2019-11-30 - We've Got Some Work To Do Now

It was another beautiful day today.

While Gray Harbor's dockside neighborhood can be chillier than the rest of the city once Autumn shifts to Winter, the clear and cloudless skies make for a lovely tableau that stretches on for miles; sapphirine waters meet the horizon and its more vibrant cerulean as sea birds cut across in a swath of gray and white. With tourist season having come and gone, many of the marked docking sections are empty, leaving vacant frames of salted wood everywhere, but a few vessels remain. Dock 47 holds The Surprise, Captain George Reede's houseboat, Isabella's current residence; it cuts a gleaming sight even from the parking lot given its color - a pure, pristine white, catching the sun like a knifepoint.

Its occupant has spent the morning holed up in it - unusual in itself considering how fastidious she is when it comes to her early morning run, but the rough evening before and the heaviness of her heart and head that has followed has rendered it impossible to put on her gear and revel in the cold and exercise. Isabella is attempting to work, instead, because it's rare that she finds a cause to stop, a cup of steaming coffee on the side of her living room table teeming with small mountains of volumes and academic research, and others not so academic. She is starting to run out of room in that area, and the thought of moving back home has danced within her mind now and then - the Reede house has more than enough room to spare.

She can't think of going back there now after what she had accidentally endured.

Her laptop is on and her fingers tap gingerly on the keys, feeling the sting now and then - uncomfortable, yes, but not enough to prevent her from picking away at her thesis. Her hands are bandaged, gauze taping over the back of her knuckles and palms, wound around securely and pinned at the wrists. She's dressed comfortably - she always does whenever she's at home, with a soft shirt dyed a deep green that only enhanced the color of her eyes, and with over-long sleeves that cover to the tips of her digits when rolled down, a pair of jean shorts and knit socks that pulled to the mid-thigh. Her hair is secured to the back of her head by a pen.

No breakfast. She doesn't have much of an appetite today, but the scent of coffee from her early morning brew lingers in the air, spiced with roasted hazelnuts.

No appetite? That's going to make this awkward, considering that Alexander is making his way up to the houseboat, clad in a faded black sweater and jeans, with a paper bag from one of the Bayside bakeries in his hand. He looks tired, of course, but not injured, and his knock on the door is brisk: three short bangs, a pause, and three more. Of course he didn't call ahead; why would he do a silly thing like that?

August doesn't come down to the dock much, so he looks about with interest as he walks among the slips, cappuccino from Espresso Yourself in hand. Isabella's houseboat isn't hard to spot, given how empty the place is, and since Alexander is standing right out front of it that seals the deal.

He's layered up in his black leather jacket, over a black, red, and white flannel, which is in turn over a dark gray Henley. Black jeans and brown, suede boots round out the look. His movements are a little stiff, so either it was one hell of a Thanksgiving, or he ran afoul of something in the interim.

He raises his coffee cup to Alexander in a greeting. "How're you doing," he asks, having a sip.

Why would he, indeed?

But it makes it easier to determine who the caller is - unless they're detectives, Alexander is usually the only one who stops by this early unannounced, and his very distinct knock gives him away immediately, as if to let the other person inside know it's really him and not some construct from a Dream, because why would They pay attention to minutiae like that? Isabella lifts her head from her work and tugs her sleeves down, moving to open the door.

She greets him with a smile, and it touches her eyes; she's never not happy to see him, unless she's mad at him, but today has her mirroring his own exhaustion. Still, the imp in her is not one to be denied, a hand and its gauze reaching out to tug him by the shirt, if he allows, to plant an enthusiastic kiss on his mouth...

....only to realize a taller form is standing right behind him.

"...well, good morning," she laughs, slowly, reluctantly releasing her captive. "Alexander. August. You're just in time, there' more fresh coffee in the press if you need." And she pushes the door wider for the two of them to enter. "I'm hoping this doesn't mean the apocalypse is nigh and I'm being asked to pack up to wait out the worst of it in August's cabin."

Alexander tends towards the paranoid, so he glances at the approaching figure, and his smile is brief but sincere when he recognizes it. "August. You're looking," a pause as he considers the man's gait, "injured. The letter, or something else?" And then the door opens and his attention is drawn back in that direction. His smile is brighter, wider, although touched with concern even as she tugs him close. He returns the kiss with enthusiasm, both arms sliding around her waist and holding her close for the duration, without a hint of shame even though HE knows August is right there.

When she releases him, though, it proves that the kiss has not distracted him from the important parts: he grabs her hand lightly with his free one, so that he can take a better look at the bandages even as he drifts inside. "I brought pastries. What happened?" Tension pairs with his tiredness.

"Something else," August admits with a grimace. "Be careful out in Firefly, there's some crazy people running around up there. Thinking maybe they came down from towards Olympic for some reason or another." Of the letter he makes no comment, because here's the host.

August smiles, bobs his eyebrows once Isabella notices him. "Sorry," he says, and he mostly means it. (But not totally, because this whole 'Eleanor is out of town' thing is making him crazy. At least she gets back tomorrow.) He eyes her bandages, mouth twitching a little as he senses the injuries. Well, when Alexander standing right there, he knows better than to offer. "More coffee is always welcome. I've got an image of our map, I mailed it to you before I drove down."

August does look injured, and Isabella casts a concerned and inquiring glance at him after Alexander greets her properly, her expression softer and unapologetically affectionate after she's been kissed and held that way. Her hand taken immediately, there's no wince - there's enough cushioning there to make any overtures towards that slender appendage uncomfortable, but not painful, and at least ribbons of blood aren't seeping through the layers, indicative that the injury is topical at best and not too egregious. It's largely the query, though, that has her eyes gravitating sideways to focus on her coffee mug on her cluttered table. She tends to collect them - hers shamelessly declares: GOOD MORNING, I SEE THE ASSASSINS HAVE FAILED.

"Rough night," she tells him, though she keeps her tone light in spite of the shadows that pass over her expressive eyes. "I was clumsy." Her smile returns. "You're sweet to bring breakfast, I haven't had anything yet today." A lack of appetite will clearly not prevent her from eating, at least, especially anything he's brought her. Her fingers squeeze his, delicately, before she attempts to withdraw it so she could take several steps to to the kitchen to hunt for a coffee mug for Alexander. He gets a red one, with white lettering: OF COURSE I TALK TO MYSELF followed by a smaller Sometimes I Need Expert Advice. Knowing the archaeologist, the choice is probably deliberate.

"What was the something else?" she asks August as she hunts for another mug for him. His is blue, though this time it doesn't have any letters - instead there's a painted cartoon owl on it, with big adorable eyes. "As for crazy people out in Firefly, the same ones who attacked the Hammonds' tree farm, you mean? Something happened while I was out there picking out a Christmas tree for the house - Erin was going to take the samples to you, to see what you could make of them. And yeah, I received the map, thank you. We can use that as a starting point. I was thinking of having an old classmate develop the pictures I took while we were there, since my smartphone pictures didn't show up."

"Clumsy." Alexander's voice is flat, and his expression is the same as a cop being told when showing up at a domestic that someone has 'walked into a door': infinite, weary skepticism. His lips press together, biting back an immediate response. Instead, his head ducks and he slouches his way towards the kitchen, following her to the island. He accepts the mug, studies its saying with less amusement than he might show under other circumstances. The pastry bag is placed on the counter - there are savory pastries with crumbled bacon in there, as well as the sweeter varieties he prefers, and he grabs a strawberry filled one for himself before filling his coffee mug. He takes a seat where he can watch both injured people with narrowed, dark eyes. "Map? Is this a map of the Veil from your explorations? And Byron said something about trees with human arms? Or something?"

In contrast to Alexander's reaction, August's is sympathetic resignation. Will, considering what he's about to say, that's not much of a surprise. He finishes off his cappuccino. "Definitely related," he confirms for Isabella as they walk into the houseboat. "Those were dryads--the tree beings, I mean. And hear as Finch and I can tell, the people are who the dryads call 'sylvans'. If I had to guess, they've basically abandoned society and gone all-in with the dryads. Can't imagine it's too many of them, but I haven't had a chance to read the samples Erin brought me." He asides to Alexander, "Remember when my texts were a little goofy? That was from interacting with the dryads. Don't touch them."

He gives the mugs an amused look, continues, "Finch and I were jumped by the, sylvans," he shrugs at the name, "on our way back from finishing up our deal with the dryads that attacked us a few weeks ago. One of them was using trees, so she and I got roughed up some. Nothing serious." Because they'd healed each other of the worst of it, but he's not saying that.

A nod at Alexander. "Yes, that map. Which will hopefully make recovering the ring less dangerous." His mouth flattens. That's going to be a hell of a thing.

"Yes." A succinct response that covers both the map query and the part about the trees with arms. "Living trees and...I suppose people in gilly suits. One of them nearly stabbed Joey Kelly." Fishing out one of the more savory pastries, because she prefers those, Isabella sinks into a seat next to Alexander. She also nudges the paper bag full of warm flaky goodness towards August in silent offerance of breakfast, also. A mollifying kiss brushes against the side of her lover's face at the displeased expression that lingers - what, he does that also!

She pours a fresh mug for August and offers the cup to him.

Mention of the dryads pushes a surprised look on her features. "...I'm starting to sense a theme," she sighs, tearing off a piece of her pastry, dipping it in her coffee and nibbling on it. "If I recall my classics correctly, the Ancient Greeks used the term to mean, specifically, the nymphs of the oak trees. This wouldn't be the first time in the last couple of weeks we've come across the myths coming to life. So they have...what? Hallucinogenic sap? What do they want, you think?"

A solemn nod to what August says about the ring. "The group's going to need gas masks while down there, and maybe several balls of twine to lead back to the way out if Easton can't open a door out for some reason. I'm not ruling anything out when it comes to that place."

"Judging by the content of August's texts," And here, Alexander unbends enough to flash a teasing smile towards him, "I wouldn't necessarily say hallucinogenic in the classic sense. Euphoric, perhaps, with certainly elements of sensory impact, but it seemed more like enhancements to an unhelpful degree rather than blatantly false data." He leans slightly into Isabella, bumping her with his shoulder as he takes a bite of the pastry. At least the kiss makes him smile, although it's even briefer than usual. "Are you going to take Miss Washburn again?" he asks, a bit tentatively. "If she gets killed, I think Patrick Addington might go on an exceptionally sarcastic rampage."

August points at Alexander. "Don't get me wrong, I felt high as balls. But it was more like my life sense was plugged into an amplifier turned to max and the dial ripped off. He murmurs a thanks for the offered pastry bag and coffee, pulls out a savory for himself and trades his empty cappuccino cup for the mug.

Settling himself, he says, "Like you said, it sounds like the Veil might be the source of some of our ancestors' stories. Ellie came back once taking about selkies. Itzhak's run into unicorns and satyrs." He shrugs.

He grunts about the ring expedition, as he's come to think of it. "Yeah--gas masks, flares or twine, and it sounded like the ring already had a new cult." He doesn't say 'guns' but he's for sure thinking 'guns'. An attached eyebrow about Patrick Addington, whom August's only impression of was that he didn't care about anyone but himself.

As Alexander leans into her, Isabella's arms wind around his torso, leaning forward so her chin rests on his shoulder. Those keen, green eyes remain fixed on August, however. "So it was more an upper than a downer. Interesting." She purses her lips in thought. "I wonder what it does to a mover, or a reader. The other aspects seem to carry their own 'sense' also - spatial for the former, emotions for the latter. Might be helpful to know, later, in case of an emergency."

August's other remarks has her making a face. "Seems like. The woman who attacked us at the invitation's request was Erinyes and the only reason why I ended up on that track is because she said something in Ancient Greek while we were leaving. It sounds insane, but I'm very certain that she's the source of the myth. I don't know which one she is, there's Megaera, whose name means 'jealous rage' and she punished moral crimes, Alekto, whose name means 'endless' and punished oathbreakers, thieves and infidels, and there's Tisiphone, whose name means 'vengeful destruction' who punished murderers. But what I know of her comes from said old stories - I'm certain the reality's bound to be different, especially in terms of motivation and power. It doesn't help that I'm starting to see her everywhere. Have you, August?"

She leans her cheek against Alexander's. "Anne twisted her ankle in the last excursion, so I don't think so, though I need to check on her and update her. We wouldn't have been able to know where to go were it not for her help, she deserves to be kept in the loop - that and I like her very much. As for Patrick Addington..." She frowns, though it'd be more sensed than seen - August can certainly see it though, as she's facing towards him. "...why does he care? Anne told me he doesn't and that he said he didn't. Probably there's another side to the story but whatever he said to her convinced her of his apathy."

"The truly interesting question is to what degree and in what direction the relationship is causal," Alexander murmurs at all the talk of fantastic beasts and beings. "Do we tell legends about the things over there? Or do the things over there look like our legends because we have told legends and they've...adapted?" He takes a sip of the coffee. "I've wondered if maybe all life over there is -- emovorous, for lack of a better term, but not all the same emotions. We perceive the Shadows as our enemies because they feed on things it is painful and damaging for us to produce. But if they fed on wonder, or reverence, or wild joy, would we feel the same? And maybe, like the Shadows craft Dreams to embody our fears, other Veil fauna has developed the ability to solicit preferred emotions through form and function." He grimaces. "It's just a theory."

He falls silent for Isabella to explain the results of her research, and the look he gives her clearly states that speaking about ancient mythology with authority is sexy as hell. He only rouses from quietly heart-eyeing to say, "Bennie is seeing her as well. And Byron." Cheeks are leaned, although he turns his head after a moment to kiss her temple. And laughs, softly and a bit mockingly, although it seems directed at the absent Patrick rather than her. "Someone like Patrick Addington does not willingly approach someone like me, in public, to know the hows and whys of your expedition and Miss Washburn's inclusion in it, nor to point out with emphasis that it's dangerous and stupid and needs to stop, if he doesn't care. Doesn't make him less of an asshole."

"Been seeing her all over," August confirms with a nod. "Made me wonder if she's not just, waiting for a chance to jump on all of us again." He sighs, sips from his coffee and has a bite of pastry. Not that this will stop him from using Glimmer. After some thought, he says, "The other senses didn't feel so effected by the stuff. So it could be that's the only one they key into, at least as far as amping it up goes."

He contemplates Alexander's theory for a spell, toying with the mug while he thinks. "It's hard to apply logic to stuff that doesn't seem very logical," he finally says, with a small, rueful smile. "But, that aside...I do feel like it exists beyond our emotions, just our emotions have a profound effect on it. Sort of like the sun and the moon making the tides. That's not why the ocean exists, but they definitely effect them, hugely." He raises his eyebrows to ask if he's making sense.

He grunts about Patrick Addington. "Does he care, or does he not know how to fuck off and mind his own business? Because those are two different things." Okay, so he likes Anne more than Patrick. That's kind of a gimme, considering.

"Addictive?" he asks August after a moment, his brow furrowing briefly. "Because the last thing we need is a bunch of murderous dryad worshipers who are also hyped up on ichor. Or someone deciding to harvest a few of the things and sell them. Because I can think of at least one guy who would probably consider it a growth market." His voice is very dry.

"And yet, it seems odd for at least one native species to have evolved a food source that exists on another plane." Alexander takes a sip of his coffee, then gestures with the cup. "Unless they don't really 'eat' the emotions at all, and just do it for the shits and giggles. Also a possibility." A smile flickers at August's question about Patrick. "I'm tempted to say 'yes'. But, honestly? I suspect he's perfectly good at fucking off and minding his own business. Nah. Even assholes can like someone." He heaves a sigh. "He also hired me to come catch an elf trapped in his piano, so there's that."

"Chances are, probably the former to start," Isabella tells Alexander quietly and contemplatively. "The Fury's role in that entire affair certainly tracks - rewarding our powers with punishment. My money is on that, at least. In my experience, creation stories and mythological epics are usually inspired by historical events and phenomenon people couldn't explain before the advent of science and technology, but any humanist would also point out - and accurately - that the power of belief is very real, and has changed the landscape of our world irrevocably in various points in time." And while she doesn't look at Alexander, the subtle stress in her words would suggest that she knows that out of everyone in this room, Alexander is very intimately aware of the latter point. "It wouldn't surprise me if both worlds have some kind of symbiotic relationship that becomes more prominent in certain times of the year that equates to a few ancient holidays, like Samhain. It would certainly explain why the other side seems to be a fun house mirror reflection of the city we live in."

Alexander's very overt and open admiration has her grinning faintly, broad enough to make the dimple on her left cheek visible and punctuated by a lascivious waggle of her eyebrows, though she doesn't say what she's thinking out loud. August's own opinion generates a quiet, contemplative noise from her - Alexander can practically feel it, situated this close to him. How the Escheresque gallery within her skull starts recalibrating to new information. His question about whether the dryad ichor is addictive is a sound one and she looks at the resident Combat Botanist for a reply there.

Regarding Anne and Patrick, she shrugs, squeezing her arms around Alexander. "I'm not sure, but they have a history. Ancient, in Anne's words." Though judging by the young woman's tone, she holds her own skepticism there. "I'm surprised he asked about it with you, though." The last to Alexander. "He must've been worried enough to, despite his expressed apathy."

Her chin sinks further into her lover's shoulder, eyes lidding. "Not that I care much for the state of affairs regardless. Apparently Easton detected another agent a few days ago. And with Peregrine running around, and now this Fury, more and more seem determined to crawl out of the woodwork." There's a quirked brow angled to Alexander. "An elf?"

August winces, shrugs on the question of addictiveness. "It...could be. Let's say it didn't feel bad, and it was definitely not the worst experience." He clears his throat, suggesting they should Use Their Imaginations as to what he got up to while able to sense things like oxidative phosphorylation. "But given how the sylvans talked to Finch and I about it, their addiction could be moderated somehow." He has a bite of pastry, washes it down with more coffee. "Now, that said, they attacked us with pretty clear intent to harm, if not kill. So addictive or not, we need to set the record straight with them. Also figure out if there's a reason the dryads are popping across the border right now." He snorts at the notion of the dryads being harvested for the ichor. He hadn't even thought of that, but should have. "I'd be tempted to let him try it," he mutters.

An eyebrow goes up, not for Patrick Addington being an asshole who likes people, but, "An...elf. In a piano." August sounds like he expects it to not be an elf. Or at least, not the cute and friendly sort, nor the helpful kind. "Well, an asshole with money is better than one without."

He makes a low sound of agreement at Isabella. "And, I suspect it's likely They're not the only forces that do this. Just, would we even question things going well, or a good Dream?" He shrugs. "Alternatively, maybe they're experimenting. Sometimes, they get it wrong." He stares down into his coffee. "And sometimes they hit the nail on the head," he mutters, has a drink.

Alexander might be content to use his own imagination, but Isabella's too much of a troublemaker not to say anything about it. The man's throat-clearing earns him a big, impish grin, lighting up her face and banishing their earlier tired shadows. "You didn't." A pause, and her eyes grow wide when she realizes what that could actually mean, and she turns her face away from her paramour to burst out laughing. "You did! August! Weren't you the same guy who told me you didn't miss field research all that much because you were getting too old to sleep on mountainsides?!"

That spark of levity goes away - as bright and brilliant as fireworks, but fading just as gradually. "Sounds like the borders need some patrolling, and at the very least some investigation," she agrees. She reaches for her nearly-forgotten pastry, tears off another chunk and starts nibbling on it. She finally unwinds herself away from the investigator so she could have some coffee before it gets cold, then again, this is her third cup already.

"Probably not. There's plenty of strangeness in the Veil," she murmurs. "And they're definitely experimenting."

She fishes out her phone from her backpocket, looks for a certain e-mail and hands it towards August so he could read it from the screen. "I got curious about the soup," she tells him. "So I drank it - since things without a conscious mind that cross over into our side seem to be temporary anyway, I thought we could use the data. It's fine." Reckless. "It does what it says on the post-it and I haven't experienced any ill effects. But I looked into how to correspond with the other side and sent the...entity...who trapped us in the Safeway Dream with the Flu-blobs a thank you note for the soup and inquired about the other experiments she was performing. That is a list of ongoing trials. It might not be all of them, but we know for sure that they seem to have some direct interest in figuring out how we users use, or what other effects our gifts have on our bodies. Either they want to know more, or they don't know as much as we think they do. Though if there's anyone who would have data, it would be the Vivisectionist."

August sniffs, managing to make drinking out of a coffee mug on a houseboat look dignified. "It wasn't intentional," he says, staying sober despite the urge to laugh as well. "Trust me, if I'd known," he turns over his left hand, where a small, thin, vertical line still remains, the skin a touch darker than the rest, "there was going to be an effect like that, I might have done things different." Certainly he hadn't touched the two chunks of amber he and Finch had been given, had willingly relinquished them at Finch's suggestion.

He sighs, admits, "Or, you know, maybe not. I mean, now we know: if you need one of us life shapers to do something on the really small scale? We'll need a hit of that." He nibbles on the pastry. "Ellie had no complaints, either way."

To that end, he can only be a little judgmental about the soup. (Who's he kidding, he was going to use it on himself if Finch hadn't healed all those broken ribs and torn muscles.) Especially given what it garnered her. "Huh." He taps his chin. "Can't say I care for their title." A brief smirk, then, "But I'd like to know, in the long run, what this does to us. As someone who's been using the power for a while now."

Alexander has been silent for a bit, watching and listening as he sips his coffee. "These...sylvans. If they're attacking people, and it seems that they are, then not every target is going to be able to fight back the way we can. I'm not sure that letting them cosplay in the wilderness is an acceptable outcome unless they stop attacking people." He doesn't elaborate on other options, but his face hardens, just fractionally. Although there is a teasing grin at the idea of what August got up to while on the ichor.

The humor fades as Isabella mentions the soup, replaced by that tight expression with which he examined her bandaged hands, earlier. He doesn't SAY anything, but his fingers tap tap tap rapidly on the side of the mug with the effort of holding it in. Okay, that's a lie. After a huff of breath, he does say, "I highly discourage any ongoing interaction with someone who styles themselves as 'The Vivisectionist'. We don't need that data. I'm not sure we should be dealing with any of the titled folk on that side, to be honest. We have no idea of their ultimate goals, but past interactions have made it clear that preserving our lives or well-being is not a priority for any of them." His shoulders hunch, defensively; it's hard for him not to think of everything related to Dreams as evil and antagonistic, and that's clear on his face.

"So what does that mean? Field trip to the border? It's been a while since I've gone on an expedition here." And Isabella clearly misses it, by the look on her face, as always itching for action - she can research all day, dive into her books and look for information, but it doesn't change the fact that she likes moving and exploring, indulging her curiosity with the zest she demonstrates in almost every aspect of her life. There's a glance at Alexander and his hard, but handsome profile, taking another quiet sip of her coffee.

She takes the implied chastisement in good stride, and judging by the expression on the archaeologist's face, she doesn't completely disagree with him. "That's the problem," she murmurs. "We don't know, and I don't know if we'd know any more if we didn't interact with them in some way - by the way communications seem to work there, it might very well be that Veil City Hall is some kind of central hub for operations there. Though I promise not to get anywhere close to the Vivisectionist unless it is absolutely and utterly necessary. Information only." She gives him that, at least, and she finishes her bacon and cheese pastry, wiping her fingers with a paper napkin.

"Yeah, that's the thing--if they were going to hang out in the forest and play Lost Boys, that'd be fine," August says of the sylvans. "But they're showing up and attacking folks." He shakes his head. "That's a no-go. Especially since one of them is strong enough to move trees." He lets that sink in. "That's how Finch and I got so banged up. They were using us for tennis balls." He remembers landing on the road, pulls a face. But Isabella's question has him thinking. "We've got those samples Erin brought me. Maybe we can use those to track some of them down, have a conversation. Set up some kind of agreement." Here they are, sorting out Veil diplomacy.

And speaking of that... August gives Alexander an apologetic look. "Like she says, we...need to know what they know. Because we don't know much of anything, and we need to start making an information base to pass around. Even if it's just verbal." He rubs at his eyes. "That's more than we have right now. People need to stop being in the dark. People like Margaret Addington, and Their allies, are powerful because we don't know things."

He pauses, raises an eyebrow at Isabella. "Peregrine?" he says, echoing a name he heard earlier.

The hardness in Alexander's features grows deeper, when August mentions the strength of the sylvans - and that they'd been playing tennis with people he likes. Well. One person he likes, one person that people he likes like. "A conversation." It's more than a little skeptical. "How many of them are there?"

And the conversation just doesn't get any better for Alexander from there. "Isabella," he starts, his voice strained, before he cuts himself off and makes an irritated noise. "Information can be a trap. It isn't as if that thing asked permission before setting loose the flu. Do you think it'll ask permission before the next time it chooses you as a test subject, if you keep yourself in its sight?" His voice drops to a mutter. "I did just fine for thirty years without hopping over to horror-Narnia voluntarily. It's not data we NEED." It's a grudgy mutter, though; sure sign that Alexander knows he may not be right on this one, but is feeling stubborn about it.

At the mention of Peregrine, the lines in his face deepen. "The man who attacked Isabella. At the church. He's still somewhere around town, and I don't think he's done with us, yet." A pause. "It's not his real name. I just had to call him something."

"I agree with examining the samples that Erin has, first," Isabella replies to August, voice carrying the unmistakable notes of deep contemplation. "And then figure it out from there. I'd rather talking happen over fighting, honestly, especially since these guys don't sound like ones that we can just write off but that's definitely going to depend on what those specimens reveal." She winks at the older man. "Leaving that to the Combat Botanist because that's definitely out of my field of expertise."

Alexander's concern registers and she furrows her brows at him. "I'm aware that it can be a trap, and I'm also aware that we ought to be taking what we do know with a grain of salt since misinformation is just as destructive," she tells him. "But you told me just a week or so ago that we need to start making excursions there." Frustration starts to push up from underneath the fine lines of her face. She'd say more but her jaw shuts together with a click. She takes a bitter swallow of her coffee.

"I barely remember meeting him," she tells August, finally managing to say something after wrestling with her own volatility. "All I know is that Javier obtained some CCTV footage from City Hall and he connected with the guy mind to mind, but he wouldn't say anything about what they talked about. It got to him, though - he didn't say it in so many words, but whatever it was affected him. Did he say anything to either of you about it?"

"Assuming there's overlap with the ones who hit the Hammond Farm, can't be more than a half dozen, or we'd have heard of them long before now." August coughs a laugh. "Hell, maybe the reason they're out of their damned minds is they spend too much time over the border. Could explain why we don't see them most of the time. Their," he gestrues at himself, "ghillie suits not withstanding."

He's sympathetic to Alexander's concerns, even if he ultimately agrees with Isabella. But, as he explained to Ruiz, some of them were all-in, and that was just how it went. Here, then, was Alexander and Isabella, having the very same tete-a-tete. Which he'll leave to them.

The subject of Peregrine is the one he focuses on. "Oh, that asshole," he says, rolls his eyes. "Great. I was kind of hoping he was just some random figment from Over There." Because then good old fashioned magic at the crossroads at midnight was on the table. As a person, in their world, it got complicated. He frowns. "Us--so," he glances at Isabella, "that wasn't a personal thing?" Back to Alexander. "You think he's got bigger plans for the broader community."

Of Ruiz, he says, "No, but, de la Vega and I don't exactly talk much, so." He shrugs. "I can't claim to know him in any capacity. Of course, based on what I do know," his tone turns dry, "I'm not surprised he went after the guy solo like that." He drums his fingers on the table. "Dangerous, that guy absorbed Alexander's lightning like it was--" He stops, looks askance at Alexander. "Ah, well, like it wasn't an issue." A weak, apologetic smile. Then, "He's probably Hyacinth Addington's level of skill, and she and Minerva are the strongest I've sensed. Which means, he might be able to make those...Empty Rooms. Or whatevet you want to call them. Which would be a great way to trap one of us."

Alexander shrugs at August. "He says it wasn't. He said that he just...saw Isabella and was intrigued by her." A sidelong look towards the woman in question. "But I don't know if I believe it, or if he just wanted to keep options for returning open. So. Take that as it is." He smiles a little at August's tactful restating, although it lacks humor, and his addition is blunt: "He broke my lightning like it was nothing. Part of that was that he was hooked up to Isabella's power, yes. But I suspect he's well-practiced in what he does, and I can't guarantee he's not better than me even when he isn't parasiting." The mention of the null room draws a grimace. "It would be uncomfortable, certainly."

He gives Isabella another sidelong look at the click-shut of her jaw, but he doesn't press the issue further. "Javier hasn't spoken to me for several days. Not since I gave him the murder weapon from the casino. I gather he's," a long pause, "dealing with some things. I should try and get hold of him, though."

She shakes her head slowly when asked whether it was personal. "I don't think so, anyway." Isabella's attention falls on Alexander at that. "But I haven't had any conversations with the guy. I know that Alexander and Javier have, though."

Her cup empty and with no desire to imbibe any more, for now at least, the young woman stands from her seat, suddenly restless. While she remains on her feet, the curve of her hip rests against the corner of the island, one hand sliding into her pocket while another lifts to toy with the moonstone pendant around her neck. "If it's a trap meant to hold someone long enough to render them vulnerable, yes," she says. "As a long term holding cell, though, it wouldn't be tenable. I've never heard of one that lasted for more than twenty-four hours."

Mention of the murder weapon from the casino has the young woman whipping her attention back to Alexander, gaping at him openly. "...the gun that killed the Krugers?" She doesn't know what he found. She has been calling the entire escapade a late night taco delivery and he never got into specifics as to what he actually walked off with, only that it had terrible memories in it. And the sudden reminder of it causes her face to grow momentarily ashen.

She turns her face away in the guise of scooping up her cup and moving to the sink. "I knew things were stressful for Javier lately, but not the nature or shape of it," she adds. "He seemed in good spirits when I saw him last, but I understand that's not necessarily an accurate reflection of how he's doing."

"Mmmm, wouldn't need to be long term." August starts to expand on that, stops. It's entirely possible the next bit he was thinking of is precisely what Isabella went through. So he lets that go unsaid.

He blinks at her reaction to the Kreuger weapon, flicks a pained look which telegraphs Busted at Alexander. He's not touching that topic with a ten foot pole.

Not that the other one is much better. August starts to say something, stops, licks his lips. "A few of us wound up in one of their constructs, while we were in Portland." Well, in two of them, but he's not talking about the other one. Another furtive glance at Alexander, then he's looking at Isabella again as she cleans her cup. "There was a book, and...de la Vega and Hyacinth read it. I mean, with," he holds up a hand, rubs his fingers together. "Whatever it showed them, it wasn't good. So." He sighs, heavily. "That's going to be part of it."

"It only takes a moment, depending on what the goal is," Alexander says, with brutal practicality. "And prisoners can escape."

He raises his eyebrows at Isabella's gape, and grins, briefly, at it. "Yeah. Unless someone's figured out how to put false memories on something. Mind you, I don't know if the police can prove that - I'm assuming ballistics will match, and I'm hoping that there were prints on the gun that lead to the arrests that took place, but," he sighs, "no one's updated me on any progress in the investigation since I handed the weapon over. Or asked me to follow up anything." His shoulders droop, a little. "Although I did a little poking around on my own initiative," of course he did, "and found Foster has a security group that's looking over a pharmaceutical place in Elma. Now, no one's saying that his guys are skimming off the top of the inventory to distribute drugs, but..." a wry smile, "it's not hard to figure out."

A thoughtful hum at August's contribution. "A book? He didn't mention that. But, then, he usually doesn't. He's very private," he says, with a helpless sort of shrug.

In the end, it isn't what Alexander found that upsets her - though if he had kept the weapon, Isabella would probably be off like a rocket. His grin earns him a mighty frown in turn, something that he knows has stayed with her since her childhood. Once the cup is rinsed, she turns around to lean against the sink, one arm crossed over her torso while the other keeps playing with her pendant. She doesn't seem to care that her gauzed fingers are damp on the tips.

"I've never heard of false memories imprinted on an object," is what she elects to say after a contemplative pause. "Not to say that isn't possible since I know that if emotional impressions are intense enough on an object that you can see memories associated with them, but I think that's precisely what makes it difficult to fake one."

She listens to the rest of it, blinking once. "That's how he's getting his drugs? He's stealing them from actual pharmaceutical companies?" Despite herself, and the fact that Alexander's diving in on organized crime and compounding his supernatural troubles with more mundane ones, there's a glimpse of glowing pride on her sunkissed visage. There he is, again, putting actual detectives in the police department to shame.

"I was going to ask you about Portland," she supplies to August. "So you ended up in their constructs but weren't able to determine whether what affected us here is occurring elsewhere, or...? Did they say what they saw?"

"That," August says, pointing at Alexader. "If what you need is a chance to knock out someone who could--deal with you with the Gift," the sudden substitution in what he was going to say is patently obvious, "then one of those rooms'll do the job nicely." He leans back, gaze growing distracted. "Though maybe he was just that strong due to siphoning you," he nods at Isabella, "like he was. I guess the only way to know is to let someone with the shaping Gift get a read on him."

He grunts, nodding agreement. "I've never heard of implanting. Erasing, definitely, reading, I can do that. And," he gestures at Alexander, "there's the issue of how it was just, there, for you to get. If the guy can build a casino, he can afford to have someone take it out onto the ocean and dump it in pieces. So the question is, why didn't he?"

Portland, at least, he can provide some answers about. ...some. "Yes, but it's a little more complicated than that. As soon as you get outside Gray Harbor, your reach comes back. Not as strong once you're away from the thin spot we've got here, but definitely further. Once we got into Old Town in Portland," he snaps his fingers, "we even had most of our strength. So, whatever's going on here? It's here." He lets them absorb that before continuing. "We meant to check out the Veil, but we got yanked into a Dream instead. And since we had to get going, we went ahead and cut our losses. Speaking with folks I know down there, they said they felt something happen on the day we buried Gohl, but they don't really know what it was. No change on their end. Their Veil and the border are the way they've always been."

Alexander nods. "My feeling is that the emotional impressions are real; I've never even heard of someone imprinting false ones on an object. So I feel reasonably certain that the weapon was the one used in the murders." He responds to that hint of pride from Isabella like a flower to sunshine - a sudden and bright blossoming. "At least in part. But, here's the thing. While my source isn't all that reliable, they suggested that during a robbery that took place at that facility recently, it felt like the security folk - Foster's security folk - already knew they were going to be there. My source thinks it was a set up to kill off one or more of the robbers. I can't figure out a way to make that fit in what I know of the situation, but...between that and the gun being out there, like it was waiting for us to pick it up, I'm feeling uneasy that there's a bigger play here than I can see. But the only way to figure it out is to continue to follow the evidence." And he's eager to do that, it's clear, even if it's walking into some sort of trap. He also quite clearly wouldn't appreciate the parallels between his dogged pursuit of crime and Isabella and August's pursuit of Veil knowledge.

The rest, he falls silent for, humming thoughtfully. "Gohl said he was closing a door on his way out. A door to where? Not just the Veil - no one's had any trouble getting back and forth over there. And we're not less strong. Just constrained in range. Which, maybe isn't a bad thing. It's inconvenient, but so is having a bunch of people who can murder and mind control others from miles away."

"I wouldn't rule anything out when it comes to extremely dangerous users who clearly know what they're doing," Isabella murmurs quietly.

Anything is possible. The Exorcist had told them that much when she posed her a question back in the Veil and it seems to hold true with everything else, though the postulation that August presents - that the gun had been planted for Alexander, or people like Alexander, to find puts creases of palpable worry on her features. There's a long look cast Alexander's way, though she doesn't say anything there, not when the investigation is moving at least halfway due to his efforts. The look she is giving him only intensifies at his eagerness to shake mob trees.

"Maybe he's counting on precisely that," she says, tugging on her pendant lightly and feeling the white-gold chain curl into the gauze. "At this point maybe he knows an arrest or direct inquiries are inevitable and the prosecutors will still need to prove his involvement in court - he walks if they can't prove beyond a reasonable doubt that he did it." She tilts her head to Alexander, listening quietly to the rest of his findings. "Did you figure out when the robbery occurred in the chronology?" she asks. "As in, did the robbery occur before or after the Krugers got murdered?"

August's findings have her eyes narrowing faintly. "Interesting." Followed by Alexander's remarks about the door closing. "When I spoke to Itzhak recently, he reiterated what he said in the funeral. Not door, but doors. He felt them close. So I think..." And here, she laughs, suddenly, though there's no humor to it. It's sharp, and bitter. "...that motherfucker decided to give us a taste of our own medicine and boxed us in the way he was before."

August lets out a long, slow breath. "Mmmm, could be--if the police have the gun, well, now the gun can't be found with him attached to it." He shakes his head. "But if he knows about people like us, he'd also know he could have it wiped, I think. So I don't know if that necessarily tracks. I think it's more he expected the cops to come for it in some questionable manner. The fact that Alexander can potentially find the owner is just all the more reason to break it apart and toss it in the ocean. So I don't think that was on his agenda He's playing a clever game, definitely--but a mundane one. Which," he huffs a bitter laugh, "like you said, doesn't actually make it easier. It'll take a mundane court to deal with him."

He scratches his beard, thinking over the notion of doors and if Gohl did it intentionally. "You might be onto something there," he says. "I wonder if that's true of most of them who move on? If the energy shift of it gives them the ability to do things, and Margaret Addington knew he'd do that?" He shrugs that away for ruminating over by his woodstove with a toddy, pulls out his phone. "Here, Alexander, before I forget." He mails off the map. "That's what we've got so far, we'll add to it as we can."

"The robbery was before the murders. And the chances of getting Foster himself were always extremely low," Alexander says, with a shrug. "Guys like him have people to get their hands dirty, and they have people to take responsibility if something does look like it's coming back on him. Between that and lawyers, I never figured this would end with him in jail. Might get the trigger man, and might get whatever lieutenant passed on the orders, if the trigger man rolls, but that's as high as it'll ever go. My only end goal, really, is to make it irritating for him to operate in the city, and hope he moves on to somewhere else." He pulls out his phone as August sends over the text, his eyebrows going up. "Nice, thanks." A flash of a smile. "Not that I can go over there without one of you folk to get me there and back, but it's a good thing to have."

At the talk about the doors and what they might mean, he nods, slowly. "That might make sense. Another thing that I've been thinking - considering that the Addingtons apparently have enough pull to commit someone at will, and were, I think it's clear, responsible for him being sent over the first time? What if the 'work' that was mentioned on Gohl was meant to make the abilities in this geographical area stronger in some way? Which gave him access to all of that, and allowed him to do things that...I'm not sure a lot of ghosts could do. Haunting us all at once, and so forth."

"So if he knew robbers were coming after his stash and tried to kill them," Isabella says slowly. "That would mean Foster knew who sent them, wouldn't he? And if he has a rival, maybe he actually didn't know the murder weapon was planted in his casino for cops or Alexanders to find. Maybe that rival managed to find the murder weapon and put it right where he knew police would be looking." There's a teasing glance towards the investigator's way. "Maybe Alexander managed to score himself a Moriarty if said rival has someone at beck and call to track down murder weapons like that, if that's the case."

Regarding the map, she rubs the back of her neck. "It's all we could chart of the labyrinth at the underbellies of Veil Elm Street before we had to turn back, but once I go back there with the group, there's bound to be more."

August's queries are sound, but one that she can't opine on with any amount of expertise. "Save for Gohl, my experiences with ghosts are severely limited, though that's definitely possible. Though if that's true, that would suggest that our powers here were weaker from the start compared to the rest of the Pacific Northwest at the very least since Portland still maintains the old ranges, so why is that...?" She nods to Alexander. "...and then I'd have to ask why Gohl, if that's the case? What made him so god damn special that he would be chosen to be worked on to have access to that kind of influence? Other than the fact that the Addingtons have enough reason to hate him by being a Baxter, it could have been any other user, so why a serial killer?"

After a moment, she shakes her head. "Anyway, as much as I hate to say it, if we're interested in obtaining more insight into the work that was done on Gohl, we'd need to locate the Asylum. There's no use speculating on that end, I think, without finding Doctor Marshall's office and grabbing ahold of his records."

"I guess a turf war's a possibility, but..." August looks askance at Alexander. "I'd have expected something different from that."

He mmmmms, shakes his head. "I don't think it was about Gohl having access to abilities or range. Thomas Addington's about the same strength as me, and before, well, that, I could heal someone clear across town. Did, a couple of times." Which means he could do the other thing from clear across town, but he's not comfortable giving voice to that. "So by possessing Thomas," he pauses, shrugs, "or Thomas trapping him, however you want to look at it, Gohl could already do all of that." He bites his lip. "Which of course makes me wonder what they needed Gohl for in the first place. Unless they grabbed him because someone else brought him over to use against them, and Thomas snagged him?"

He shrugs. "Well. I agree, the real answer's in that asylum. So we need to find out more about it. In the mean time," a brief lift of his brows, "there's your run down. And," a small, wry smile for Alexander, "I can't say I disagree about it not being the worst thing. Maybe not the best, but definitely not the worst."

Checking his watch, he makes a face and gets up. "I should get going. You two need anything else before I scoot?"

"The Baxters brought Gohl back from over there, and Margaret and Thomas tried to destroy the bones by setting fire to the mortuary they were being stored in - which, admittedly puts my theory regarding Gohl's experimentation in a poor light. For whatever reason, the bones weren't there by the time they tried it. But Thomas made contact with Gohl's spirit and kept it pacified until something woke it up on the night of the storm, I think." Alexander shrugs. "Who or what that was, why, and what the hell was going on? Still a mystery."

As the Asylum is mentioned, or rather, going there is mentioned, Alexander goes tense and still. He looks down into his coffee cup. "No. I'm good," he says, but with the wry acknowledgement that August came to visit Isabella, and it was just a happy coincidence he was there. So he casts her another side-long look.

"Mundane matters, mundane reasons," Isabella replies to August's assertions about a turf war. "There's already an established criminal element in the city, I trust they're either in bed together, or hate each other's guts." She pauses, and lifts slender shoulders. "Or both."

There's a quiet nod, and the reminder that Margaret Addington may have burned down her great-aunt's business and caused her death has her pressing her lips together at that, but she doesn't disagree with Alexander there. She's of the camp that the Addingtons wanted to get rid of Gohl, not empower him further. "We'd have to circle back to that eventually," she says to the investigator quietly. "But I already told you where we won't find the answers to that question." Not on this side, certainly.

With August taking his leave, though, she smiles. "Thanks for the catch up, August. If I find out anything else, I'll let you know, yeah? Be safe, please." She lifts her hand in a parting wave towards the Combat Botanist.

"Pretty sure it's always both," August murmurs with a sharp smile. "Criminal enterprises aren't known for playing nice." And then he grimaces, because they will, indeed, need to circle back to the Asylum, one way or another. But, he's not precisely in any hurry.

"Will do. Thank you for the coffee and breakfast." He gets up, wincing as he does so. "I'll let you know if those branches Erin brought me turn up anything. And keep an eye out for our friends Erinyes and 'Peregrine'." And with that he's off, heading out the door and down the dock at a leisurely pace.

Alexander finishes off his coffee, and rises. "I should be going, too," he says, quietly. He leans in to give Isabella a lingering kiss, if she permits, then smiles. "You should be free to finish the last few thousand words without...distractions. And I know I can be," he clears his throat, "distracting." A point at the paper bag. "Brain food. Eat. Drink something that isn't coffee. Write. Rest." Is he using his emphatic pointing and backing away as a way to flee any upcoming arguments about Veil exploration and/or involvement in organized crime? SURELY NOT.

She turns back to Alexander as he rises, and writ upon his expression is the urge to flee whatever impending arguments they might have about organized crime and Veil exploration. Isabella flashes him a look, though she returns the kiss anyway. Arms fold over her chest to curl bandaged fingertips around her arms, and it looks like she's on the verge of saying something. It's in her eyes, the way her jaw works and there's conflict in her green-gold stare.

But she is reminded about something just by looking at him, and what he had told her about the weapon used to end the Krugers - all the other things he has imparted upon her while doing his job, and her gaze wanders away from him to rest on the far wall.

"Be careful," she tells him quietly. "While you're out there."

Alexander's gaze falls to her bandaged hands. "You too, Isabella," he says, quietly. "Be well, and I love you." A flickering smile, then, before he turns and moves towards the door at a leisurely pace that definitely isn't fleeing at all.