2019-12-31 - That time when everyone was wrong except Patrick.

It's a miserable sort of holiday morning. The blizzard has passed, and along with it, most of the snow. MOST. What's falling outside now is a horrible combination of freezing rain and occasional bursts of ice and snow, accompanied by the kind of wind that cuts like a knife. As a consequence, the coffee shop is almost entirely empty, with only a few EMTs and beat cops who've just gotten off shifts rescuing people from their own lack of driving skills taking up one table towards the front. Alexander is the other customer, and he's positioned himself directly over a heating vent. Despite that, he's still wearing every winter layer he has, and his teeth chatter a bit against the coffee cup. It's good that he's not judging, because he's got a plate that has TWO muffins on it. 'Auld Lang Syne' is playing softly over the speaker system.

Layers are in for the day, clearly! Yule steps in, the collar of his white dress shirt showing that layer that is beneath the fine, gray sweater. A pair of black jeans go all the way down to the black, ankle high boots. His long, navy blue woolen coat is unbuttoned as he steps into the coffee shop, hands shaking it a bit to get the remnants of icy rain from him before those brown eyes skirt over the rather empty coffee shop. "Hey," Comes his greeting towards the man as he makes his way first towards the counter, because coffee? Heat? That is a necessity. His order is placed, and while he waits it is towards his companion he looks, a faint smile flashed his way. "Surviving the weather?"

Alexander is watching for Yule - he almost always sits with his back to a wall and facing a door, or as close to those two states as he can manage. He smiles when he sees the medical examiner, although he doesn't straighten out of his chilled hunch. He does raise a hand in greeting, though, tracking his progress with the slow turn of his head. "Trying to, anyway. Gray Harbor is not helping. In its usual...Gray Harbor way." He smiles. "What about you?"

It's an Americano and a couple of those sous vide egg bites that are all the rage these days that are pushed over towards him, plucked up and taken over. "About the same. The airstream trailer does better than I thought it would," It's a faint quirk of his mouth at that, head shaking just a touch as he approaches the table. "Work is what you'd think. Weather like this? You always get a couple poor souls who freeze to death. Usually homeless or elderly." Down he settles across from the man, food and cup placed upon the table.

A faint look of exasperation flits across Alexander's features. "Why are you living in a trailer, Yule? I know they pay you actual money. Even I don't live in a trailer." Of course, his parents have a nice house in the solidly middle class side of town and probably never even visit Elm unless pressed. The exasperation fades into sorrow as he inclines his head. "Yeah. A couple of people have disappeared from the group that live under the Boardwalk. I always hope it's just that they found some place warmer to stay and not," a grimace, "exposure. Or Gray Harbor."

"I get paid rather well, all things considered, and socked away quite a bit from NYC. The joys of working so much you hardly need a place." It's a faint quirk of his mouth that comes as Yule murmurs, "Because it's next door to the family. They run Huckleberry, so." Up one shoulder lifts into a hapless shrug, the things one does to be near the ones you love. "Been pondering getting a real place. Or at least renting. But," Still on the fence, it seems, with something else on his mind about that whole potential. It's brushed aside as he picks up a fork, cutting into one of those egg bites. "Yeah. Sad to see. Why things like what Erin does for food and shelters, back at Thanksgiving, are so important. But some people? Just don't want to admit defeat, unfortunately. Or never find out about it."

"Ah. I see." Alexander smiles. "That's understandable. Although I think they would also understand if you had actual insulation." A touch of dryness there. He reaches for his muffin - his hands are shivering, slightly, like he just now came from outside. He tears the muffin into neat pieces. "But, yeah. A lot of them are struggling with things. Don't want to be locked up, and fear they would be if they sought help. So they don't. Luckily, we rarely get weather like this - not like New York, so give it a week or two, and it'll probably be okay." A pause. "Your sister drives like a maniac. By the way. And makes up murders. But entertainingly."

Up that bite is brought, chewed on and savored while he listens to Alexander, and only after he swallows does a small snort of amusement come from the man. "I'm sure they would. And Noelle has gone off. And yeah? Glad she made sure to give you your ride before she left. Gone from Gray Harbor," There is a touch of sadness in there, but more than that? Relief to have her out of this place in particular. "Figured you'd enjoy the ride, all things considered. Saw you put up an unsolved case of your own, yeah? From the 1940s, no less. Anything in particular about that one?"

Alexander nods. "She did. Although I still don't know who purchased it on my behalf. I'll have to ask your stalker." A twitch of a smile, there. "And she'll do well, outside of town. You did okay." He takes a couple of the torn pieces of muffin and eats them, one by one, thoughtfully. "I did. Enjoy it." Then his eyes light up. "Yes. If by particular, you mean Gray Harbor weird...no. But it's always been one that intrigued me. People underestimate the early nineteen hundreds in this area of the country. We still don't talk a lot about the violence - often deadly - that accompanied the labor struggles and push for unionization. There are a lot of unsolved murders that just happened to involve labor organizers from that era. Law's case is just more complex than most, because the ethnic struggles and intra-party conflict added extra dimensions to it. And I always wonder how hard the cops even really tried to solve it. Whoever they arrested, right or wrong, would have triggered riots."

"You can ask, but doubt you'll get anything. She very much values privacy of others," Comes Yule's warning, though it is all lightly enough delivered. His head wobbles a bit when Alexander says she'll do well, but finally he murmurs, "I'll still worry. But it will be the normal type of things, yeah? Not... Gray Harbor concerns." Which is to say, all quite easily dealt with and far less stress. A bit of coffee enjoyment is had next, his head dipping into a small nod of agreement. "People far too often forget that our surroundings, as forward thinking as they might seem now? Weren't founded on great principles, yeah? Portland, for example. Racist Utopia was it's original belief. Then you get into the union wars, let alone the boom and bust cycles of Seattle... always created a bit of a powder keg around here. Not really the sort of situation anyone would want to find themselves in as law enforcement, I don't think."

Alexander's eyebrows go up. "A challenge." His grin flashes out, brief and bright. "Now I sort of have to." A break from the muffin to sip his coffee. "There are always Gray Harbor concerns." A sigh. "You know. A lot of the people who live under the Boardwalk - if you've gone down there since you started to stand out? They do too. Most of them. A lot of them would probably be okay, if they didn't have abilities. They feel too much. Or hurt people without meaning to." There's no mystery behind his sympathy for them; it's not like Alexander is exactly thriving with his own issues. But he nods his head to the rest. "A fascinating, if turbulent, time in history. Seattle forbade Natives from living within the city limits, and in the late 1800s, tried to forcibly expel every Chinese worker in the city. Twice, apparently." He grimaces. "It was a mess. People prefer not to remember it."

"You'll find Sparrow quite the formidable foe," Yule murmurs, a touch of amusement in those brown eyes and his voice, but it begins to fade when Alexander explains, a low breath pushed out as he leans back in his chair. "Yeah? So they leave their homes... but stay here. Wonder why. Like a black hole, this place, keeps you in. Just when you think you might be out, back it comes." His voice is soft, reflective for an instance given his own situation, before a sip of his coffee comes, a grimace matching Alexanders own. "Yeah. Wash away the history, look ahead... all while doing the same exact things, just a different method, as was done back then. So. I have a question for you. If you were going to build a lab for ... weird research, where would you put it at? Cause it sure as hell won't fit in my trailer."

"Or lose their homes. Their jobs. Hard to stay employed at a regular job when you keep having people's trauma shoved in your face. Employers don't like when touching something reduces you to tears or screaming." The tone of Alexander's voice says 'ask me how I know', wry and as light as he can make it, there's still a touch of bitterness. "But, yeah. It's hard to leave the town. Even when you should." He takes a sip of his coffee, watching Yule with an unsettling intensity as the man turns reflective. The question draws an interested sound. "I say a cabin in the woods. It's inconvenient, but when your lab burns down, or something eats it, the collateral damage will be less."

"Yeah. Even harder, I imagine, when you see others with the talent that seem to have their shit together. Or at least do a better job of hiding it. Speaking of which? Not sure if Isabella told you. But I'm going to poke a bit to see if I can't find any rhyme or reason around why some of us glimmer, others don't. Curious if say, blood transfusions trigger getting the talent, as an example." Yule arches up an eyebrow at Alexander's last words, a wry smile curling to the corners of his mouth, "Your faith in my abilities is duly noted," He teases about the clear inevitability that it is /when/, not /if/ the thing would blow up. "I'd sorta thought the same. Rentals make it a touch harder. Still manageable. Then I'd just have to figure out how to afford equipment... but I have whole different thoughts around what I'd want. Maybe."

"Yeah." Just that. Alexander looks down and takes a drink of his coffee. "Um. Blood transfusions? I don't think so. A lot of people who stand out don't do so very much - and many of them are in denial. If transferring blood could do it, then we'd probably see cluster effects around anywhere blood from, well, Gray Harbor ended up going. Which I can't rule out. I haven't looked into it. But it would seem unlikely. Also, although I don't know that it's ever shown in any sort of scan, I've always assumed that we've had to have...adaptations, for our bodies to be able to handle our abilities. Adaptations built in from birth, even if those abilities don't manifest until later. Or ever. I don't know if it's solely genetic - although at least two 'lines' do seem to throw a lot of people who strongly stand out." He reaches for another shredded muffin piece. "And it's not your abilities, Yule. Just...attempts to categorize and study things don't usually go well. Things get lost. Evidence is destroyed. Or the Addingtons find out and crush you like a bug." He takes a sip. "Any way I can help?"

"Unless blood, once transported out of Gray Harbor, loses its potency. Or the transfusions has to be more immmediate, something like organ transplants. Regardless, part of the process involves ruling out what it /isn't/, which is just as important. And I don't think it would show in mundane, normal scans. I had to use my Talent to get the gluminol to work, yeah? Which makes me think, when it comes to equipment," His head wobbles a touch, still not certain, but simply tossing things out there for consideration. "that it might be useful to have pieces forged with people with Talent. Like a... physical and spirit infused lens for a microscope. As for helping? First step is what we are going to try Over There. Figure those experiments will help me understand what I might want in a lab."

Alexander gives Yule a long look. "If this ends in kidnapping people who stand out and transferring organs, you realize I'll have to protest." His voice is dry, and he's clearly half-joking. But maybe only half. The rest, though, he listens to quite seriously, nodding slowly as Yule explains. "That sounds reasonable. When we go over with Itzhak, see if you get along with him. If so - he's a fucking amazing mechanic, even without using his abilities. He might be persuaded to help build a couple of things for testing. And, while I don't consider myself a builder of anything, I could work with someone to...infuse...my abilities into something. If it was helpful."

"I have a whole hospital to observe. I don't need to resort to such drastic measures. Yet." Comes Yule's quip back, a faint smile curling to the corners of his mouth as his fork is used to slice up another part of those egg bites. "Yeah. Could be useful. A lot of experimenting likely to figure out what /works/. Have more ideas there too, but first things first. You think we can arrange things soon?" Comes his inquiry about Itzhak and the plan immediately before them as the M.E. lifts up that bite, savoring it as he chews.

Whether or not it was on their agenda to be here this morning, here is where Patrick and Anne wind up. They're bundled up appropriately, but it's hard to fight against that miserable combination of rain-and-ice-and-snow, so there's a certain amount of grousing that accompanies them in from the street. Patrick is shaking off his umbrella onto the sidewalk, remarking about how useless it was while he stuffs it into the umbrella can, adding, "Traffic isn't going to unsnarl for at least an hour, so we may as well wait it out with coffee. Besides, I can't listen to another minute of Christmas carols on the radio." This with an accusing point of his index finger toward the coffee shop's specials board, which still has candy-canes and gingerbread men drawn on it. "Christmas is over."

There's certainly a certain amount of grousing that accompanies Patrick, but Anne seems in good spirits as the Addington grumbles beside her. "That reminds me. The Grinch called and said he wants his shtick back," she beams a pleasant smile to Patrick and hops into the line, peeling off her gloves to stuff them into her pocket now that they were out of the snow. "I'm getting extra gingerbread in your latte today. Oh, hello Alexander!" she spies the investigator almost immediately, raising a hand to wiggle fingers his way.

"Yeah. Probably," Alexander says, voice distant for a moment as he thinks. "After the holidays, I doubt any of us have anything pressing on our agendas." A pause. "Isabella has to go back to England to defend her thesis, but I imagine that'll be a few weeks later on." A soft smile. "She's finished it, though. Despite all the madness." Pride in her brightens his whole face, takes off a few years of age. Then he notices Anne and Patrick coming in, and his eyebrows go up. "...have you met Anne Washburn? She's the city Archivist. And Patrick Addington is currently the curator of Addington House." A tentative hand raised in their direction in greeting, growing warmer at Anne's greeting in his direction. "Hello, Anne. Patrick."

"Hopefully she'll have two legs to stand on," Comes Yule's retort about the thesis the hobbled Isabella needs to defend, a flicker of a bemused smile curling towards the corners of his mouth. "Sounds like a plan," But whatever other thoughts the M.E. might have had are cut short with the arrival of two more, his head tipping to the side so that he can better spy them from his position as introductions are made by the investigator. "Not since I've been back," Comes his conclusion about at least one of them, "Patrick. I remember you from high school classes. Haven't met Anne, however," And so it is to her his head dips gently towards, "Yule Duchannes. Medical Examiner."

Drolly, Patrick answers, "The nineties called. They want their joke back." He gets in line to order their beverages and pastries - because he's a gentleman, not because he wants to prevent Anne from ordering extra gross in his coffee. "Clayton. Duchannes?" The question-mark suggests the whole 'dude, it's been a long time.' "Hello, gentlemen," with a quick smile then an apologetic head-duck since, as mentioned previously, he's collecting coffee. He'll join them shortly. In the flesh.

Anne rolls her eyes at Patrick, but she's all smiles for Yule and Alexander. See what happens when you're nice, Patrick?! "It's nice to meet you, Yule! One second," she extends a finger in the universal sign for 'give me a moment' before she rattles off her order to the barista, ".. and extra gingerbread men for this jolly man beside me," she points to Patrick, beams a smile, and scurries out of the way so that he can pay. Which means she's free to go over to Alexander & Yule's table. "Mind if we join?"

Alexander watches the interaction with amusement, his smile widening briefly when Anne orders extra gingerbread men for poor Patrick. He covers it, poorly, with a sip of his coffee when she makes her way back over to them. "I don't mind." A glance at Yule, to see if he does. "We'd actually been talking about some of the less known, or at least less acknowledged, history of the Pacific Northwest, earlier." His teeth chatter briefly, and he frowns, trying to drown it in hot coffee. It, sadly, does not help, so he shivers and moves on. "But how are you doing? Holidays going well?" A sidelong look at Patrick at that.

Yule's foot extends out to push out a chair in offering towards the pair when that question comes, even as his head dips toward Patrick. "Yeah. Been back for a couple of months now... after twenty years in NYC." Comes his way of answering that unspoken question from the way his name was spoken. His head dips in silent agreement towards Alexanders points on what they had been discussing, a faint smile curling towards the corners of his mouth as he chimes in after the thoughts of the holidays, "Always the best time of year, yeah?" Surely he too saw that back and fourth between the pair, "But with a name like Yule, I've no option but to embrace it merrily."

Patrick looks daggers at Anne's back. Steely, hateful daggers. While he stands there and lets her order him a drink he doesn't want. The daggers are gone by the time he's scraping a chair back for Anne (See? Like a gentleman!) and then settling into his own, asking after Alexander's comment, "Like the... oh, what were those guys called?" He snaps his fingers a couple of times and comes up with, "Washington State Militia? Mountain Men? It was something like that." He finger-bats at the issue and starts working on making his coffee drinkable (which involves whatever's in the flask in his jacket pocket). A look goes across the table to Yule; it's mostly a sympathetic look. "Welcome home."

"Patrick spent ten in Chicago. He just came home himself," Anne informs Yule without a look back over her shoulder. If she feels the steely daggers to her back, she says nothing of it, and that pleasant smile grows three sizes brighter when Patrick pulls her chair back. She sits, wrapping her hands around the coffee mug that Anne's player is assuming got brought over or whatever. There's a sideways glance to the flask that's produced, but she doesn't say anything about that either. "My holidays are going very well," she says to Alexander and lifts brows at Patrick. "Are yours?" she asks him pointedly, smiling around a sip of her coffee. Those brows arch a little higher at the talk of the Washington State Militia and she looks back to Alexander for confirmation if that's what they're discussing.

"Big cities seem to exert a draw to people raised in a small town. I've never really seen the appeal," Alexander admits, although perhaps a little wistfully. A soft snicker at the daggers aimed at Anne's back, and then Alexander stares at the flask for a moment, before attending to his own coffee. Which appears to be the most boring and plain coffee in existence. A shake of his head. "We hadn't gotten there. Just union localizing, xenophobia, and the like. Although if you've interesting tidbits, please, share. I'm always interested." It's not sarcastic. He shoots Anne a smile. "Mine are going well. Isabella got stabbed with an icicle, and I got frostbite, and both our ears got run...but it's still been a good Christmas."

"Thanks," Comes his response to Patrick, one shoulder lifting up in a hapless shrug, "All my brothers and sisters stuck around here. Been good to spend more time with them." It's that pointed question from Anne to Patrick that has his cup lifted up to hide the smile upon his features, taking a long sip, though Alexander's last questions cause him to look towards her. "Yeah. She mentioned something else happening... but I hadn't heard. She's going to give me a hand with a few things, once she's mended. If," He muses in a gentle tease for the poor archaeologist who has had a clear run of bad luck of late.

Words like 'trailer park' really don't belong in the mouths of people like Patrick Addington, but he manages to sound perfectly normal when he asks of Yule, "They manage the trailer park, don't they? Your family? Or they own it?" He shrugs off the confusion, looking up from the business of Irishing his coffee to find everyone is either looking at him or the flask, so he puts said flask down with a help-your-self shake of it before it hits the table. "Oh, better than some people's," he answers with a nod toward Alexander's story. Also, "It had less to do with it being a big city and more to do with it being not this city. I think Anne must be the only person at the table that's never really left." Hey, guess what? Patrick can also look at people pointedly, giving Anne a taste of her own medicine.

All the teasing and pointed stares go to the wayside when Alexander says that little tidbit about Isabella; the frown is immediate, as well as the concern in her eyes. "Is she all right? I'll have to call her," it's just a little bit of fretting, but she's already fishing her phone out of her pocket to send off a quick text. "What happened to the both of you? Frostbite seems.. extreme, did you get lost?" There's a stress of that last word; she's not talking about the normal kind of lost. At least Patrick's commentary brings her back from the edge of worry, and she's straightening up, tipping a frown back at him. "I left for school." Sort of not really.

Alexander gives Yule a thoughtful look when he mentions Isabella's help. "That's right. You two had that dinner. From the auction. I assume it went well. She's an excellent researcher, and relatively fearless. A good partner in crime. Or whatever. As the case may be." Alexander makes an amused - but not disagreeing - face at Chicago being acceptable because it's not here. But he's quick to reassure Anne, "She'll be fine. She's seeing a doctor and on the mend. You might want to text her, though - our ears got," he wobbles his hand, "a bit rung. Hers more than mine." A nod. "We did. Get lost. A whole group. Forced to play this...game. We played it badly."

"Yeah. Own the lots. Rent out some of the trailers for those who don't own. Nat runs it since our parents passed," It's a side long glance towards Alexander that Yule flashes, a faint smile touching to the corners of his mouth as he finishes off his eggbites, "You also don't think anyone should stick around here. No big cities either, huh? There isn't enough room for us all to go and be hermits, you know." It's all a light, playful tease with no malice behind it, before his head dips in acknowledgement of that point. "Yeah. We did. We didn't kill each other, so it couldn't have been all bad, I suppose."

Anne breathes out a sigh, her forehead knitting in thought. "That's terrible. I'm sorry," she says to them both genuinely. "I mean I'm glad everyone made it out relatively okay, but still.." There's a quick shake of her head as she takes another sip of her coffee. "It makes learning about the why of all this so much more important, doesn't it?" It's a musing, thoughtful sort of statement, her look contemplative. "The answer to making this all stop can't just be moving away and never come back. Especially since the 'never come back' seems to be extraordinarily difficult."

Alexander clucks his tongue at Yule, and for once, doesn't immediately go defensive and wary. "I'm not knocking big cities in general. Or for other people. They're just loud. And angry. And painful. If you stay too long. But I admit that I couldn't pull an August and live out in a cabin in the woods, either. It's quiet and comforting for a while, but then...I miss people." A shrug. "And coffee joints." A raise of his nearly empty cup. His gaze flicks back to Anne, and he nods. "You're right. It's important to know. But to be fair, it's selection bias. We've never done a census, so it's hard to say how many people who, um, are at risk for this sort of stuff actually leave and never come back. We just notice the ones who don't manage it."

"Do we?" asks Patrick of the ones 'we just notice.' He's making tremendous progress on this coffee that is disgusting but also alcoholic, sipping often while the conversation goes around. "The boy that disappeared recently, the one that works at Addington House, will we even remember he existed in a few weeks if he just never comes back? Someone," not him, he's a delegator, not a doer, "could probably make a career out of sorting out the number of 'missing, presumed dead' there are in this town. Write a book about it." He doesn't argue with Anne out loud about the merits of moving away and never coming back, but the lack of argument and flat look he passes her way speaks volumes.

Speak his name, and lo, he shall appear. August steps into the coffee shop, way overly bundled up for the weather in a hand-knit, green and bronze scarf with a tree of life embroidered on it, a matching knit cap, a black, down-filled ski jacket, snow gloves, and heavy hiking boots. He looks like he belongs on the Siberian tundra, not in Gray Harbor.

He's moving like it, too; less his usual tall, casual grace and more stiff and careful. He nods at the assembled table of folks, but goes to order a coffee. Which the baristas, as usual, continue to not charge him for, so he just stuffs his money in the tip jar and gives them a Look.

There is something that pleases Yule in Alexander's response, his head dipping into just the barest of nods, "I found the depth of things to lose oneself in, at least in New York, to be phenomenal. Such a crowded space, but such small, out of the way things you could explore. Still," There is an agreement around those crowds, but his thoughts fade as the conversation takes a turn into the decidedly weird and interesting, those eyes flickering to Anne, and then Patrick, before finally falling once more upon the investigator to weigh his response, to see if he clams up about discussing such around them. "The problem in trying to stop it, is no one has cataloged ways to identify it. Scientifically, at any rate. It's the first step in trying to create a process, if you will, that might help these people... and hopefully have a few less folks end up on my slab."

Anne frowns into her coffee cup at something Patrick says, shifting to the very edge of her seat. "People do have a way of forgetting things that happen in this town," she remarks quietly, coolly, though her next words are far more sincere: "I hope he's okay. The man who works for you. I hope that he comes back, or.. doesn't, and sends a letter." She wets her lips and sets her cup on the table, folding her hands in her lap. Something Yule says catches her attention and the examiner has her full focus, head canting to the side. "Identifying it scientifically? Do you think that's possible?"

Alexander's study of the door doesn't fail to notice August coming in. He stares at the man, his brow pulled down in a frown even as he raises a hand to greet August. He doesn't interrupt the other man's order, of course. He just...stares. Fixedly. The conversation does pull his attention back, eventually, and he nods. "That does sound nice. Having so many things available." He doesn't clam up, but he does go a bit more careful. "Yeah. Someone once tried to write a book about some of those things. A local family, uh," NAMING NO NAMES, "took offense, and pretty much none of those exist anymore." His eyes flick back and forth between Anne and Patrick but, wonder of wonders, he doesn't immediately butt in with rude questions. Is he learning? He does say, "It's measurable, to some extent. Able to be replicated on demand, if your observer isn't just gonna forget it, and you don't mind your subject getting eaten for tempting fate. Should be able to classify it by some means."

Following an eye-line, Patrick turns to notice who Alexander noticed, and comments into his cup, "We were just talking about the militia." He brightens up about local families taking offense, says nothing but smiles as if guilelessly across the table at Alexander, allowing for the talk of science to persist a bit without his always helpful input. He'll just ask between Anne, Yule, and Alexander collectively, "What is the it that you keep talking about?"

"One hundred years ago, people would have asked the same question about unraveling the mysteries of space. Fifty? They'd have asked it about genetics. The only way to know is to try, yeah?" Comes Yule's answer to Anne, the woman flashed a faint smile as he finishes off his coffee, "Even if that means creating some changes to how we apply science." Comes his agreement with Alexander, even as he goes to stand. "However, my /real/ job is calling, and I cannot be remiss in answering. I'm certain Alexander will tell you everything you should know," Which, is probably nothing, poor Patrick! A dip of his head comes towards all at the table, a brief glance stolen to August, but duty calls, and he must attend! "Good to meet you Anne, and to see you again Patrick. Alexander." And with that he turns, heading out of the coffee shop.

August raises a hand to Alexander in return, but his eyes narrow when he spots that Look. He makes a face, gathers up his cappuccino, muffin, and biscotti and moves to a neighboring table. "Stop giving me that look," he grouses to Alexander, chasing it with a scowl that from anyone else might be properly threatening. He slides his workbag off his shoulder into one of the chairs with a wince, settles into another.

He dredges up a small smile of greeting for Anne, nods at Yule as he goes. Patrick gets a measured look. In a tone as dry as the Sahara, August says, "Now really, Patrick, I don't even own a handgun, which I suspect is required for membership in any militia. And I'm pretty sure treehuggers aren't allowed in militias anyways."

"I suppose it's worth a thought. It certainly would provide some insight, if it were genetic or .. traceable, in some way.." Anne trails off in consideration of this, though she offers a smile up to Yule when he makes noises about leaving. "It was nice to meet you, too," she says to the man, before she just looks at Patrick at his question. "Really?" she sighs, rolls her eyes, and offers up a smile to August. "Hello August! It's nice to see you. Do you want to join us?" There's a hand wave to Yule's now empty seat. To Alexander, she offers: "I'd like to learn more about this book."

"August isn't in a militia," Alexander tells Patrick, with every appearance of seriousness. Like Patrick really didn't know this, and just needed to be helpfully informed. That guileless look at least ensures that his flat state is focused on the Addington letting August off the disapproval and worry hook. "Why Gray Harbor is, and why we are, the way...everything is," he does answer, though, because Alexander and direct questions are best buddies forever. Even when they shouldn't be. Yule's departure is met with a smile, and a wistful sort of wave to the medical examiner, before August's grump draws his attention back to the botanist. "What happened? How did YOU get cold?" Because yes, Alexander is also bundled up like an arctic explorer, just a very poorly funded one. A glance at Anne. "I could get you the title and the author, but...uh. I sort of buried the copy I had." Three guesses where, and the first two don't count.

Patrick's brow tics upward when Yule says his real job is calling, and he attaches a farewell wave to the quiet comment, "Grim thought." He issues a clueless-sounding, "Hmm?" in response to Anne's exasperation and Alexander and August (GOD WHY DO ALL YOUR NAMES START WITH As) tacking on more information. "Duly noted." He's just going to put more liquor in this here cup and then stow his flask; at this point, the ratio of liquids in his cup has to have skewed away from coffee and heavily toward whiskey. "So who's going to be the first one to sign up for the Shiny Person Blood Test? Clayton, all set to donate your blood to science?"

"Why thank you Anne, I think I will." August smiles, serene and grateful, at her offer, glancing sidelong at Patrick in the process. He shifts to that chair, sips from his coffee. ALexander's question gets him a squint. "I'm not sure, but...I think from patching up Finch. She was in a bad way." He swallows, chases the memory aside with a bite of muffin and more coffee. "Right after I healed her, felt like...that time I fell in the Columbia in winter." He shudders. Not a fond memory. "Like I could jump in a lake of lava and still not get warm. Nothing seems to help. Been having to get people to drive me places, can't hardly text." He sure can bitch about it, though!

"Shiny person blood test," he echoes. "I mean, I guess it could be genetic in some way, but I'd expect at least some sort of pattern of inheritance, and nothing's really suggested that. Well, not that I know of."

He tilts his head at the discussion of a book. "What book's this, then? Something of Theirs?" Or so he's assuming, since it was buried. What other kind of book needs burying, but the nasty kind.

Anne just shakes her head - Alexander's clarifying, that'll do - and leans back after taking her coffee cup again. "I don't know if I would be comfortable just handing my blood over, for science or not. What if there is some kind of marker?" she knows Patrick's just being Patrick, but the thought makes her frown. "Where does that information go? Who could possibly get their hands on it? It's not a comforting thought." Her attention flicks back to August, and the frown deepens. "Did Finch.. ahm, get lost with Alexander?"

Alexander moves to take a sip of his own coffee, then realizes that the coffee is GONE. Woe stretches his features. He studies the empty cup. Then Patrick. A faint frown. "Maybe. If I thought it'd be useful and I trusted the person analyzing it. But there are con--" He breaks off and nods at Anne's words. That. He stands up, then, and goes to order more coffee. Except, instead of one cup, he has a quiet conversation and orders three. He comes back with them, and settles a refill of Patrick and Anne's orders by their seats, before sitting back down with his incredibly boring (but hot and fresh) coffee. August is considered with a frown. "So...the cold is contagious? That's...not good." A brief nod to Anne, confirming that, yes, she was there.

"I don't care for this term 'lost.'" Patrick frowns about it, his tone (self-)important. "People aren't getting lost. They're getting punished. Let's at least call it what it is." At least this gets him off the subject of donating blood to science!

August wrinkles his nose at Alexander once he's back. "I...guess it must be contagious, yeah. In some way." He shrugs at Patrick. "Not always. Sometimes people who haven't done hardly a damned thing get swept into it. 'Lost' works a bit better in that case. Unless you're saying they're being punished for knowing that person." He doesn't say that last bit judgmentally, just as a point of clarification.

He sighs, nods at both Alexander and Anne by turns. "Easton and I were talking about that. How we need to know these things, but recording information's dangerous, because then They can get access to it. Last thing we need is Their allies being able to track us by more than just sight. But doing science without recording your observations is pretty pointless."

And then, he looks at Alexander again. "Book?"

There's a lingering look at Patrick when he talks of 'lost' vs 'punished,' but she doesn't add her own commentary. She just continues frowning away, she's going to get early wrinkles if she keeps this shit up. "You make a good point," she tips her cup to August. "It's a double-edged sword, isn't it? We want more information to figure out all of this, but who knows who might get hold of that information and use it against us," this makes her huff out a sigh. "Very frustrating."

Alexander rolls his eyes at Patrick. "I was pre-adolescent. I called it what it felt like, and it stuck. It's not like anyone explained it to me. Besides, 'punishment' implies a right to mete out such a thing, and I do not concede that right. Torture, yes. Harassment, on a good day. But I don't think people have done anything wrong...in fact, doing wrong things seems to take the pressure off of you. So it's really more...negative reinforcement. 'We hurt you until you hurt other people for us'." If it sounds a little ranty, that's because it is - his voice speeds up into a bitter sort of mutter, and he hunches down defensively.

As August reminds him of the book, he says, "I can send you the title and author later. But there aren't a lot of copies left. I sacrificed mine, and Violet didn't seem to think it'd be easy to find another. It wasn't...directly about anything. Just about how screwed up Gray Harbor tends to be. The disasters, deaths, all of that."

"You don't think that what you can do is wrong? On any level?" Patrick asks these questions not like he's challenging Alexander's assertions, but like they're purely intellectual issues. He tips his head into a half-shake, a minute gesture that pairs to a lift of his brows. "I suppose we'll have to agree to disagree. Though," he issues a more substantial headshake to August. "Speaking from personal experience? If you don't use, you don't get punished." Beat. "Unless you happen to keep company with those who do get punished. In which case?" He shrugs loosely, finishes the coffee whiskey in his cup, hisses a breath across his teeth (that was harsh). "You probably deserve it. Also, you should talk to Enzo. That's what his books are about, you know. This place, these things. No one ever buys them." It delights Patrick immensely.

August tips his head at Alexander, clearly in agreement with him on the whole 'punishment' thing. "Is a prey animal that goes out to forage in the winter, knowing some predator's going to be looking for them, being punished for doing that if they get caught? No, of course not. It's just how their lives are. We do these things, They notice, They show up to harvest." He shrugs, sets his teeth as that makes his shoulder implant complain. "As to wrong...I guess that depends on how you look at it. Is the horrible shit happening around here because we can do this, and do, or does the horrible shit induce us to do it, and so attract Them?"

His mouth twitches in a near smile at the 'in which case' part. "And yet," he says, eyeing Patrick over the rim of his cappuccino mug, "here you sit." He bobs his eyebrows, has a drink. He continues, "I will," in regards to Enzo. Around a bite of biscotti, he says to Alexander, "I can ask around, see if I can dig one up. Even if it's not easy to get hold of, might be worth having for research into correlations."

He runs a hand through his hair, pulling off his cap in the process. It's not like these clothes are helping anyways. "Frustrating, and it slows us down." He sighs, considers Anne. "I guess we can gather some information, though. Sure, not about us. But maps, observations of the Other Side, that sort of thing? That'd maybe be safer."

"Negative reinforcement," Anne murmurs at the talk of punishment, mostly on the tail-end of August's own commentary. She considers Patrick with a long look before she focuses back on the group. "He does have a point," chin tilt to Patrick, "That things seem to ... calm when you aren't bringing attention to yourself, either by using or being around someone who uses. At least, that's what I've noticed even from my own personal experiences." She taps her fingers along her coffee cup, before she nods over to August. "That's my hope, anyway. That if we observe the other side, we might get more information about us. The ever elusive why."

Alexander looks down at his coffee. "It can be wrong. It's not right. The things that we can do to other people, if we want to. Or if we're just not careful. We're dangerous." A pause. "But we didn't ask to be. I don't think it's right to be punished for being something that you can't help being, either. And," a look to Anne, "that's true. But at the same time, if you can help. If only someone like you can help, because other people don't have the ability. And you don't just because it hurts you, then...I don't know about that, either." He sighs, takes a sip of his coffee. Then a smile flickers to life. "Vincenzo said he's going to send me copies of his books. That would be interesting. I don't read much fiction, but I'll give them a try. He's interesting." His eyes flick to August. "Honestly, most of the information is available in the Archives. From the book. It's just that was a person who tried to bring it all together. He didn't see the whole picture, but he tried."

Patrick, with a swallowed chuckle at August, "You've met a lot of bunnies that go around electrocuting people with their minds, have you?" He waves a hand in front of his own face, adding, "Actual bunnies. Not," that hand bats loosely at the air, "terror-bunnies." It bears clarifying! There's a moment of surprise - Anne said he has a point! HE'S WINNING!!! - conveyed in a quick furrow chased across his forehead, and he starts down that conversational avenue, only to pull up short, pausing a moment. To Alexander, "We're not punished because of what we are. We're punished because of what we do."

He's not going to touch the matter of what to do 'if only someone like you can help,' because altruism is for suckers. Also because the meta knows that it always winds up doing as much harm as good anyway. 😃

"Punished for what we do? How very Puritan of you," August says, tone slipping into an amused sort of drawl. "If you want to mischaracterize the analogy, that's fine, but it doesn't change my point. Plenty of prey are dangerous--doesn't make them not prey to some predators. It's still an ecosystem. A fucked up one, with weird shit, but an ecosystem just the same."

He nods at Anne. "Exactly. If we can get closer to why, we might learn plenty about ourselves anyways, without putting ourselves at risk."

He considers Alexander's example, looks thoughtful. Starts to say something, stops. Then, "It's about survival, I think. Ultimately. That's why prey still forage, even when it's dangerous. And, in our case, other people have as much a right to survive as we do. And if I can help them in that, at some cost to myself, well, as long as the people hanging around me don't mind, why not do that? Because 'sometimes it doesn't work'? How is letting someone die better? Because you didn't get more people hurt based on something you couldn't predict? Acting like that's anything but hell's bookkeeping is arrogant at best. We can't predict the future." Of course, the second he says it, he has to wonder if some of them can.

"He means with the.. you know," Anne taps her finger to her temple to explain what Patrick meant by 'what they DO'. It wasn't completely leaping to Patrick's defense, but he can look shocked anyway. It seems as though she has more to say, but there's a sudden jolt as her pocket buzzes .. it's just her phone, of course, and to the screen she looks with disappointment. "It looks like my organizational services are required," she sighs and gets to her feet. "August, Alexander, it was a pleasure," she beams a smile at them and even manages to turn it to Patrick without dimming. "I'm sure I'll see you later?" But she doesn't wait for a response. Out she goes!

Alexander shakes his head to Patrick. "We're attacked because of what we do. Or eaten, maybe. In some fundamental way. But punishment implies a moral or administrative component that I'm not sure exists." His brow is furrowing, thinking it over. "Especially since you do seem to be able to use abilities more freely, as long as you feed someone else to the Shadows. It's not like...it doesn't feel like they have any real opinion on what we do, they just want to eat. And we stand out when they're hungry. Predation is closer, based on observations thus far." A nod to August. "Data is still...insufficient for final conclusions." He might be about to ramble on - he's got that sort of light in his eyes - but Anne's leaving, and it breaks him out of it, so that he can offer her a smile and a tentative little wave. "Don't die," he tells her, solemnly, as she departs.

Trust Patrick to argue the stupidest part of a point: "Catholic, actually." He takes Alexander's arguments pleasantly, waiting until he gets to the end to answer, "I'd almost swear that I said we would be better off agreeing to disagree. But, since perhaps I neglected to do so, we would be better off agreeing to disagree, Clayton." He straightens when Anne and her phone make leaving noises, then watches her go since apparently he doesn't even get a second to answer. Only when she's gone does he sigh. "If I did that to her..." He trails into a comment about PUNISHMENT, indeed, slipping it in beneath Alexander's sage advice.

August smiles and waves a farewell to Anne. "Have a good one, Anne." He watches Patrick watching her go, almost smiling with wry amusement. "Catholic, my mistake. But still, with the blame and guilt and the notion that there's an authority that gets to decide if you've done wrong and deal out some sort of comeuppance." It's is own implicit 'yeah I can agree to disagree', but he's happy to sit by while Alexander attempts to keep at it.

He scratches his beard, reluctantly conceding they need more information. "Itzhak and I were thinking of it like farming," he says. "They notice someone's ripe for a harvest, they come on in and do that until it's not getting them much, leave off until the crop's bearing fruit again." And what's farming but a predator/prey relationship reduced to a symbiosis. Here was Gray Harbor, which drew them in, strengthened their power and gave them reasons to use them. And here They were, waiting to take a nice big bite out of the ripe fruit borne by that harvest.

Alexander's teeth click shut on whatever he was about to say - almost CERTAINLY preparing to continue the argument with dogged persistence. But, instead, his brow furrows. "Did you? I don't...remember you saying that." His fingers fret and flex on his coffee cup. "I must have missed it. I'm sorry." He's clearly lost for a moment, replaying the conversation in his mind. He sighs, then shakes his head a little. A glance towards August. "We don't have to talk about it anymore. In fact," he frowns, "I should go." And, having made that decision, he stands up. "Don't die," he tells them both, then makes his way out of the coffee shop, shoulders hunched against the persistent, numbing cold.

"Yes, well. What can I say. I enjoy the ceremony of Catholicism, with the flowing robes and incense and candles and what-not. Plus, they give free crackers and grape juice every week. Which go down very easily when you're hungover, I find." Patrick smiles as if breezily, then lifts a look to Alexander's abrupt departure. Leaving him with August, and clearly no desire to defend his position on all things punishment-related. Soooooo, "If you had to spend a day in his shoes, do you think you'd survive? I'm almost positive that I wouldn't make it."

"Take care, Alexander," August says, watching him go as well, abandoning Patrick to August's scintillating company. He arches an eyebrow, thinks that over. "I can understand that," he says, eventually. It's a practical reason, and well, he can't accuse Patrick of not coming across as a practical person. (And as someone who's neither Christian nor religious, he can appreciate a practical approach to it, rather than find it cynical or sacrilegious.)

Another glance towards where Alexander went, and a lift of one shoulder. The right one, careful not to aggravate his already-annoyed left shoulder. He has some coffee, takes to holding the cappuccino cup in his hands for warmth. "Not sure. Probably not. It took a village to keep me together, all in all. He's doing it largely on his own."

Patrick tries to pitch his tone right between making this a question and a droll comment, but really he's being a jackass when he quips back, "Can you? Good, it can be a difficult thing to grasp in this day and age." But then they're talking about Alexander, not the majesty of the church, and he settles into a slow nod at that assessment. "Being honest, I always imagined he would be one of those people that simply disappeared off the face of the earth. I knew him in school, and he did sort of wander off there for a while after graduating. I always assumed he got," don't say 'punished,' Patrick, just don't, "punished."

Blame the whiskey.

August coughs a laugh at Patrick that's all wry humor for his response. "Ah, come on now, you really going to blame people if they're a little disillusioned with religion and its ability to do fuck all for them? But I can appreciate approaching it with an honest understanding of what it can really offer you. Might not be for me, but neither are beets or EDM. So what."

He grunts about Alexander, nods, suggesting he knows some of that story. "He's a survivor. One way or another, he finds a way to get back." His eyes narrow in more amusement than anything else at the use of 'punished'. Unlike Alexander, August has no problem allowing Patrick his perspective on it. Everyone is entitled to their wrong opinions.

"You're underselling the value of free crackers and grape juice." Patrick crosses himself - in case Satan shows up to get August, then Satan will know that Patrick is totally on the side of God and free crackers and grape juice. "E. D. M." Each letter gets its very own sentence. "Electric dog monsters? Erotic drugged masochists? Elephants debating with machetes?" The last one earns an 'enh' from him and a teeter of his head, not his best showing, but whatever. He looks expectantly across the table at August, waiting to be an - "Enlightened dumb man." (Last one, promise.)

August just laughs at the various attempts at guessing EDM's meaning. "Electronic Dance Music. You know--old modem sounds and synthesizers and sometimes half a guitar and a drum machine. That stuff." 'That stuff', which he's not really fond of. So you'll never catch him at a rave (which is not exactly a surprise).

He watches Patrick cross himself, shakes his head. "I can get good grape juice from the store, or buy it from that cier place in Hoquaim. And crackers are a dime a dozen. And anyways don't you only get one?" He's not clear on the whole Communion thing, except that there's something about 'flesh' and 'blood' involved.

"Oh, god," blasphemes the self-proclaimed Catholic, wholly disgusted by what EDM actually is. "Do people actually listen to that?" Patrick maintains his disgust long enough to explain, "Yes, yes. You can buy those things at the store. But, again, it's the ceremony behind it. A nice priest blesses you and gives you a mid-morning snack, it's quite lovely. You should try it sometime." He stands at that point, not because his phone buzzed or anything but because how long can one man WHO IS NOT A HIPSTER sit in a coffee shop, not drinking coffee? "I'll hold the door for you?" So they can dive out into the shitty, icy sidewalk together, two men united against the weather even if they're at odds about philosophy!

"Mmmm, well, maybe Ellie won't mind taking me some day." Of course she will, August will talk about it for most of a day like the academic he is.

August's phone has buzzed as well, and he sighs. "If you would," he says, creakily getting up and shoulders his workbag once more. He stows the muffin for later, takes up his cappuccino. If they weren't at odds about philosophy, really, what would there be to discuss?