps in here, knowledge that isn't just plentiful, but indiscernible, captures her attention and imagination almost immediately. This is the kind of place in which she could get lost for hours, nevermind the fact that she can't really read any of the documents that she can glimpse, but veering away immediately when someone asks them to come around.

And so she does. There's absolutely no hesitation in her stride or manner when she attempts to look for the source of the old-seeming voice, and walk in that direction. "I hope you'll forgive the intrusion into your holiday - I'm an archaeologist and historian from Oxford University and I'm just doing some historical research on Gray Harbor. I'm particularly interested in the time period between 1880 and the early 1900s."

"The FUCK is that?" Apparently, it is still in Alexander's capacity to be startled by the things one finds in the lost places, and he just gapes, open mouthed, after letting out that little bomb. And then it starts to TALK. And Alexander reaches out for the nearest heavy object that he can lift, and raises it up as a potential weapon. "We're not here about the fucking bones," he growls out, eyes narrowed. Alexander is at Defcon 2, because that thing is CREEPY and it said his parents' NAMES. At least he's not actually attacking it. Yet.

One of Byron's hands reaches out to idly skim along the cover of a random stack of papers found in the quirky office, before he finally takes notice of what the fuck exactly they are talking to. He's about to say something, really, but when he sees that large and grotesque pinky fleshy thing, he's frozen there for a moment, lips parted. Before they shut. The only hint that's really freaked out is the way his entire body tenses, the hand on the stack of paper nearly knocking them all over, but he catches himself before that happens.

Then the thing says not only his name, but rattles off the name of his parents, grandparents and so forth. Something else catches his ears and you'd think it was weird asking a slimy creature anything, but he does say aloud, "Not related?" To who?

Oh, he's not surprised by Alexander's reaction, because that's how he felt like on the inside, himself! But when the other man begins to panic, despite what Byron thinks is his own best judgment, he raises a hand in Alexander's direction, "Clayton. Don't." Not yet at least..

When she comes around to see just what exactly is talking to them, two instinctive reactions hit her at once and nearly sends her reeling: the urge to scream, and the urge to scramble backwards and leave the room.

Isabella does neither, though her shock is evident by the widening of her eyes and her jaw hanging open, tension braiding over her shoulders and down her spine at the creature rattling off names without replying to her query or Byron's, really. Her expressive face communicates shock from every line of her, mirroring every single syllable of Alexander Clayton's exclamation. Because the question is sound, and right, and appropriate under these circumstances: What the FUCK is this thing?!

Her lips part to speak, but Byron asks it a question and her mouth shuts with a click. There's a curious look directed his way.

When the investigator starts exhibiting a degree of aggression, however, she reaches out without thinking, to close her fingers around his forearm. "Easy," she murmurs, shoving the vestiges of horror and panic aside in an effort to be reassuring. "We're just here to talk. Let it answer Byron's question, first."

Okay, plan 'grab an improvised weapon' dies pretty much as soon as the stuff Byron touches /talks back/. Alexander snatches his hands back, then practically scrabbles away from Isabella's reach for his forearm. And now the melty head is insulting him. He hunches in place, looking like the next thing - or person - to come in arm's length is going to get something broken. Or possibly bitten off. His glare is for the archivist, though. "William. Why do you want it? What will you do with it?"

Once those books yelp and begin to rustle and relocate themselves, slowly, to a point just out of his reach, Byron's hand immediately whips back, almost as if he were touching lava. Or a bunch of whiny books. However, once they speak using his own voice, back at him, all he can do is blink and stare for a moment. "Wonderful..."

Then he's bombarded, once more, with this rattling off of names and talks of bones and then this William is mentioned. Most likely their Billy. It's when Sutton is uttered and he has to take pause. How does he know that name? He has a lot of tenants, alright. It's hard to remember every last one of them, but he tries.

That is until the pink thing asks for THEIR bones in particular and Byron just shakes his head, "Hold on a minute. You just said that I'm not related to William. Why would need my bones?"

She doesn't press the issue when Alexander snatches his limb away from her - but he doesn't look like he's going on the warpath just yet, thankfully.

As the creature rattles off more names, more and more become familiar. Isabella stares at the archivist as it divulges them by memory, a torrid of names attached to faces long gone, and yet... "Elizabeth Baxter," she murmurs in realization. "The preacher, Lindon Baxter's sister, the child who came after him after he was born to the original Baxter couple. I know she married sometime before 1873, but I never found out who she married. If the archivist is right, it sounds like she married a William, and then had a son named William. But if he's the Billy we're looking for...." There's a glance at her childhood friend at that, remembering his texts a few nights ago. "...then how could he still be alive?"

Unless the message meant alive in a completely different and infinitely more horrifying ways.

And then more details about Byron's family tree are revealed. The green-eyed academic leans back and thinks, careful not to touch anything, preoccupied enough with this latest puzzle that she manages not to scream, also, when a book starts talking with Byron's voice.

Finally: "I think..." she begins slowly. "It's telling you that you're not from William and Elizabeth's line, Byron, but you're related in some way to Robert Baxter though his marriage to Marie Sutton - through the Sutton line. It would fit the blanks that I know of in my family tree - Robert, the person who murdered Mayor Addington, according to the family lore anyway, had two children. One was my grandfather, James. The other child must be Elizabeth who married the male Kinney. I know you just recently discovered you're indirectly related to the Addingtons, but if this thing's right, it sounds like you might be indirectly related to the Baxters also. And if you're tied to the family through the Sutton marriage, then it would parse that you're not related to Elizabeth and William because they're from a different branch."

She turns to look at the creature. "You're the archivist. Who, or what, is the Collector?"

Alexander starts to pull himself together. Nothing's actually tried to kill them, yet, and talk of sacrificing their bones is still just talk. He remains in a defensive posture, but it shifts back towards 'wary' rather than 'panic'. He stares at the fleshy blob. "What do YOU have that's worth meeting your terms? Just shattered family trees?" He sounds grumpy.

Of course, Byron listens as Isabella gives him her take on deciphering this point that the creature is trying to make, hearing those names from their family lines brought up again. It's a slightly long and convoluted tangle of branches. The flesh slug tries to correct some of it, but by then Byron's lost in this conversation.

He also doesn't look like a man willing to sacrifice a bone no matter how useless for... is it information that the creature is willing to give. Thinking on this, his eyes flicker to Alexander, before resettling on the Archivist. "When do you need this bone? William's bone?" He then says to the other two in a quieter tone, "We don't need all of them do we? Or any of them now that part of the mystery is solved."

What did she get wrong? Isabella's brows furrow, a small dent appearing between them. Her prodigious memory is helping her here - a certain facility for names and dates and faces, but there's something she missed. She'll have to go over it again later, when things aren't so tense in the room - back to her workspace in her father's houseboat, and draw a chart.

She doesn't have custody of the bones; privately, it's either Alexander or Byron's decision to relinquish one to the Collector if they chose, she was only asked to examine them sometime this week. As far as she was concerned, that choice is out of her hands.

She looks over at Alexander's unhappy face, and Byron's tense expression. Neither of them want to give the discovery up, even if it means answers, and she can't blame them for not wanting to part with their own bones.

Finally, she turns to the creature. "Byron and Mr. Clayton will probably refuse the prospect of giving up any of theirs," she says. "If you need three bones for the price of answers, I'm willing to pay all three if that point can be negotiated. If that's acceptable, you can have three of my four wisdom teeth."

"I wasn't aware that was a question," Alexander mutters, then goes very still. His eyes take on a faraway look, staring not at the Archivist but at some strange, distant point. "I see," he murmurs, only barely audible. He shakes himself out of the reverie, if that's what it was, when Byron speaks up to them. "...no. We don't need them all. Splitting one from the mass might even be a good idea." Then Isabella speaks up, and he turns to stare at her. "That is a foolish thing to do, Miss Reede."

Byron's gaze is strictly on Alexander now, after having semi-glared in Isabella's direction when she offered off teeth! "Give Miss Faust a call. Do you think she can make out here before the Archivist melts like strawberry ice cream on a hot summer day?" Though by the looks of things, it's already too late for that. He then turns to Isabella, "Look, I'm not letting you give them three of your teeth or three of anything. They only want one bone."

Alexander isn't wrong. She knows it too. It's downright visible on her face, but she proposes it as an option anyway. Her eyes swing back to the investigator's face, hard as marbles, her jaw set in a stubborn line. "If you're right, Mr. Clayton - about everything, then I'll do what I have to."

A heartbeat or two passes before she looks away from both of them, under the guise of looking at the pink blob of flesh. "I don't want to lose my mother, too."

The point is moot anyway, it seems. The price is either one bone of William's, or a bone from each of the three people that came to see it.

But with the archivist silent, Isabella speaks again, though she isn't looking at either of them. "...the Collector only wants one of William's bones," she says quietly. "Or one bone from each of us. The choice is simple, if we don't want to lose anything....but that could be deceptive also. The question is whether we really want to give this Collector something it clearly wants, that it demands only one tiny thing from a pile, compared to a piece from each of us."

"I'm pretty sure it's telling us that we can come back when we have the bone, Mister Thorne," Alexander says, voice dry, staring at the closed-eyed blob. "And that we have been dismissed until we make our decision. We should go before something tries to kill us. Maybe the books." He glances at Isabella. "We're not mutilating ourselves. Unless it was actually necessary." And he doesn't think it is. He starts backing away from the Archivist, back towards the door. "We can talk when we're not lost. It's not safe to be lost."

"I know that much. That's why I wanted Faust to make the trip out here," And here Byron's words start to drift off as he continues to observe the grotesque pink monster start to turn into sludge, "So we can get this over and done with." He's wearing this hard frown now, "Maybe now that we're in possession of the bones, it won't be so difficult to schedule an appointment with Them. We have something that they want."

Who says chivalry is dead? With Byron's half-glare and Alexander's equally determined stance that she not give up her teeth, Isabella still looks skeptical - what's so valuable about William's bones?

Then again, she will have the chance to examine them. Maybe she can find out then.

She tables the issue for now, and nods once at the assertion that their present surroundings aren't safe. There's another glance at the fleshy blob that has grown silent and still on its pedestal, before she slowly starts moving, taking one more guardedly envious look at all the books, charts and graphs present within - so much history, and all indecipherable. Who knows what else could be in these pages, if only they could read them?

With them leaving, she falls a step between both men, quietly listening to Byron's point, her smile returning - somewhat lopsided with the way only one corner of her pliant mouth quirks upwards. She could always count on him, in the end, to have good instincts as to where to press, to make a deal more malleable. "You're definitely right, there," she tells him, nudging his arm with her elbow as they head out of the office. "Guess we'll just have to up our timetable sooner rather than later regarding that autopsy."

The bits about the family tree still occupy her present thoughts, however. Her teeth chew faintly on her bottom lip.

"There is no need to bother Miss Faust because we're impatient. We can collect the bone at the autopsy," Alexander says, narrowing his eyes at Byron. He gives a look back at the Archivist, frowning. But as Isabella speaks, whatever he was thinking seems to go by the wayside. Assuming that the door is still there, and it leads back to the real world, he goes through it! But watches carefully to make sure the other two do, as well.

"Just because you have no schedule to keep at all, Clayton, it doesn't mean that the rest of us have that privilege." Byron quickly remarks when Alexander mentions his impatience. After news about what happened at the Bayside Apartments begin to spread, Thorne definitely has his hands full. As they exit the fantasy world and then make their way out of the empty building, he reaches for the sunglasses tucked into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and slips them on. "I wonder though, what the bones would have to say if it knew we were planning on giving one of them up."

"I think," Isabella interjects, before the two men go at it in the front steps of the Register of Deeds. "That we should all get out of here as quickly as possible so we can get back to a few hanging threads in the city." Concern - soft and subtle - wreathes the young academic's features when she regards her childhood friend; the murder in his apartment building was all over the news, and she can't blame him for having his hands full with damage control. Meanwhile, Alexander has his entire being invested in these latest set of mysteries and nothing about this encounter is making him less credible about certain assertions he's held about their hometown for years.

As for her...

The palpable sense of wrongness, of inevitability, despite the beauty of the summer, continues to grow and leave her restless; this, she keeps to herself, instead plucking her own sunglasses from the inner pocket of her jacket and perches them on her nose.

"Come on, let's hit the road."

She clambers into her cherry-red Jeep, shutting the door and starting the engine, waiting for her companions to enter the vehicle.

"Since I'm here for the immediate term, Dad managed to convince me to stop spending money in the town's hotels. He's given me access to the family houseboat at the docks to use as a residence." A refurbished, fully renovated double-decker motorized catamaran. "If either of you need to see me, that's where I'm living for now."

"And just because you are accustomed to ordering people about to fulfill your desires, Thorne, doesn't mean that other--" Alexander's snippy response is cut short by Isabella's interjection. He grimaces, but gives her a quick nod. "Fine." He slouches after the other two, watching the empty building as if another door to somewhere nasty might pop up out of nowhere. "We should meet. And discuss what the thing had to say. Before we hand over the bone, if we do."

Sadly, there is no epic peel-away, unless Isabetta decides to pop a wheelie going out of the parking lot. Which she might. You gotta watch that one.