2020-01-08 - Weird Science

It'd been a couple of weeks, and the text that came from Yule was unusually brief. "Hey. Can you swing by the morgue today? Have info." And with that message sent, he waited for a response. He was in one of the offices, rather than expecting the archaeologist to head right on in to where dead bodies might be laid out and in progress on autopsies, a thing that clearly was for paperwork and little else. Dressed in his scrubs, today was a work day for the man while he waited for her to make her appearance.

A simple piece of paper - with handwriting rather than print - rests on top of what appears to be a variety of genetic test results, but Yule? Doesn't look pleased. It's not even that, he appears down right disturbed, those features that are so often set into calm and an easy expression tugged down into a faint but noticeable frown as he just stares at the thing. Fingers tap upon the desk, the other small, subtle sign of his potential frustration while he waits.

Unusually brief indeed - he's normally chattier than that.

When Isabella arrives, it's either that her physical state of being has been greatly exaggerated, or she heals quickly. The only signs of her last few ordeals are the slightest of limps as she arrives in Yule's office with her brisk, businesslike strides, and the unmistakable wedge of her hearing aid peeking out through the falls of dark hair that have been left loose over the winter. She is also bundled up like an arctic explorer, in spite of the considerate heat of Yule's office, with an exploration-grade jacket pulled over a few layers, thermal leggings tucked into snowboots, a scarf and a knit cap pulled low over her forehead. She also wears gloves, made of worn, but comfortable leather, and these fingers are wiggled towards the medical examiner whenever he lifts his eyes to find her.

She also looks exhausted, rendered so by a few sleepless nights inundated with worry, but her emerald-and-gold eyes are keen and alert when they focus on the doctor's face. "You look vexed," she says with a teasing lilt, easing into a chair directly in front of him. "Does something vex you?" Brows lift as he regards the sheet of paper in his hands. "How have you been the last few weeks? Everything alright?"

"Yes, but the fact you look prepared to lead an expedition into the Arctic while you are in Gray Harbor aside," He quips about his state of being vexed, as it were, though the man isn't yet done at just that, "You do know that wearing that many layers won't save you from sharp icicles, yeah?" It manages to draw a flicker of a smile to his features, but it fades soon enough as a breath is pushed out. "Shit. I don't know. This? Is... it's fucking creepy." That's the conclusion the good doctor comes to, his fingers curling around that hand written note, giving one last glance over it as he explains, "The lab I chose? Was unusually slammed the same day that I submitted the testing, so they passed it off. To one FCN lab. They even sent back a handwritten note,"

That extraordinary customer service doesn't seem to please him at all, and he lets her read the missive, which states:

Thank you for using our services! If you have any future testing needs regarding blood samples for remarkable individuals, we welcome your business. Please feel free to contact us at pickup_appointments_only@fcninc.com to arrange pick-up times, and one of our agents would be happy to assist you.

He watches her reaction ever so closely, giving her a chance to process the whole matter, even as he murmurs, "You look ... physically healed, on the mend, but you sure seem to have something weighing heavy on your shoulders too. Anything you want to talk about?" A gentle lob to see how she responds to it, rather than forcefully trying to pry into whatever worry might be seen upon her features, equally giving her something else to take as an easy out, if she wants it. "Anything about their choice of words stand out to you?"

"Well, at the rate this town is going, it's best to be prepared and geared up to be the first in line in the event that it finally sinks into its secret hellmouth and we're all scrambling on top of one another's bodies to get the hell out," Isabella observes with a laugh, the sling of one slender arm draping over the back of her seat, and wincing visibly as the pins and needles of yet another obfuscated injury make themselves known, clawing through her nerves. That one, however, is minor compared to the rest, reminded when his quip about icicles reaches her, and causes her to roll her head back and groan melodramatically against the back rest of his chair. "The layers aren't because of that, it's just reprehensibly cold," she tells him simply. "It's abating, thankfully, I suspect it's tied with the injuries I currently have. We'll know once I've fully recovered." By the resigned air she exudes at that, however, he'll be able to accurately discern that she is very much looking forward to being whole again.

There's an incline of her head, curiosity and stare sharpening visibly at both letter and remark, and reaches out towards the sheet of paper once handed to her. Brows furrow faintly at the text. Coupled by the additional information he provides, her earlier smile fades, mirroring his thoughtful frown.

"FCN..." she murmurs; it doesn't take long for familiarity to register. Reaching into her pockets, she produces a plastic coin - what looks to be an ordinary toy, at least by his first accounting. Rolling it over her fingers, she extends it to him for his perusal and examination. The head on one side would be unrecognizable and try as Yule might, he won't be able to identify who it's supposed to be. The 'tails' side is embossed with the decal of an eagle in flight, with the words 'FCN Inc.' clutched between its talons. He would have to examine it further, however, to determine that it is unique. It feels strange the moment he touches it.

"Santa in this year's parade was giving out toys and trinkets, I happened to get that from one of his elves," she explains to him. "It's not the first item I've received from the company. Remember the Veil-flu epidemic I told you about at dinner? In one of the Dreams that occurred in the end of that period, the Vivisectionist sent us who were trapped in it packets of chicken soup. Tasted like Lipton's, actually - I tried one, because I was curious, and I knew enough readers and healers to assume the risk, if the worst happened. The post-it note indicated that it would cure what ailed me, and it did - my most grievous wound from the encounter disappeared after ingestion. Seems to me that either the Vivisectionist, whose list of disturbing experiments I already sent you, is either tied to this outfit, is running this outfit, or is somehow involved or affiliated with this outfit. If they're keeping an eye out for remarkable individuals, it would make sense. The list of experiments I sent you, I feel, are geared towards use of our abilities in some fashion or another."

She examines the note again carefully, and makes note of the e-mail address, before lifting her attention back to Yule's face. She passes the letter back to him, and keeps her palm out for her coin back once he's done looking at it. "What did the blood test results actually say?" she wonders; she would need the man to interpret medical jargon, deferential to his expertise in most matters scientific.

His gentle and concerned question has her blinking once, before she smiles faintly. "My shoulders aren't the ones that're carrying the weight," she tells him softly. "I'm worrying about someone else. Alexander's had a rough few days...rougher than usual." She doesn't tread into the details though, but that is understandable also - it is not her story to tell. And after a moment, perhaps under the weight of the his dark, sympathetic stare, she sighs. "I'm discovering relatively quickly that it's...difficult...not to feel worthless, when battling against the ephemeral."

Silence falls for a heartbeat or two, before she rubs the side of her face with her fingers, looking up at him and smiling ruefully. "Anyway, how was your New Year?" she wonders. "For some reason I thought you were going to be at the Historical Society's Gatsby Ball, but I didn't see you there."

"See, I have the opposite," He murmurs quietly when she mentions the cold, his head tipping to one side, "Think it had to do with the Yule Cat. It was after that run in that I just... don't seem bothered by winter nearly as much as I should. But that's a whole different ordeal to have been through," A soft huff comes from him, eyes rolling upwards as the thought of what all seems to spawn in this town, even as he murmurs, "Isn't the Hellmouth /hot/, though? I mean, it sounds like it should be blistering. You see to have prepared incorrectly," It's those layers he eyes when his chin tucks back down, a flicker of a smile ghosting to life as his fingers reach down to tap against the results. "Nothing at all to be found."

He watches as that light of recognition comes, and it is towards the coin that he stares, brow furrowing at the plastic thing. "Jesus. That's what they were giving out? And you kept it?" He clearly isn't impressed, at least not until he touches it, and one can sense the hairs rising momentarily upon the back of his neck. A low breath is pushed out as he stares at it, flipping it around. "There was a case back from 2003. The ME here at the time sent brain tissues towards Fuller-Newton Labs. Either the ME didn't file the findings, or he never received them. The two labs aren't related, at least not that I can tell. But fuck if it doesn't feel like someone has their hands in the cookie jar of any samples sent from Gray Harbor for analysis."

"Yeah. I remember you mentioning the flu," He murmurs, though it was just before his own time in arriving here. The mention of the packet has his brow furrowing, and down his lips tug into a faint frown in consideration as he takes the letter back, exchanging it for her coin. "Everything is normal. Fine. Nothing of note." Comes his conclusion about the tests, and up his eyes roll at the very thought of it. "If I knew the right people? I sorta feel like I should send them to break into this place and see what they can find. And bring back a few pieces of equipment so I can start my own damn lab." There is a touch of seriousness to that tone, his attention shifting back towards the woman, and those issues. "Yeah? Is that all that is weighing you down, Isabella? I'll reach out to him. Meet him for coffee or something." Comes his softly spoken promise.

"Spent it in Portland. Was nice, getting out of town for a few days. Now? I'm in the process of moving from trailer to cabin. Alexander's idea. Sort of. Needed more space if I'm going to start a lab, though now? I'm kind of thinking I should take him up on his bunker idea." A soft mmph comes from him at the mention of the ball, and there is another smile, this one lingering for a few seconds. "Yeah. It'd have been nice to go, if I was here. Miss the more formal charity events I'd go to all the time. The ballroom dancing. There was dancing, wasn't there?"

"A Yule cat?" Isabella wonders, the loft of an elegant brow climbing higher towards her hairline. "Is it a holiday cat or one just named after you? You ought to be flattered, by the way, because ever since having dinner and text conversations with you, I'll be thinking of you first before I even think of Christmas when the word is mentioned. How does it feel supplanting Christmas? Which as you know is my favorite time of year, by the way." The look she flashes him after that is mock-chastising, but eases, eventually into an easy, languid smile. "Anyway, tell me about this Yule cat, that was either named after you or Christmas."

His observation about the theoretical temperature of a hellmouth draws some appreciative laughter out of her, eyes and expression lighting up at the throes of it. "Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice," she quotes. "I don't know much about poetry, but Alexander likes Frost, do I get a gold star for keeping references in theme, considering I've just been poking you about your name?" She waggles her brows playfully at him, though all teasing fades when he mentions that the reports are inconclusive. Judging by the way those green irises hood, skepticism palpable from her bundled, slender frame, it's plainly evident that she finds those results less than credible.

"It might be all connected," she says after a contemplative pause. "I know the Addingtons have ties to the Asylum, where I know they've been working with people like us. They run this town, they probably know more about it than anyone, but aren't sharing, and the older generations seem to believe that they're protecting this town, something about the sacrifices they've made over the decades." Her earlier skepticism grows there. "Stands to reason who could circumvent the transport of biological materials from a city-run organization like the medical examiner's office would be somewhere on the higher rungs of Gray Harbor's ladder. After everything else, though, I'm not discounting the idea that there might be very good reasons behind it, though. It would sure be helpful if they shared what they knew." Grudges from the last summer simmer from underneath the surface, tightening the delicate lines of her features.

It fades, however faintly, her fingers retrieving her coin and slipping it in her pocket. "I'm way beyond discouraging anyone regarding certain felonious acts for the sake of information," the archaeologist remarks, dryly. "But I don't know how wise that is, sending people in there. If FCN has ties with the Vivisectionist, I don't know whether we'd see any of them again, if they were ever caught. I mean, did you read the list I sent you? How the hell do the test subjects survive any of that with any modicum of sanity? Though..." She glances at the paper on his desk. "They did invite remarkable people to make an appointment. It just depends on what you're willing to risk." A half-smile curls on her mouth. "I mean, I would go, if there were no other recourse but to breach unfamiliar and possibly hostile territory, acknowledging the idea that I might find myself chained up in a dungeon staring at a lobotomy in the eye. Or..." She reaches out to tap the e-mail address located on the paper. "We can remember that we live in the twenty-first century, and maybe find someone who might have the skillset to break into said place remotely. We at least know that they have an e-mail server."

The prospect of meeting Alexander for coffee has her shaking her head. "If you're going to do that, do it because you're his friend, or because you want to be his friend, and not because his girlfriend said that she was worried," she replies, softly. "Talk about your experiments, and other interesting things....yourself. I think you're an interesting person, anyway." She winks at him there. "I think it'd be nice, if the two of you caught up with whatever missed opportunities for friendship you had in high school."

She turns an ear to his Portland trip with interest. "A bunker might be a better idea, rather than a cabin. Too many things can go wrong around wood, and you'll eventually need to think about a clean room. I'd say scrap the cabin idea entirely and try to find a house with an unfinished basement that you can retrofit for whatever purpose you have in mind, maybe closer to the outskirts of town for additional privacy and distance if something goes wrong, if you don't mind the commute. Not that you work regular hours in the first place. As for the Ball..." She laughs. "The Chairwoman - Clarissa Robbins - she really expended an effort turning it into quite an affair. For a small town, it was very grand. She put a lot of effort in procuring chocolate swans with perfect necks, and I was actually legitimately scared for her assistant if he wasn't able to get them on time. But yes, there was plenty of dancing." Her features give way to her usual mischief, as unapologetically irrepressible as her spirit. "I'm not very good at it but I was asked by a few friends to take a few turns on the floor." And clearly not the sort to care whether she demonstrates a less-than-able showing.

"Are you trying to imply," Comes Yule's rhetorical question, one dark brow arching upwards in a playful challenge, "that the holiday wasn't named after me, and thus all things Yule aren't really a reference to myself?" It's all that touch of ego, a lazy smile that curls around the corners of his mouth momentarily, before he goes on to explain, "I had to look it up again... I only barely remembered. There was this cute lab tech, back in NYC. It was one of those typical, 'your name is Yule, so...' things people always do, but hers was interesting. Yule cats. That if you aren't wearing a gift you were given, the yule cats will come and eat you. After the run in? When I started looking it up, it all clicked. She was from Iceland," There is something, in the aftermath of it all, that he can at least find amusing, a hand lifting up to scratch at his beard, "Farm owners there used the stories to help encourage the workers to finish processing the wool harvests before winter. And then? There are the Yule lads," A beat of a pause, his eyes going momentarily wide, "They? I didn't meet. But you really should look them up sometime. At any rate, that nonsense about a bear in the park? That was a Yule cat. Nearly took my head off... yes, teeth /very/ close to my head. Horrifying." Comes the dry conclusion to that particular bit of information.

"Yeah. I never ran much with the Addingtons. Trailer park boys aren't the sort they hung out with." It's all something that simmers slowly within the man, listening to her own conclusions and skeptical thoughts, before he finally murmurs, "What it tells me? Is that there has to be something in the blood tests, the genetics, something in those things that I'd have gotten back. Why else go to all the trouble of this cover up, yeah? If it would come back completely normal, why bother. What I don't like is this place having our samples now," Which is one more mark for a physical break in, not that he has any clue just how to achieve this. A small snort of disgust comes from him, arms crossing over lightly upon his chest. "I thought about it. The email. Reaching out to see just what sort of reply I'd get. But having someone that /knows/ what they are doing would be so much better. But I don't know anyone I trust that has that particular skill set. But it doesn't get me my lab equipment," Comes his note of disappointment, thought he glimmer of mischief in his gaze matches the last words that come rolling out, "Never mind how someone would actually bundle it up, get them out, and transport them back here without it being traced."

Up he stands, his eyes narrowing just a touch as he considers just how cold she is as they talk of coffee, "Speaking of, do /you/ want some? I have some down here .You still look chilled," It's a faint touch of worry, a frown curling to the corners of his mouth, before up a hand lifts, dismissing the thought of why he'd be reaching out, "I didn't say I'd do it for you. I quite enjoy Alexander's company, and told him as much the last time we chatted in the book store," It's a reassuring smile, one that shows the sincerity of the thought, "I mentioned it because when you said it? I was worried for him."

"You would think, but, keep in mind it's probably a damned if I do or if I don't. Things can go wrong around non organic material too... see my experiment with gluminol, and the deteriorating metal. I might end up with a crumbling, concrete bunker on top of my head, and that sounds much worse to escape from than a blazing cabin. Regardless? The cabin is for me, and I can keep my 'hobby' separate. I pondered, in truth, building a cellar out back behind the cabin for the experiments. But that brings me back to equipment. I'm going to have to buy my own," This causes his features to twist up, those brown eyes studying the woman for a moment as he murmurs playfully, "How do you feel about misappropriating grant funding from some bogus research we make up?" Not that he's serious on that account, his head shaking just a touch, fingers tapping against his forearm. "I'll have to figure out something. I do well, but I don't do twenty five thousand dollar genetic testing machine well."

But all those features soften at the mention at the ball, a faint smile curling to the corners of his mouth as he listens to her telling of the ball. It earns a warm bit of laughter, and while the name isn't familiar? It's filed away for later thought, even as a small mm comes from him. "Went to the Ice ball in Seattle early on in December. Charity event. Dancing and a tarot card reading. It was lovely. Next one we have here? I'll have to make a point of going."

"Implying?" Isabella replies with exaggerated, saccharine innocence, her grin flaring out as she inclines her head at him. "Flat out telling." The tangent towards a young woman he used to know has her listening with interest up until he gets to the bit about Iceland that coaxes that visible amusement to grow, albeit tempered by the fact that the Yule cats he encountered are somehow cannibalistic. "I'm glad you got out of it unscathed," she tells him sincerely after the recounting, a leg folding by the knee, settling into a more comfortable position in the seat across from him. "And heartened that I'm not the only one opposed to, but unable to avoid, teeth very close to my face. There's strength in solidarity, you know, especially between friends."

Otherwise, she seems to be in complete agreement about his assessments with the blood test results. "Agree," she replies with a frown. "Not only is that data lost on our end, but they probably know more about us biologically on the genetic front than we do, if there is something to find, which I'm certain now that there must be, otherwise they wouldn't be commandeering analysis of our specimens in this way." Great, though there's no censure directed to the doctor at the thought. If anything, she looks concerned on his behalf - she's not all too worried about herself, as always willing to be the first in the breach if it meant preventing others from stumbling into some catastrophic inevitability. "From what I gather, hackers aren't all that particularly keen on cooperating with authorities, regardless, but my network there's limited. I only know of the one cybersecurity expert in my personal rolodex, and he's got enough legal trouble, so I'm not quite certain whether he'd be willing. And right, no lab equipment." She laughs quietly. "Breaking in is one thing, but stealing from a facility is another. Making off with potentially heavy objects complicates the entire enterprise, I think, but data? You can possibly do remotely. I think if that's going to happen, we ought to try the avenues that are actually possible for us, first. Between you and me..." And her mischief grows more palpable. "I'd prefer to get my doctorate first before I get arrested."

The offer of coffee and the visible notes of concern, followed by the gentle correction, has the young woman expelling a self-frustrated breath. She leans forward, elbows braced on her knees as she buries her face in her hands, fingers scrubbing over her skin. "Coffee would be wonderful," she confesses. "And I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be overly protective, or defensive. It's just..." Her thumb rolls over the bridge of her nose. "It's...I didn't sleep last night, and I'm concerned. I shouldn't be prodding at your buttons when you're only being kind. Is this the part where I tell you it's not you, it's me?" Her smile turns a touch more self-deprecating, fully aware of her tendency to porcupine when she feels vulnerable, or when she suspects someone she cares about is, also.

Damned if you do, damned if you don't. "With shield, or on shield, hm? I like how the Spartans said it better," she remarks lightly. Though talk about misappropriating grants has her grinning ruefully. "See earlier comment about perhaps minimizing my involvement in criminal activities up until I at least get my doctorate," she says with a quiet chuckle, though the seriousness of the matter - and the fact that it is a roadblock to his present endeavors - wipes traces of her earlier levity off her features. "I don't know about bogus research, but if you can't buy your own scientific equipment right now, I suggest renting them based on need. It'll cost a grand a month as opposed to twenty-five grand in one fell swoop. There are businesses online who cater to the renting and shipping on such equipment based on where you are." She might not be a scientist, but she's not unfamiliar with lab work - lab spaces, clean rooms and the like are required for artifact examinations and document preservation.

The softened look draws an answering one from her own face. "You mentioned that charity event at dinner, with the tarot cards? I was going to take a group of friends to see Sparrow and ask her for a reading. Should be fun. Knowing the Chairwoman, though, I'm certain the Gatsby Ball won't be the last of the Historical Society's galas. With the NYE function being such a smashing success, I wouldn't be surprised if she isn't planning for the next one already. And you should definitely come, but I can't deny a degree of bias there - I'm a newly minted member of the group." Of course she is.

A mock gasp comes, and up Yule's hand lifts, fingers spreading wide to be planted over his heart as a outright shocked expression creases his features, "Telling?" But that faux expression falters, unable to be held for long as that long, limber arm swings back down and his body slowly morphs into a being of action rather than laze. It's around the desk he goes, a mug pulled out that reads, 'A M.E. loves you for whats on the inside.' Into this the warm, freshly made coffee is poured, even as he considers, "This? Just means any teeth we encounter are your problem to deal with next time. I'm certain it's your turn. But don't worry, I? Am fantastic moral support, yeah?"

It's towards her that he treads, the talk of the tests and the facility getting another disgruntled, perturbed look from the man's features as he holds the cup out for her to take. "So. The question is what do we do about it if anything? I don't know anyone, and while I'm half tempted to drop a line to one of the pool reporters that is always hanging around looking for a scoop, just to see what they might dig up on the facility." It's easy to read the man, that he doesn't like any of the options presented to them, teeth catching against his lower lip for a moment as those brown eyes grow a distant look, peering far off in both space and time before whatever thought had captured him is broken, bringing him back to the now. "And besides the facility, what is the next step with the experiments. Still go Over There, and take two on creating the gluminol, seeing what else I might get to blow up over there. I hope we can figure out the nullification, at least, because I hate to do too much before having a safe place to keep the information."

Ahh, yes, the whole jinxing the thing, surely, but it doesn't seem to be a thought that he dwells on, a soft snort of amusement coming from him. "Please? If that is you prodding? You have nothing to fear from me. I prod much harder, I warn, such as," A frown curls to his features, giving her a solid, unyielding look, "the fact that you really should let me take a look at you to figure out why you are so cold. And, that I don't quite buy this is all just concern about him. Something tells me there is more than you are letting me know." Up a hand comes, a single finger waggling back and fourth in a, 'shame on you' expression, but there is no true disappointment to be found, only a warmth of understanding, should she wish to offer more.

"Yeah. I can rent. But at some point? I have to figure out some form of funding for this. Only so much one can do on their own, though I suppose I don't need a genetics machine /full time/. Renting one for a couple of months could do the trick, but I almost feel like I should go to... San Francisco to pick up the damn thing, and not even trust shipping into Gray Harbor after all of this." It's an edge to his tone, a sharpness that whoever had misdirected his own work to this lab? Had better hope they don't run across the M.E. any time soon. "I'll look into it. A good thought." He finally murmurs in an offer of genuine thanks as he steps back, leaning against the desk.

"Sparrow is great," He offers up, a not so subtle encouragement for her to seek out that particular reading, "You'll enjoy it, I think. She actually went with me to the charity event. The tarot reading is what had caught her eye," The smile that comes is a touch broader as he leans to that desk, one hand lowering to brush against those stacks of papers as he considers them. "You? A member of the historical society? What, didn't have quite enough going on in your life, you needed to preserve all the old sawmills around here?" It's a dubious look he casts her way, considering, but those puzzle pieces do all fit together, even as his shoulders finally lift up, all to turn back the tables to her.

"Look. You don't need to make excuses for me. Not that they were /excuses/, exactly. You are on edge, clearly, and you care about Alexander. So, no apologies accepted, yeah?" He lets a certain gravity come across with those words, to weigh upon her in their serious, heart felt nature, before he murmurs, "You can't just keep it all bundled up inside, Isabella. The worry, concern, fear. Go... shoot something. Or hit something. But let it get out, and not eat away at you, else you are going to have even more sleepless nights, I think."

"Who decided that it was my turn?" Isabella grumbles good-naturedly, though she grins broadly when she sees the mug and its clever slogan. "Was it you? Because I call shenanigans. Something feels extremely arbitrary about this." She sneaks him a grin, up until she glimpses the slogan emblazoned upon the ceramic when he hands her some fresh brew. "I collect these," she says with a quiet laugh, tapping her fingers on the slogan upon the ceramic. She has well-loved one in her houseboat, declaring: Good Morning, I See the Assassins Have Failed. She takes a sip immediately, hot bitterness searing her nerves and giving her some much needed relief against the persistent chill.

She nurses her mug of coffee as she quietly mulls over his very thoughtful questions. "At the moment, it might be too early to do anything about it. We have too little information and going the direct route when they already have our materials is risky enough - at this point we're going to have to assume that they know more about us, and this, than we know about them. If you want my opinion, I think..." Her viridian irises lift to lock into his dark ones, her expression resolute and serious. "Focus on your own work, and getting your own laboratory going, because we clearly can't trust pieces of us getting to where they need to be. I agree about limiting the tests for now to a manageable number until we figure out a way to safeguard information and acquire more without giving up more of what we already have."

After a moment of watching the steam rise from her coffee, there's suddenly a blink, epiphany washing over her as she looks up to meet his eyes. "...they have bits of us," she begins. "But it's not as if we don't have bits of them. I still have two packets of the chicken soup produced by FCN, Inc., that heals when you drink it, which means that maybe they found a way to put the healing ability into an object. If I gave you a packet, you could analyze it and maybe that'll yield some information about what they're doing over there, or how and we can apply it to your own work. Maybe? Is that something you think you could sink into? I also have my coin, and that's also created by FCN. You can examine that also, if you would like, but I would need it back. Something tells me I need to keep it with me just in case." Just a hunch.

She falls quiet at the other things - these fragments of a more personal nature that she is often reluctant to acknowledge, or confide in anyone, and for a while she doesn't meet Yule's eyes, nevermind that she hears him well enough, watching the glassy black surface of her coffee. After another quiet, quelling sip, she elects to address the laboratory problem, first. "I know a career investor who might be able to help with that," she says. "And who I can introduce you to, if you would like. He's a childhood friend of mine, and you might've heard of him. But Byron Thorne is the kind of man who expects a return on his investments, so if you decided to obtain funding from him, you'd have to come up with a way for the laboratory to develop some kind of revenue stream independent of your projects. I mean...he's like us. He's a reader, like Alexander, he might be interested in the research enough that he could offer you a loan with a fair interest rate in exchange for an equity stake in your lab - as in, some percentage of ownership. As for obtaining the rented equipment yourself? I agree. It might be the only way to ensure that the stuff gets from Point A to Point B. Might be the only way to keep it confidential, also, outside of a chosen few. If you need any help with transporting, let me know. San Francisco is a port city, and I have access to a houseboat."

There's a grin, lifting her mug to him in a salute, taking another pull from her coffee. "The Historical Society has a repository of old journals and documents from some of the oldest families in Gray Harbor, as well as records on the preservation efforts on its oldest buildings." Her eyes drift away from him to focus on his window for just a moment. "I'm going to need access to that, if I keep going the way I am." There is something about her tone, however, that suggests a deeper underpinning to those motives. "Though that isn't to say that I'm not enjoying my membership, I am. I happen to like the Chairwoman very much. Anne is a new member also, and Hyacinth Addington and I have been through a rough summer together, along with her cousin."

After a moment, she finally circles back, addressing everything else he had said. "The chill is...I think it's a consequence of my injuries from the game we were forced to play," she confesses quietly. "But I don't have the expertise to know that for sure. Did Alexander tell you about that? You knew about my foot, so I suspected that he gave you some details about what happened. But if you want to examine me, you could. Should I...?" She gestures to her outer layers of clothing. "Or are you going to...?" She taps her finger to her temple, her expression turning curious and inquisitive.

The topic about Alexander returns to the forefront, especially with his last words. After another few swallows of her coffee, she meets his dark-eyed stare directly, letting the silence last for a few heartbeats. "I'm just frustrated," she says at last, something about his earnest, heartfelt expression pulling threads of the reluctant truth out of her at last; she doesn't know what it is about Yule Duchannes that makes it easy to offer up these bits and pieces of her without the help of her tried and true scotch, but it is. "I told you earlier that I'm slowly discovering that there's very little anyone can do against the ephemeral, especially when it hurts, and keeps hurting, the one you love. I just..." She leans forward at that, setting the mug aside before she sinks her tired face into the shelter both of her warmed hands provide. "...I hate it, Yule. I hate everything it represents. I hate how helpless I feel in the face of it, because I don't know if he can fight back against it, and I can't stand the idea of being useless and ineffectual in something that truly matters, where he's concerned. It's not a casual hate. It's the black, venomous kind that sticks to my bones and marrow and craw, and the more I think about it, the sicker and nauseated I feel. That I feel it so deeply, that I had to vacate the house for a while so he wouldn't sense it, because he doesn't need this on top of everything...doesn't need to know I'm capable of feeling that way, to that extent, even if it's borne from what I feel for him, and I don't...I don't know how to purge it out of me. If I even can."

For most, there might be something slightly off-putting about being in the morgue, so close to so many souls who have expired in some of the worst ways possible, but as Isabella talks, especially towards the end, when she offers those confessions of a more personal nature, it is a nature of serenity that comes over the M.E., a calm that is both palpable and welcoming. And this time? It is those matters, of the brain and the heart that has his sharp and undivided attention, that look softening the edges of his point of view. "Sounds like? You need to stop feeling sorry for yourself." Comes the bluntness, those warm, chocolate flecks watching her own of emerald, holding them in an easy gaze as long as she'll allow it. "You have a couple of ways of looking at this. First? Logically. All of this danger that Alexander is in? He'd still be doing what he does if you were not in his life. If he'd never met you. It's in his blood," Perhaps quite literally, given what they've just found out about these labs.

"And if you think he isn't a touch more cautious because he has someone he truly cares about? You are wrong. You don't need to physically lay your hands around the proverbial neck of the ephemeral to help him. Just being there? Being you? He'd probably never say it. Hell, he may not even realize it," There is a touch of wry mirth there, mingled with a certain sadness at the recognition of just how difficult and new these sorts of things are for both Alexander and Isabella, two people tossed into the emotional deep end of the pool for their first time each. "But it helps. A lot. If you want the emotional? I get the hatred," It's cracks upon the ice, that ominous sound beneath ones feet, the way his features contort momentarily, but the calm doesn't shatter, only chipped, as it settles back into place. "And it isn't going away. You don't purge, you control. You vent and reduce. And then? Wrap your arms around all of the /great/ things that comes with this particular ride too."

With that spoken to, only then does his attention drift back to the matter at hand, Yule shifting to start walking around the desk. It isn't to grab anything, but merely to pace, his head wobbling back and fourth before he murmurs, "I don't think that will work," He comments about that source of funding she dangles before him, the potential understood but no clear path to the end. "There would be no return on investment, from a monetary sense. It isn't as if I'm going to quit what I do to run a lab full time, and even if I did? I'm my own primary customer. There wouldn't be much to have a stake of ownership in, save for being shared the information we discover." It might well just be something that has to rumble around in his head for a while, but the thought of help? That does get his interest, when it comes to the procurement. "I'm pretty certain I can't fit a machine into my car," That one she'd be familiar with, given it's how they went to get coffee after dinner. "And it'd be a long trip. Company would be good."

Which brings them back to what he would need, and how they shall get it. "Examining the coin would be good. And anything else we can get our hands on. But that," A hand lifts, one finger extending out as she talks of the packet, and that gets a smile back upon his features, "Yes. I like that. Very much. And it sounds like it does last a long time.. that they created it in a way the soup can be made days, weeks after whatever magic they did on it was done. Yeah. Let's start with the soup, and after I've picked it apart, we will get to the coin. If I can figure out what they did to it? Then maybe I'll have a far better shot at replicating it with other means." Laughter spill fourth, bright if brief, the examiner returning towards her in that relentless need to burn off excess energy, letting his mind mull things around while his body is in idle motion. "How many people were chilled, like you? This was after I took a sample of your blood, yeah? I think," His hand lifts to tap on his own temple in a replication of her own gesture, "is better. Not sure I'll get much out of a more traditional examination. Though taking your vitals isn't a bad idea."

And in that line of thought, his right hand extends out, fingers parted in a gesture that lets her see what he plans to do before it is done, giving her every opportunity to stop it. It's simply to take her wrist, letting fingers find her pulse before those brown eyes shift to the clock, watching the seconds tick by. Only once he's finished does his voice pick back up. "We should dig up all we can on FCN through normal means, as well. Research. Probably more your or Alexander's forte in digging around records. And on that subject? Is there something in particular you hope to find in the historical society repository? Was there a specific thing, or does it just drive you mad knowing there are sources of knowledge out there you didn't have access too, hmm?"

"Yule, I'm in no way even implying that this is all logical," Isabella tells him after his reassurances, and by the expression filling that emerald stare, he'd find a degree of resignation - some manner of acceptance that this is going to be how it is. "He's twelve years older than me, he's been knifing dark things since he was eleven, from my accounting of his earlier memories, I just...I don't know. I'm used to action, because particularly in that specific arena, my words are clumsy and liable to make things worse, and all of what I can do now feels so passive. Reactive. Waiting for the next shoe to drop, and I'm not accustomed to that. I'm not so conceited that I'm trying to position myself to be the one to slay his dragons - nobody can do that but him. But being there and knowing and...I don't know if I'm articulating all of this very well." Because she's terrible at feelings, and how she's managed to stumble into a relationship is beyond her. "All I know is that I hate..." That he has to relive his suffering in the flesh. "...he's been through enough," is what she elects to say in the end.

She does capitulate grudgingly to his warmth and the gentle way he chastizes her self-pity, or her self-harshness, for she is always that - she is the hardest on herself, and after two great and heavy failures, perhaps it is difficult to view herself as anything other than ineffectual when the stakes are high. But that is treading into arenas she's not ready to tackle with anyone, even if talking to Yule is easier than talking to most. His own anguish, though, is one that she glimpses in that split-second window when it cuts through his own experiences, remembering the fragments of his own past that he was so willing to share with her. "I know you probably do," she offers, quietly, at last. "About the hate. From...when you had to identify her, or something else?" Because she can't help but ask, and willingly offers that channel, too, when he's so willing to lend an ear, and counsel her through difficult waters.

"Anyway, if positioning yourself to be beholden to a financier won't work for you, you can always take out actual loan from a bank," she says, running through the options in her head and watching him pace. "Nothing local, at least not here. But maybe one of the bigger ones headquartered in Seattle. You're a doctor, I'm sure you'd be able to apply for one easily. Meanwhile, while you work out your finances there, there's always renting, like you said. It's not as if you're going to need that sort of equipment constantly." There's a hint of a smile. "But sure, we'll see what we can do trying to get something like that over here. As for the packet? I'll deliver it to you right away - I left it in Alexander's place. And yeah, this was definitely after you took a sample of my blood, and there were about seven or eight other people with me. Alexander was one, Byron was another, Lilith Winslow and a few others I didn't recognize..." And Captain Javier de la Vega's daughter, a development that she did not see coming at all. But there's a faint nod in acquiescence to his examination with his mind. She straightens up on her seat in readiness, and when he extends a hand, she reaches out with her own, rolling up the cuff of her sleeve.

The bracelet glints at the light, part of her every day wear now since the holidays - a simply elegant, but beautiful silver thing set with three charms that seem to follow a similar theme: Dandelions. One set with glittering citrines, one a simple silver disk embossed with its fluff, blowing in the wind, and one clear glass ball, with a perfectly preserved fluff within. They catch the faint light in his office.

Her green-and-gold gaze follows the nuances of his face when he watches the seconds tick by, though when she speaks up again, her tone is soft: "Well, there's always the last one," she tells him with a smirk. "I can lose myself in archives for days. And...more information on my mother's family, really." She hesitates, but only briefly, before she continues. "The B in my card stands for Baxter." He would have it, in his possessions, as she had given it to him during dinner - a plain white card with Oxford's logo, with her full name: Isabella B. Reede, Senior Research Assistant for the School of Archaeology.

"Things of the heart seldom make logical sense," Yule agrees, a faint smile flickering to life as he considers her thoughts, "But that's not what I'm saying. Exactly. And I get words don't change that nagging desire to fix things, but in the end? The question you have to ask yourself is if he's better off having you to lean on when he needs it, or if he'd be worse off if you weren't around. And we both know the answer. It helps to have someone close to you you can rely on... even if there are points of frustration it brings, too. Just have to keep reminding yourself of that when the doubts are the worst." But all of those thoughts falter when she asks that singular question about his own pain, his eyes shifting to look through the wall that separates office from morgue.

"Not identifying her. Part of it, of course. But," His mouth purses, features scrunching up for a moment to squash down feelings that had been dealt with long ago, "At first it was hate at myself, yeah? For having let her go back by herself. For so many choices that, in the end, probably wouldn't have made a difference. And then hate at the person who killed her. Thoughts of what I'd do if I could get my hands on them. It took a long time to let someone come close to me again, in any meaningful, real way. Like I said. Plenty of dumpster fires of relationships, after that." A soft snort comes from the man, his head turning back to let those chocolate eyes bore into her for a moment, a turbulent swirl of emotions that so typically are not present upon the M.E. before it all calms back down.

"It's less being beholden, and more about... it being a poor investment for making money," Comes a glimmer of amusement, the normal facade of the man reappearing in the aftermath of that personal sharing of details. "One step at a time, I suppose. Rentals first. I'll make a few calls, and then I'll take you up on assistance on transporting it." With things agreed to, matters in hand with the soup packets and other matters, the full brunt of his focus turns to Isabella herself, that pile of layers beneath her, and then he steps forward. One can feel - and see, in whatever way it manifests for her - that tingle of magic, and then? Nothing. It's like a big firework everyone waits for to go off, but ends up being a dud, and one isn't certain if they should ... wait longer, or walk away, or go try and light the much, much shorter fuse again.

His fingers curl about the pulse point of her wrist, because of course Yule? Is going to try again. It's just what one does when there is a puzzle to be solved, a bit of failure can't hold you back. And this time, something does happen, a course of exploratory spirit through her to try and gather information, like a magical blood pressure test, save on a far different level. "Yeah?" He finally murmurs, and then his eyes flicker back to the present, his focus regained, "Something in particular you are looking for with your mother? Baxter. I'll take a bit more blood, just to compare before and after samples. Doubtful there will be anything there, but should I find something to help keep you warm? You'll be the first to know, of course."

"It's not as if..." He doesn't have other people, the words are on her tongue, ready to find the air, but Isabella pauses at that; the words sound avoidant, and some selfish part of her is recoiling at the idea that he might prefer to go to others - it does absolutely nothing but increase her self-doubts regarding her own adequacy to be a good partner, and so her jaw clicks shut. All Yule gets then, in the end, is a soft grousing noise that has the young woman tilting her head back against her seat in a helpless slump, because feelings are messy and difficult and perhaps she would be willing to wash her hands of them if Alexander wasn't so...

...so....

The bittersweet ache that she readily associates with him twists within her ribcage, knowing immediately that for all of her bluster, she's unable to do that and so she lifts her head to fix him with a single open eye. "This is why I don't tell you anything without a sizable amount of liquor in me, just so you know," she grumps at him, though there's a smile - it doesn't go away, up until he visibly falters and a more serious look falls upon her, his own turbulence finding her own storms. There's a long pause, because something resonates there, too. "When it comes to a loss like that, I don't think anyone could ever blame you for going back over and over again, trying to think of what you could've done differently to avoid it," she tells him, words stressed with sympathy that she's not ready to explain to him at the moment. "Even if you hadn't moved on from that, I'd be the last person in the world to judge - and really anyone who does can get..." And while she doesn't say the epithet out loud, her hand shifts in emphasis, her middle digit extending outward. "But I'm glad to hear that...it hasn't prevented you from moving forward, after a fashion." After a moment, she ventures, tentatively, "....did they ever...?" Was the perpetrator ever caught?

With her wrist extended, she can feel it - how he tries to diagnose her with his mind, and then again when the first try fails - there's a hint of a sheepish look there; her defenses tend to be formidable for one who doesn't practice all too often with her abilities. But he'd be able to feel it well enough; the cold is unnatural, clinging to the blood and influenced by an external source, certainly not something diagnosable within the realm of human medical science, and the more he turns it over in his senses, the more it slowly starts to attach to him also, unless he pulls back quickly - he would know that if he even tries to heal her, it would affect him too. Her physical heartbeat, however, is strong and normal - where a young woman should be, who engages in regular physical activity.

"Okay." She'll wait until he releases her, before she starts drawing her outer layers off her for the blood draw, her shivering becoming more prominent at every piece of fabric dispensed until she's just in a long-sleeved shirt that she can roll up to introduce him to the vein in her inner elbow. After a quiet moment of contemplation, she answers his question. "The Baxters were the first settlers of Gray Harbor, and there isn't much on them - or even this entire area until they got here. The Addingtons took over later, of course, but I think their settlement is tied to how Gray Harbor...became the way it is."

Yule's features crease at that push back from the examination, whatever it is in her seeking to reach out in a way that has his hand suddenly jerking back. It's seen visually in those features, the perplexed look that comes in the set of a frown as he stares at her wrist, trying to puzzle the matter through for a few long seconds. "Whatever it is, it is like using powers on you is the way it spreads, like a virus. I wonder," A soft mmph comes from the M.E., those eyes lifting up to focus on her, "Have you tried sitting under a heat lamp? It might not help in the least, but. If what it has done is turned you cooler blooded, like a reptile? More layers won't necessarily help. But a heat source would, yeah? Course, you might just be cold until whatever it is has run its course."

Wheels can be heard, the click of a door, and the words of, "Got one for you to sign for, doc." all draw one to the conclusion that his day job, so to speak, has come knocking with work. It has Yule offering a sympathetic smile to the woman, as he murmurs, "I'll take a look at the sample, get some things going on it when I can. We will talk again soon. And in the meantime? Try and enjoy the moments you get with Alexander." Yes, he had heard her question, that half unspoken thought of his own personal matter, and surely the glance away when she'd inquired spoke volumes about his thoughts on it, the potential dangling hooks, but he doesn't give any further answer. It's too much, what with death already hanging around the place, and another body that requires his full capacity.

"Take care, Isabella. I'll be in touch," Comes his promise, one hand lifting to give a light squeeze to her shoulder, and then he's heading out of the office and through the swinging doors that leads into the morgue.