2019-08-09 - The Art of Losing

For someone who has just gotten out of surgery a day ago, Isabella Reede is remarkably alert, clear-eyed if not somewhat exhausted. She exhibits the signs of anyone who has had a trying ordeal under scalpel and pharmaceuticals - her hair is a mess, and the doctors have elected to put her in a sleeveless shift instead of a full-blown hospital gown, the better to attend to the stitches hidden in the criss-crossing bandages that wrap over her chest. They must have been recently changed - a spot of blood or two could be glimpsed along pristine white.

Her bed is situated close to the window, where she can easily glimpse the far away line of the Pacific ocean; Reedes tend to be drawn to water, if family lore is to be believed, and she is no exception to it. The colors she craves are all outside, occasionally watching the summer day pass her by - the clear skies and the saltwater breeze seem like leagues away while she is confined in this room, the dingy, off-white chamber carrying hints of the copper-tang notes of blood, the sting of antiseptic. Monitors beep, click and whir, checking on her vitals. None of it would be unfamiliar to Byron or Vivian, both of whom had to stay in the hospital just recently in the aftermath of the Ring incident.

The tube that feeds her body with life-sustaining fluids intravenously shift with every movement of her arm as she reads from a leatherbound tome - it is not light reading, its latin title emblazoned on the cover; a thirteenth century grimoire that she has heard of, but never had an opportunity to read, thanks to a prior visitor. And while Alexander has left to do the rounds, there are signs of his presence - after all, where else could the book have come from, especially with its esoteric subject matter, and there is a vase full of flowers on the bedside table. A stuffed octopus toy with large glass eyes rests on her lap as she leafs through the pages.

When her latest set of visitors arrive, her tired expression lights up. "Hey Gorgeous, Hot Shot." Deliberate, because each name can apply to either Byron and Vivian, and her old mischief must be on point today, because she doesn't tell them who is who. She slowly puts the book to the side, though she keeps the octopus on her lap. There's a wince, a curl of her lip, barely managing to bite back a groan as each movement tugs on the fresh sutures hidden by her bandages. She sinks on her mountain of pillows heavily at the effort.

"...pardon the mess," she murmurs, but her smile lingers.

Yes, Byron Thorne is very much used to being at this hospital as of late. It's not just the Ring incident-- no. No, it really was. Even when Lilith was here after her car accident before things became worse. This time, it's Thorne who arrives carrying a bouquet of flowers and an obnoxious amount of balloons, all with Isabella Reede's name on it. Yes, her full name: ISABELLA REEDE. So everyone knows just where these balloons are headed towards. He's sure she'd get a kick out of that!

Once inside of her room, he'll let the balloons scatter into the air as he moves ahead to set the bouquet of flowers down. Despite his festive arrival though, when he turns to Isabella, laying there in her bed, she can clearly see the serious expression on his face. "Bella.." He has /so/ many questions to ask her, but he's not sure if she's capable or willing to answer them at the moment. A look is given to Vivian before they return to the patient of the hour. "Did you need anything to eat or drink? I can run down and get you something."

No balloons or flowers from Vivian, which might just be because Byron is carrying enough of both for a small army. Instead she's got a few crossword puzzle books in hand that she sets down on the bed, "I'm sure she'd love real non-hospital food." She moves to give Isabella a hug though, a very careful one, before she steps out of the way to find herself a seat.

Oh dear Christ, what is this?

The first thing she sees when she manages to reorient herself with any semblance of dignity is Byron Thorne utterly destroying it when he arrives with his impeccable self and armed to the teeth with balloons that all broadcast the fact that she is in here and not really, in the end, fit to see visitors - she looks like a fright. And before she can even say anything else, the festive mylars fly up to the ceiling, spreading much needed color in the staid, off-white room. Green-gold eyes are wide in disbelief, jaw hanging slightly open, though they follow Byron's wake when he sets the flowers down next to the arrangement that is there already.

"...if I didn't hate you so much right now, I'd kiss you," Isabella tells her childhood friend. It's dry, acerbic, but after a moment of watching his handsome and expensive profile, her expression softens with a smile. "Thanks, Ronnie." Uttered more quietly.

Vivian's hug is returned, and the sensation of being held after a few difficult, trying weeks has the same effect it would anyone - but even Isabella's tears are stubborn and they don't fall. The glamorous blonde gets a smile instead, however, until Byron's serious expression causes some of that levity to fade.

"I'm awake," she reassures him - them both really - softly. "I don't medicate if I don't have to, and the pain's helping me focus. You're sweet, but don't fuss over me, I'm just glad..." She pauses, remembering how close it had been. "...that I'm able to see the both of you." The words she can say, favored over the ones she cannot.

There's a glance down to her bandages, picking at them. "I witnessed the Ghoul's last stand," she tells them both. "Me and a few others in Two if By Sea. How he was arrested. He was cornered by Sheriff Addington and his men, though I don't know...how it ended. I don't even really remember how many times I was shot." And all at the chest; she touches the bandages delicately.

"I love you too, Izzy." Byron says with just this ghost of a smile, light banter between the two. He then steps in to offer Isabella a hug of his own to follow up Vivian's.

He'd read about the incident in the paper or, at least, that Isabella was taken to the hospital... along with Captain de la Vega. Of course, the information wasn't terribly clear and that could only mean one thing to Byron. Well, it could mean a lot of things but this is Gray Harbor.

Withdrawing carefully, his eyes still lingering on Isabella, when she explains what had happened, there's a deep creasing at his brow. "Billy Gohl's last stand? That was..." He's trying to do the mental math from what he recalls from the story of Gohl. "Sheriff Addington? Did Sheriff Addington save all of you then?" He's not even quite sure when there would have been a Sheriff Addington in town. Hearing that she was shot up in this fire fight does have his eyes traveling over Reede in full, taking in the places where he can see her bandages more prominently.

"I'd love to say that all of this...makes sense. But it really is just..." Vivian shakes her head, clearly and honestly at a loss for words to handle the situation. After everything she's witnessed, heard, and it is this encounter that just seems to tip the scales into no words. So instead, she just glances at Byron, certain that he'll have all the questions to ask.

I love you too, Izzy.

Those, too, are words that she could never say. At the moment, at least, she isn't capable - but not because she lacks the desire. Isabella was never good with emotions, more comfortable with humor, anger and joy more than anything else, and were she given a choice, at any day she would default to any of the three. But connections make it difficult and with four simple words, her childhood friend reminds her that outside of her own family, he is the closest other person that she could ever claim to loving someone in the ways that truly matter.

So when he hugs her, Isabella returns it, her face hidden by his shoulder. "I smell like blood," she mumbles to him in warning - his attire looks as expensive as the rest of him. But her fingers curl into the back of his jacket, uncaring of the pain as she closes her eyes and squeezes, a concentrated effort in attempting to smother the heavy weight of failure from this latest ordeal.

She releases him after it, though, and she shakes her head. "It felt like we traveled back in time but for all I know, it's sensationalized too. The two of you know how strange this town is." She leans into the pillows behind her, exhaling a quiet breath. "But it parses, doesn't it? We know Billy Gohl somehow ended up in a strange asylum overseen by Dr. Marshall, so he was somehow apprehended alive before he died in captivity. Anyway..." Her expression darkens. "Sherriff Addington and his men shot up the entire bar. I'm relatively certain he's the one who kept shooting me and then let his deputy finish the job." A hand lifts to rub her eyes. "Maybe it's only additional evidence that Addingtons back then really were predisposed to eradicating certain members of my family tree." She pauses in remembrance. "The Ghoul kept giving me this strange look, also. As if he was confused as to why I was there. I'm guessing, though...I'm very tired."

She hesitates and then turns her eyes slowly to Byron. "There's something else, but it's easier if I...showed you." Another pause, before her voice drops into a whisper. "I've actively tried not to use the Talent for over a decade, but I think after all of this...I don't think it can be helped. I hate it, but.." If it will give her an advantage in the confrontation to come, she will.

Byron was always loose and easy with his affection in that friendly way of his. He was always available for a hug or a smile, even if some of those emotions weren't things that he was feeling or experiencing at that very moment. He was just good at making it all seem genuine at the time. Feeling those arms squeeze around him, he'll remain there for a time, before withdrawing. She may smell of blood, but if she does, he doesn't comment on it.

"Some of us traveled back in time at one point." Byron starts to say, before correcting, "No. That was a dream. I don't even think the actual event occurred. Not the way that yours did. William Gohl's last stand?" He reaches for his phone to do some modern day research through it. "Wait, the Sheriff shot you?" His eyes lift from the screen to stare at Isabella. "That's.. Did they think you were with Gohl then? And if they were firing at you the way that you say, I'm surprised they didn't just cap Gohl and instead sent him off to some Asylum."

All of this was very strange and made no sense, but nothing ever made sense here. Then she tells him that she has something to show. Her words are quiet enough that he takes a few cautious steps forward. "What is it, Bella?"

Vivian's frown just seems to grow as she listens to Isabella's story, her shoulders tensing up just a moment before she glances towards Byron, then back towards Isabella, "I'm very sorry that you had to go through this..." Although there is a bit of a gesture towards Byron, "I find the shooting and the asylum as the end result to be curious as well."

"I think so. It would explain it - if they thought we were part of the Ghoul's posse." Isabella's eyes narrow faintly. "It might also be why he looked so shocked when one of his 'posse' turned on him, which is related to what I'm about to show you."

Earlier, Alexander had been surprised at how clearly she remembers the moment, but she takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, her fingers lifting to close over the moonstone pendant she is never without. The cold bite of it provides her with focus - it never seems to soak up any warmth, digging into her hand like a block of ice. Her Glimmer intensifies in the attempt - she has always had the potential, but for reasons she keeps quiet and secret, she never seems to be willing to explore it.

It's not apparent whether she has changed her mind, but she demonstrates, at least, a willingness to return to past tricks - the little tricks were the ones she loved the best growing up. Illusions were the twins' favorite way of playing pranks with one another. It turns out that the unwillingness to use doesn't mean that she has forgotten what she does know how to do.

She forms the mental bridge and waits, the image waiting there for Byron to accept it - she won't intrude his mind, there's no way. She isn't strong enough for that, especially with what Alexander had told her about her childhood friend's own talents in that arena. "Alexander said you were one of the most powerful users he's ever come across," she murmurs to him. "In his area. Whatever that means for people like us."

"What happened to Gohl after you all returned?" Byron asked, then he tries to make clear, "Was this a dream then? Or something else?" The fact that Gohl thought that they were on his side does get a nod, though this is followed by a shake of his head. "How badly did they get you?" In fact, after looking over his shoulder at the doorway, he's already reaching for Isabella's patient file, though he knows better than to look at it. He just can't help himself.

He's patient, waiting for her to.. he's not quite sure. He watches her fiddle with her pendant and for a time he says nothing. Without any word or warning, they both sit there staring at one another. Byron's mind is never open to anyone and if they wish to break through it would be their force of will against his own. So it takes a moment for him to even realize what she's attempting to do, perhaps feeling this bridge even though he has his walls up. It's awkward to lower them and this is written all over his face, the way that his eyes narrow and his brow creases.

"Did he?" He asks, brow still furrowed in discomfort, "That bastard /invaded/ my mind the night of the stone bridge." Byron is still irritated by that whole ordeal.

As Vivian excuses herself to answer a call, Isabella returns her attention to Byron, shaking her head. "I wish I could tell you," she says quietly. "But I was down and out - the last thing I remember was getting shot for...the fifth time? By a rifle, before everything went black and before I knew it, I was waking up in ICU with Captain de la Vega in the bed next to mine. But if you want my best guess? It is a dream, but inspired by actual events-- "

Before she can stop him, he's taking the file in his hand; he wouldn't be the first to look at it, and so she lowers her eyes when he flips through the papers. The notes within the folder are made by a scrawling, legible masculine scrawl; a Dr. A. Hayworth was her surgeon assisted by a few surgical technicians. The first responders, H.E. Sutton and B. Oakes, are also named in the first report. A flip of the chart would reveal a diagram where the gunshots have found her - five in all, in varying degrees of severity...and three of them serious.

Or should be. By all rights, the young woman ought to be clinging to life, at best, breathing through tubes, or dead at worst. It is either extraordinarily good luck, her tenacious will to live, or both that keeps her here.

She is unable to meet Byron's eyes when he looks through it; she has always been proud, and being felled without even putting up a worthy fight, even in the act of protecting someone during it all, was absolutely galling to her. She continues to fiddle with the moonstone as she waits for Byron to accept her invitation.

"You need to see it, B," she says quietly, lifting her eyes to meet his. "It's my last vivid memory of the entire thing before everything went dark."

Seeing Sutton's name mentioned does make Byron lift his brow, but then it's followed by Oakes. He knows that the both of them glowed to some extent, but not so vibrantly the others did. Others like Isabella and Lilith. So he's curious which one of them helped to patch Isabella up, because she wouldn't be doing this well with surgery alone, he doesn't think. Then again, he's used to these mystical healings by now.

This next thing does bring him to blink. He was right, she was trying to get into his mind. It's hard for him to open. He'd only done it once before when Alexander asked to show him another vision. Then he'd done it once with Lilith. The very first time when they were all trying to learn what other abilities they possessed. But now that she's offering to show him.. something important, there's mild hesitation on his part. The 'Mind Readers' or whatever it is that people like him do were really the worst. They didn't tear flesh or break bone or do whatever the other group of people do, the telekinetics? No. the powers people like him possess were intrusive and very much open to abuse in a far different manner than the rest.

So he tries, lowering some of the walls that he's built; opening parts of it while keeping others contained. He trusts Isabella not to dig further, but not knowing his own strength over his powers, he doesn't trust himself to not project. Even by accident.

Isabella Reede is a far cry from her brother.

When it comes to this, anyway, and it has been a long time since she last sought her twin's guidance for the strange Talent they share. Between the twins, Sid was the savant, already performing miracles when he was young while his sister was content with the little tricks with which she caused mischief, and other things that she was never inclined to talk about. Truthfully, with Byron Thorne and Alexander Clayton squarely within her inner circle of associates, and who happen to be powerful mindreaders in their own respective rights, it's actually a miracle than neither of them have tried to penetrate her defenses in the abusive way Byron fears. Compared to most others, she is extremely fortunate.

She doesn't try to breach the doors of his own and it feels more like sitting outside of them, waiting to be let in. A small passageway opens and she closes her eyes to link with him there, but not for long - just enough to deposit a vivid picture through the slot, like slipping mail underneath the door. A moment frozen in time.

Flying shards of glass and showering splinters are frozen mid-air at the wake of a spray of bullet fire, but in the middle of the chaotic tableau is a woman with long dark hair, piercings and milk-white skin, standing grim, but triumphant over the sprawled form of who is unmistakably Wililam Gohl, who is staring up at the woman with a stunned and somewhat slack-jawed expression on his face. Minerva is not a woman Isabella knows, nor recognizes, but she is there, captured in this moment in time, leaning over Billy and looking him right in the eyes. The walls are cracked, shattered by the gunfire from the outside. Through the window is a glimpse of a cop car.

"She brought him down," Isabella tells Byron quietly - she's already pulling away from his mind the moment she sent the memory to him, not lingering for long. "I don't know how, but she did. And then she talked to him, but at that point, I was too shot up and things were too loud to let me hear what they were saying. We need to find her, B. The Ghoul might've told her something useful."

After a moment, she continues: "I showed the same memory to Alexander when he visited today. He said he knows her."

To open one's mind up to this sort of intrusion, one must put trust in the other person doing the invading. Byron trusts Isabella enough, no matter how much discomfort this is for him, even if she can see it in his posture, how his shoulder squares and his back straightens. His eyes never leave her, staring at her features with this bracing intensity. That is, until the vision fills his mind, pulling his focus onto what's going on at the bar. This was the third time that he was experiencing something of this nature and it's just as overwhelming as the first time.

She can see it on his face, the way that he turns his head as if shielding his eyes from the vision even though it's being broadcast into his mind. He's adjusting to it the longer it goes on, trying to make out faces though it's only that he clearly sees.

"Did you guys also travel to the late 80's, early 90's when goth was still a thing?" He had to ask. "She brought him down because she was the only one focused on him. I think." He can't quite make out much else, there's so much chaos going on, but it's evident that some were focused on the supposed law enforcement outside.

When the image fades, he lowers his chins and pinches at the bridge of his nose, eyes now closed. "That was really intense, Izzy." He means the scene, not the invasion into his mind, though probably that too. "In that kind of fire fight, I'm surprised there weren't more casualties."

He trusts her for a reason; Isabella isn't the sort to squander it, and to breach it would be, in many ways, hypocritical. She never forces herself on anyone, opting for a path of least resistance, always, when it comes to the people who have managed to develop a relationship with a difficult personality like hers. But she watches him with a look built upon the blocks of contrition, in the end. She had always known he had the Talent; Sid said it himself, tried to teach him what little Byron was willing to learn. This is the first time she's actually seen him consciously use it, though. Between the two of them, in the course of their interactions, their powers hardly mattered.

"Do you need an ice pack?" she asks - this is a serious query, watching the vestiges of his discomfort manifest in sharp reality. "I'm sorry, I...we never really talked about this, did we? Together, anyway." She actually doesn't know what her childhood friend can actually do with his mind, other than the fact that he can.

But there were reasons, there. She is certain Byron had his and she knows where her own reluctance is coming from.

Still, there's a breath of laughter when he wields his own wit. "Would not be surprised if that was actually possible around here. But yes, it was. I'm actually surprised I managed to keep myself from..." Taking the bar stool next to me and bludgeoning him with it, is the passing thought before she clears her throat and continues. "...become inescapably angry, seeing his face. Anyway, I wish I could tell you what else happened after that - I heard they just disappeared once it was over, but I can't tell you any additional details, like I said before I knew it, I was in a hospital."

She sighs. "Hopefully I'll be able to move around before the Addington meeting," she tells him quietly. Green-gold eyes stray back to his direction. "What about you? Anything on your end?"

Byron hung out around some of the most powerful people who shone so brightly. On one hand, he had Tobin's warnings about power use. They knew that the other had it, but it was not something that they used often or openly. At some point, Thorne had figured out some of what he could do. Manipulation. And unlike his best friend, he truthfully never hesitated to use that ability. This, however, was uncharted territory for him and something that he'd only experienced recently. As far as he knows.

He shakes his head. No, he doesn't need an ice pack. "It's just... from what I'm learning, I only know how to use the most minuscule part of my power set." Things which he had deemed the most useful. Emotional reads, emotional residue reads. Emotional manipulation. And the wiping of that emotional residue. All of these things came of some use to him in the past. "I only learned that I could actually control," That doesn't sound like the right word, "Electricity recently, though I could feel this surge within it me before. But I never had an outlet until I was pulled into one of those dreams." The group dreams.

Hearing more about the bar fight, he adds, "I"m surprised more people didn't just attack Gohl. Everyone. Then the sheriff and the rest wouldn't have been confused as to what was going on. Hell, they may have even given you a reward." But he somewhat doubts that.

When she asks about anything on his end, he's about to shake his head. But there was something on his mind., Something was bothering him. "Actually, just the other night I..." He breathes in deep, just remembering that evening is sending this chill up his spine. "I was gripped by this intense fear. I don't know why. Then I heard voices."

Powerful, but with limitations - his lack of knowledge, and the more Isabella listens quietly to her childhood friend, the more her expression softens. Missing data especially in uncharted territory could be difficult to deal with; she knows this if not just professionally, outside of the realm of the supernatural - whatever this is that they actually have. But this is also new in that she has never heard Byron admit an inadequacy before, reminding her again that eleven years have passed since their time as high school rivals. Somewhere in California, the man has manage to cultivate a certain degree of maturity that often doesn't become extremely apparent to her until moments like these.

She misses her twin brother, more than words can ever accurately articulate, but she has refrained from thinking the words, and as Byron describes his newfound gifts, she studies him with the quiet, intense assessment of an academic, tension winding inside of herself. She has attempted to divorce herself from anything dealing with the Talent for over a decade, she has done her best to deny her gifts since Isidore disappeared. But now, when things are dire, and mysteries are only piling up....does she really have a choice anymore? Do any of them?

Oh, Sid. I wish you were still here.

"I know less than you do," Isabella tells him quietly. "I wish I could advise you and the only thing I could think of is a suggestion you probably won't like. The way I see it, you can either learn through constant exposure, which can be extremely dangerous and foolhardy because that means presenting yourself to what's out there in an increasing frequency, or you find someone with more experience, with an equivalent level of power or potential and learn through experimentation. And I really only know one person who's qualified." He knows who she means; she knows he knows who she means, and it explains the look of utter resignation on her face when she says: "Maybe the two of you should just have it out one day."

Her focus there shifts as it must, and the sudden seriousness that falls over her friend has her frowning visibly. "I heard a voice, too," she tells him. "Before I received the call that told me about my mother. I thought it was strange, to just pick up something like that unconsciously. And ever since I arrived, I keep getting the sense that something's going to happen - something that can't be stopped." She scrutinizes his expression and she must taste the fear in him, because it tightens visibly.

"What did the voices say, Ronnie?"

Byron always used to be the confident sort as a child and then a teenager, even if he didn't have all the answers to their problems. Even when he was wracked by his own insecurities. There are things that he hid and other issues that he let be known. Sometimes. In his lowest points, at a time when he was being bullied by someone other than his father, he would voice his displeasure among his friends. But often, he'll pretend that didn't happen either, because it would make him look weak.

Here we are today.

Oh yes, Thorne knows who she is hinting on, but he has his pride and his reasons to not openly seek Alexander out. No, he and the others, his friends, were working on learning more about their powers. He would rely on them instead. "Tobin," He'll say, not Alexander, "is far more powerful in this stuff than I am. He's also lived in Gray Harbor for his entire life. If anyone can teach me, it would be him." It's strange that this is only coming up now, this curiosity to learn what they can do know. Maybe Byron was content with his own set of powers. Or he just never realized what his full potential truly was.

"Right, you mentioned a woman calling you on the night of your mother's murder." He stops to think, tried to remember the words spoken. "Something about, I'm willing to take the risk. The house is a rental anyway." A pause, "That's what was said and during that time, I had to brace myself because I felt cold and afraid..." He didn't like feeling that last part.

There is a palpable wave of discomfort coming from Isabella the more they speak on the subject - learning, exploring, experimenting. Opening themselves up even further to the gifts they have been born with, but with little comprehension of. She, too, had been born with potential, her mother and twin brother were extraordinarily talented, but for some reason despite her childhood enthusiasm for her 'magic', her later life has seen her growing to avoid it, to the point of an almost visceral rejection.

But she hides it well, seals it up within her ridiculous and oftentimes detrimental bravado. Her eyes move towards her bedside table so she could pick up the bottle of water left there and examines it quietly between her fingers, letting its condensation cool and dampen her fingers, watch the drops swirl within the plastic.

There's a question there, hanging in the air between them, but the young archaeologist doesn't ask it. Even now, she is stubbornly refusing to open that Pandora's Box.

Instead she looks up, furrowing her brows. What he says, an innocuous statement at best, doesn't match the fear he feels. "Unless you've suddenly decided in investing in more real estate, I wonder why..." She pauses, quietly contemplative. "I didn't feel fear when I heard the voice I did. But it felt heavy, like a pounding, over and over again at the back of my head. It was a woman...she felt like a woman, and she was saying '...on the same night!', as if I walked in mid-conversation."

She takes a quiet swig of her water bottle. "We might be able to gain more context if we find other people who've had similar experiences. This doesn't feel like a coincidence."

As if I walked in mid-conversation When Isabella says those words, Byron nods quickly, "That's exactly what it felt like. I walked in mid-conversation. Who was this person talking to?" The words exchanged didn't explain the intense fear that he had felt though. "It was gripping. I just felt my body go cold. I dropped the glass that I was holding because of the intensity, the fear, it came suddenly in this strong wave. But what house? What rental?"

There were so many houses that were being rented in Gray Harbor, which one are they referring to? How are we going to find others who've had this experience? Through Friendzone?" He's joking about that... "I mean, what if what I'd experienced is similar to what you did and whatever happened..." He's trying to remember whether he'd heard any news of anything to do with a house, a rental, the following day.

What house, indeed. What rental.

Isabella's eyes look far away as she keeps examining the bottle in her hand, remembering her conversation with Alexander on the boat. "When I discussed this with Alexander the first time, I thought that since I heard the voice before I received the call about my mother and it was an exclamation about something happening on the same night, I thought maybe such an event occurred at the same time as my mother's killing, that wouldn't look connected but actually is." She furrows her brows. "The only thing I remember seeing about a house of note recently is Dr. Faust putting up her house for sale after her brother was killed. In the Gazette. It caught my eye because of her involvement with our endeavors."

His idea, though, has her lifting her head. "Actually, that was exactly what I was thinking," the archaeologist replies. "A post on Friendzone. We can create an account, get a burner phone that could function as a hotline of some kind and put up a post with that number to reach us. If we get enough responses maybe we can put together a picture as to what these messages might mean."

"If it is Dr. Faust's house, then what does it mean?" Byron asks knowing full well that Isabella wouldn't know the answer. "Does she still have the bones?" He blinks once the word bones leave his lips. Turning to Isabella, he murmurs, "Most of us got rid of all of ours. You. Me. I don't know what Clayton did with the rest of his. Could someone have found the bones? And if so," He's really trying to piece things together, "Why would it matter if the house were a rental or not?"

They said house. Not APARTMENT. Which then would have been more of Byron's concern.

He then listens to this idea that Isabella is trying to pitch to him. "You want to run a hotline for people who've heard strange voices randomly and out of nowhere?" He pauses for a moment, before asking, "The woman's voice that you heard, what did she say exactly?"

This is how he works - it helps if he asks questions out loud. Isabella can actually picture it in her mind, ensconced in the ivory towers of his new career, or his penthouse suite, clad in his fine suit and pacing, turning scenarios over and over again in his mind. Not many people appreciate it outside of those who know him, but Byron was a different kind of thinker and one that enables him to bridge those talents along with his formidable networking skills. He specialized, in the end, in bringing the right people together, no matter how he feels about them.

"I'm not sure," Isabella murmurs. "I've not heard any news about her and while the irons were hot on that issue, Alexander and I weren't speaking." Water under the bridge now, but there's a short pause and something relatively awkward in her tone when she says that. "And he's the one who's closest to Dr. Faust out of all of us. If anyone would know about her stash of bones other than herself, he would. But I think he's still got his set of bones. Mine are gone, so are yours. Between the both of us, I've been sleeping better now that I've got them off the boat." Though traces of guilt remain; thankfully the burning effects are temporary, but it doesn't address the relatively worrisome issue as to just how deep Alexander and Billy's metaphysical connection runs.

She considers his last question about the house. "Based on what we've been experiencing?" she murmurs. "Everything is about the past, so far. Even the inquiries that started all of this. Down to the nuts and bolts of it, this is the past haunting the present. If the voices are somehow connected to everything that's going on, it might be the same - we might be listening to conversations that occured in the past that have a direct bearing on the present. I don't have anything to back it up, mind, but it's the only hypothesis I can formulate with the information I have and even I'm not convinced that's entirely accurate. We need more in order to either make or break that theory. So if you've experienced it, and I've experienced it, chances are others have also. Let's find them."

She shakes her head. "Not a hotline. Not exactly. I don't want my name attached to the endeavor immortalized on the Internet for starters. Secondly, if we just put up an internet forum where anyone can just post anonymously, we have no way of verifying the information." Trolls are a thing. "Eventually, we're going to have to meet with these people in person, but we can't be dumb about it. With a serial killer on the loose, I don't want either of us to die because we got careless. What I'm trying to envision is a voicemail box where people can leave their names and contact information and we can reach out to them and share what we know." Self-deprecating humor curls over the line of her mouth. "Kind of like an alcoholic's anonymous meeting, but for people with antennas into the weird."

His question has her shaking her head. "I told you earlier," she says. "She was saying '...on the same night!' It's strange. What about you? When did you hear your voices?"

Isabella may have told Byron what she'd heard earlier but the statement started and ended so abruptly, it's easy for him to think that he may have missed something. With his phone already out, he begins scrolling through Gazette articles, though the more Isabella speaks, the more uncertain he is about when this sensation, the incident to do with that voice, took place. "The day before yesterday. I was at home at the time. I... I can't shake the feeling. The more I think about it, the more intense it gets."

He busies himself on his phone. More than likely, him bringing up this sensation is making his hairs stand on edge by just remembering the evening. Just as he had her repeat the sentence she'd heard, he repeats his own, "'I'm willing to take the risk - the house is a rental, anyway.'"

This is followed by him more or less talking to himself or to the owner of the unknown voice in his head, "What did you all do?" The voice is obviously speaking to at least one other person. His gave enough information for anyone to use and research with -- though it won't be effective research, for it could be any number of incidents at any given time. Hers, however, just felt so random. It didn't give any hint of anything, aside from, perhaps, a coincidence.

Looking up briefly from his phone, his eyes cast over at Isabella, "If we want to remain anonymous, don't you think that everyone else will want to feel the same? I don't know if many will want to leave their names. But... a message board might work better. You're right though, it will most likely be bombarded by trolls."

"That's really worrisome, B," Isabella murmurs - she knows her friend, Byron does not scare easily, and if he's describing an overlapping effect in connection with the voice he heard, how his fear becomes more intense when he circles back to the memory, she can't help but feel it too. Hairs stand up at the back of her neck, and her hackles rise - it's bad enough for everyone else, what with her sustaining gunshot wounds and Alexander connected to to a serial killer, and now Byron and his voices, and the inexplicable fear he feels about a house.

I...I can't shake the feeling.

"Hey," she tells him quietly, cool fingers lifting to rest, gently, on his nearest shoulder, weakened fingers giving the best squeeze she can deliver. "We'll figure it out. We just need to think this through and see what we can find. But we can't exactly act on anything with so little. Once..." She closes her eyes and lifts her free hand to rub the corners. "Once I'm able to gain access to a computer again, I can do some additional digging, see what I can ferret out. We'll compare notes later, alright? When you get me cheeseburger."

She flashes him a too-sweet smile when she says the last.

His question is sound too, and she nods. "I considered that," she muses. "At least with a phone call, we can be assured someone is committing to the bit. It's easy to be anonymous and unaccountable over the Internet, but if forced to interact with another person through a line? It'll at least weed out those who aren't serious. And then we'll go from there. Between the two of us, I'm making this up as I go."

When they are on the hunt to solve these mysteries, Byron forgets exactly where he is right now. He's so busy on his phone looking up incidents regarding rental houses that it slips his mind that Isabella was nearly killed the night before. That she was sitting here now in a hospital bed with fresh bandages to show for it. He doesn't notice any of this until he feels her touch on his shoulder. This wakes him up. He now sees the room in which he is in, all of those balloons cluttering what should be empty space in the air. The bright arrangement of flowers that he'd brought her.

Then his eyes land on Isabella, still in her patient gown. He was asking so much from her, so many questions. And here she was, trying to heal.

One of his own hands reaches up to squeeze tenderly on the hand at his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Bella. I... you should rest. We can talk about this afterward." When she's well enough to gain access to her computer for one. "I can bring your laptop later if you want." He assumes she has one. "Right. I'll leave you to rest and I'll return home with your laptop and a cheeseburger. With fries." He tacks on. "That means, I'll need your key. Otherwise, you can mine." His laptop.

At his apology, Isabella's sunkissed expression slips back to her determined, defiant look - as if she could somehow defy her present physical limitations; to throw the sheets off her body, steal a set of scrubs and get back to work - not just to return to her research, but also in what feels to be an endless search for the construct that killed her mouth. Her spirit, her drive, has always been a force to be reckoned with, if not just through her sheer temerity to never surrender, as if fueled by the nuclear star cradle that houses her potential and keeping her poised between the fine line between ascension and destruction. These days, there are equal odds that she could go either way.

"Don't look at me like that," she tells him quietly, but firmly, her fingers tilting slightly, to thread into his and grip; whatever she lacks in physical strength at the moment is one that she makes up for with the burning desire to do something even while confined here. She knows she has to rest, she knows she has to sleep. She knows that, without the proper care, she can be here indefinitely. But staring at off-white walls, far away from her work, far away from the ocean and everything else that manages to instill joy in her while stuck in a place she reviles will eventually drive her crazy. She knows herself. It will happen without a doubt.

"I need this. After everything, I..." Her lips press together, once again hampered by the words she can't express eloquently. "If I'm going to sit here like a good girl and recover, then I need something to do. You're giving me that." It must be the pain, it must be the drugs, but when she says the next words, she manages to shore herself up for it, this Everest that she has to climb, meeting his dark eyes with her virid own. "I lost Sid. I lost my mother. I nearly lost me. I'm not losing you, or Alexander, or Vivian, or the Captain to this, not while I can still think, can still move." Her voice drops in a whisper, low and fierce. "I'm tired of losing, B. No more. I can't."

She takes a breath, squaring her shoulders at that and lifts her chin. She flashes a small smile at him and nods to the bag where her personal effects are. "Keys. My laptop would be great." A pause. "No peeking in my underwear drawer."

Byron expected that fire to be lit within her even before he apologized to her. He knew her too well and she wouldn't want him to dote over her just because she's in need of bedrest. But he also knew that she really did need the rest, to either shut her eyes or shut her mind down for at least a little while.

His eyes lift, followed by one of his hands as he snatches a balloon string, only to bring it over to Isabella's bedside. Kneeling down there, he ties the shiny lavender colored balloon with ISABELLA REEDE printed in bright yellows and orange and green (yes, it's quite a mismatch of colors) to the rail of her bed. "I know that you need it." His lips part and he looks to say more, but he gives her this chance to speak. And boy does she ever.

He's always taken aback when Alexander is brought up in these heartfelt proclamations, but when she mentions the Captain, that gets a quirk of his brow. He doesn't know of any other Captain but de la Vega. And not even Byron was planning on visiting the cop, though he knew the man was here.

"The Captain, huh?" He decides to ask before he starts to rummage through Isabella's belongings for her houseboat key. "Your laptop, a cheeseburger and fries. And probably a shake." It's like he's trying to fatten her up, "And a new pair of underwear." The latter is said lightly, a wry smirk forming on his lips. "I'll be right back, Bella." Turning on his heel, he says after stopping by the doorway, "If it were up to me, you wouldn't need to worry about losing anyone anymore."

That makes two of them, in the end.

Her face is not inscrutable because of the lack of emotion but the opposite, and various threads tangle for prominence when Isabella watches him take a balloon and lean down to tie it by the side of her bed. "Reminds me of the time I broke my leg," she murmurs, lips quirking in a faint smile that's equal parts exasperated and fond, reaching out with slender fingers to wiggle them against all the garish colors.

At the inquiring brow cast on her, she grins faintly and lifts slender shoulders in a what can you do? sort of gesture, eyes glinting with a touch of amusement. "He's ex-marine, I'm the brat of a Naval commander," she tells him. "Anyone with our backgrounds will tell you that a connection is forged when you fall in battle together, fighting for the same cause." She pauses. "He's been nothing but kind to me, well before my mother died." She squints one eye, cocks back her thumb, extending her forefinger as she pantomimes a gunshot. "And he's even helping me improve my shooting."

And a new pair of underwear.

Her expression flattens. "I'll kill you." So much for not losing him. But she grins broadly at the quip as she leans back against her mountain of pillows, the shadow of her mylar balloon drifting over her head.

She watches him leave, but as he pauses at the doorway and looks over at her, her grin fades into a subtle smile. "I know," she murmurs. "We've talked about this before. If it were up to you, you'd protect us all, and nobody else would have to be hurt except you."

Isabella exhales quietly. "So, thank god it's up to us." She winks at him then. "I'll see you later, Ronnie."