2020-08-07 - Hell on Earth, But Nice

The sky is gray. The sea is gray. But the weather is pleasantly warm rather than sweltering, and there's a nice breeze from the sea, so the deck is actually pretty busy with tourists and students, while the interior is less so. Which suits Alexander just fine. He's dressed in his aggressively casual manner, his hair neatly trimmed, and a darker suntan than usual as he makes his way up to the bar and sits down in a place where he can keep an eye on the door and the deck. Not wanting to join into the merriment so much as watch it, apparently. He orders a cheap beer and, after a moment of thought, some onion rings.

There has been two notable changes to the Danish guy's appearance since Alexander had the pleasure of probably not actually noticing him at all while Alexander himself argued with Lyric at the Secrets of the Attic Thrift Store a few days back. Ravn has swapped the black turtleneck sweater for a black t-shirt and the black kidskin gloves for a pair of bright yellow rubber gloves -- the former perhaps because August is bloody hot (at least by Danish standards) and the second because, well, kidskin gloves go poorly with washing glasses and whatever other menial tasks a barback does. Some of these tasks involve the men's urinal. Maybe this is why there is now a small fly or spider sticker at the bottom of each urinal, subtly encouraging patrons to take better aim. Surprisingly, it seems to be working. The rest of his outfit -- jeans, boots, blazer -- are still black. It seems to be a theme.

At the moment he wanders around, collecting dirty glasses and plates as necessary but otherwise pretty much staying out of the way of the patrons; students and tourists rank pretty high on the global top ten of people prone to leaving a veritable trail of empty wrappers, used napkins, cigarette butts, and dropped cellphones. He looks quite cheerful about it all; boring and occasionally dirty as the job is, the man seems positively content. Alexander gets the same kind of good-natured smile as everyone else although for a flicker of a second there is recognition in Ravn's grey eyes; the guy Lyric argued with.

Alexander notices Ravn, first by the bright flash of the gloves, the yellow standing out against the black theme of the man's clothing. And then, it's because Ravn is new - and therefore instantly suspicious. He frowns, trying to remember...ah, yes. When Ravn comes close enough to be spoken to in his rounds, he says, "You're the guy who was at the thrift shop. Ravn Abildgaard." He has to sound it out a bit slowly, but he does his best to get the unfamiliar pronunciation, which he's only heard once, correct. "I heard you got caught up in something," he adds, after a moment, because small town gossip travels at the speed of light, even if you're not the most social person. "You okay?"

The barback pauses -- and seems to decide that Alexander's table needs a washcloth. It's as good as an excuse as any to linger for a bit without drawing all the attention. "I'm not the one who ended up in hospital," he murmurs by means of answer. "I guess that makes me pretty okay compared to Vic." He says the bartender's name as if he expects Alexander to know who she is; maybe the foreigner has already learned at least that much about small towns -- everyone does indeed know everyone, or at least it usually feels that way.

He nods, though. "I'm fine. For a kind of Grey Harbor kind of fine, yes? Still sort of half expecting some police officer to turn up and ask me why I disappeared right out of church but I'm starting to think that's pretty normal for here."

"Victoria." Alexander frowns, glances towards the bar, where there is not a certain bartender. "Was she badly injured?" His eyes flick back to Ravn, and he stares like he's trying to crawl into the other guy's skull. There's silence that goes on too long to be polite, before he nods, abruptly. "You might get some questions. But not about disappearances, usually. We have a lot of those. And murders, and suicides. Statistically anomalous, but if you don't stand out, then it's hard to really notice it. People just move on." Another awkward pause. "You're working here, now? For Bennie and Easton?"

"Took a bullet to the hip. I don't know how bad it is," Ravn confirms. "I've never seen anyone get shot before but the EMTs didn't act like she was about to die, and Bennie hasn't said anything to that effect either so I'm assuming it wasn't too horrific."

The Danish guy doesn't seem all that bothered by being stared at; one could even get the impression that he doesn't mind at all, or that he just doesn't notice. He picks a few abandoned glasses off the next table before continuing to swab the one Alexander's at. "Well, I haven't met Easton -- people tell me he's missing. Vic set me up with a bit of work as a barback, yes. Figured I should be doing something useful if I'm going to stick around for a while. You know, besides pestering the locals with uncomfortable questions." The last sentence is accompanied by a crooked little smile. "And you are -- the guy Lyric argued with at the thrift shop. Sorry, I didn't really catch your name. I'm not very good with names."

Alexander makes a noise at the news. "Unfortunate." He tilts his head to one side. "You've never seen anyone shot before?" He says it like this is something interesting, rather than the default for most human beings - even in the USA. He watches him move away to the other table, then return. "Uncomfortable questions? I like questions." He tries to smile; there's something wrong with it. Like someone's explained what a smile is supposed to do to him, but he's never had lips before. "Alexander Clayton. And yes. It wasn't an argument, not really. But yes." He takes a pull from his bottle and says, "No one comes to Gray Harbor from overseas to scrub bar tables. Why are you here? Did you get lost?"

"I'm Danish. We have this idea about guns. Not everyone's got one." Ravn decides that he might as well take his break now as later. Straightening up he leans against the next table -- fortunately unoccupied as patrons generally prefer to sit closer to the bar, the drinks and the music -- and studies the man sitting by the door. Then he shakes his head. "I was going to Portland, actually. Hitched a ride out of Seattle, got into an argument with the driver, ended up on the curb here, outside the art gallery. Thought I was going to get on the next Greyhound out of town but -- you guys have a veritable Hotel California thing going here, you realise. I imagine I'll be sticking around, at least until the end of the tourist season. This place has way too many stories for a guy like me to just pack up and leave."

Alexander makes a more natural attempt at a smile, although it's mostly in his eyes. "I don't particularly like guns, myself. But there are a lot of hunters around. And criminals." The only thing remarkable about the sentence is that he says it in Danish - halting, like he's having to feel his way through each word, but recognizably the language. After a moment, he adds, "I think I like Danish, though. It feels nice." Then, switching back to English, he continues, "Gray Harbor is like a pitcher plant for people who stand out. Except less charming. Sorry. What sort of guy are you, who can't walk away from stories?" His head turns, looking out towards the casino on the Harbor. He frowns. "You're not a horror writer, are you?"

Ravn blinks. His surprise is quite genuine as he looks the other man up and down and tries to parse what he just saw and heard. Then, slowly, he murmurs, "Please tell me you took Danish in high school because you were in love with Shakespeare and wanted to read Hamlet in the original or something. Because the alternative is kind of disturbing. I'm a folklorist. Studying stories and how they work is what I do -- or did before I quit University, anyway."

"If you think the Gray Harbor educational system has the budget or interest in offering Danish as a high school language, you really haven't been here very long," Alexander says, with a flash of dry humor. At least he sticks to English, now. "But I speak languages pretty well." How? He doesn't say, but the fact that there's a steady, strong glow around him for those who have a bit of Glimmer might point to a possibility. "Folklore." A pause, then he drinks from his bottle. "Yeah. We've got a lot of stories. You might not like them all, though. Why did you quit university? Which university?" The questions are fired off without shame or hesitation.

The crooked smile grows a tad wider; Ravn seems to actually be enjoying this strange interrogation. He pulls up a chair and turns it around, sitting on it backwards so that he's resting his arms on the backrest, facing the other man. "That's the fun thing about folklore -- everybody loves hearing a good ghost story, no one wants to be in one. That'd be the University of Copenhagen, and I quit after getting my PhD, to go travelling. Starting to wonder, though, if there's anyone in this town who can't do some trick or other to make me drop my jaw. Picking languages out of somebody's head like that could come in handy -- what else do you pick out while you're in there?" He taps the side of his temple with a fingertip that's still sheathed in yellow rubber glove.

Despite the fact that Alexander was never quite polite enough to issue an actual invitation, he seems pleased that Ravn sits down. His fingers pick out a rhythm on the tabletop, tapping rapidly as he studies the man across from him. "Dr. Abildgaard, then. Nice to meet you. You should meet Isabella Reede. She's an archaeologist." Something changes when he says the name, warm and bright as compared to his usual flatness. At the question, he shrugs. "I don't...the languages aren't. I don't have to reach for them. Now. It just happens. But I read emotions, mostly. Not facts. I can't get your PIN number or your secrets, if you're worried."

"Ravn is fine," the other man says. "Dr Abildgaard sounds like somebody who should be giving that class in folklore your high school probably doesn't have either. Not particularly worried about what you might find in my head if you could, though -- I haven't really got any deep, dark secrets. I'm a pretty open book, and not a very exciting one, either -- that's probably why I go hunting for other people's stories instead." He cants his head at the observation about emotions though. "Some kind of empathic thing? That must bloody suck at times, at least if you can't shut it off."

"Ravn," Alexander says, with a bob of his head. "That's unusual. Most people don't think they're boring. A lot of people don't even like the idea that someone might see them. A lot of people don't like themselves very much," he says, with the certainty that only an empath can have. "But folklore is interesting, and I bet you're not as boring as you claim. Even if you probably haven't killed anyone." This is said like it's a regrettable but forgivable character flaw. He looks down. "And, yes. It can be unpleasant. Sorry." He looks back up. "Are you here to do research on anything in particular? Or just...seeing what stories exist?"

"I'm here because I got into an argument with a truck driver and I'm a European shitmonkey who can find another damn ride to Portland." The barback grins and shakes his head. "Now I'm here, though, I do want to find out what's going on here -- the whole Hotel California vibe the place has got, the sparkle shine glow thing, the dreams... There has to be some kind of explanation. In the old world, we've got all kinds of legends and stories about that sort of thing but I never thought any of it was actually real."

He backs up a moment and considers the other man's inquiry a moment. "Well, I can get on board with the not liking yourself so much, I suppose, or at least not being -- you know, convinced that I'm all that and a slice of pie. I'm pretty sure I've only caused one person's death and if you want to be technical about it, she was an idiot to go drive three times as fast as allowed in the middle of the night, after having a bottle of wine -- even if we had an argument."

"A European shitmonkey." Alexander's lips twitch, and he takes another swallow. "Did you try to tell him about socialized healthcare, or something?" But the rest, oddly, seems to make sense to him. He nods, slowly, and doesn't interrupt. Just listens, eyebrows going up at the last. He thinks about it, turning the words over in his head, before saying, "Yes, that sounds idiotic. And probably not your fault, unless you cut her break line or something. Just because someone's mad at you, it doesn't make the things they do because of that anger your responsibility." He shrugs.

Tap-tap-tap go his fingers on the wood. "Dunno if there's a real explanation for the rest, though. Bits and pieces. If you have questions, I'll answer what I can. I'd say 'so you'll leave faster', but it sounds like you've been bitten pretty hard, so it probably won't work."

"Are you a drummer, perhaps? I used to play with a guy, tapped everything all the time. Said it helped him develop his sense of rythm. He plays in an internationally acclaimed band now so I guess he had a point." The European shitmonkey in question glances at Alexander's hands and then can't help another small smile. "And yeah, actually. That's what I did. He told me his mum was in hospital and he was trying to raise money for her surgery and I said something sympathetic about how that must suck under the American system and he blew his lid at me. Wore a red hat and everything, I should have gotten a picture for my blog just to prove that he was real. I haven't met anyone else here who really lived up to the stereotypes we've got when it comes to Americans -- you all seem pretty decent for people who read minds and do telekinesis, and whatnot."

Alexander's hands go completely still, and his shoulders hunch defensively, like he has to stop himself from hiding the one that was tapping. "No. I just tap things." His flat expression is a combination of make something of it and mute apology. His hand creeps over to the bottle, so now he's holding onto it with two hands, and thus keeping them out of trouble. "Cognitive dissonance is hell for some people to manage. Sorry about that being an introduction. And we have our moments. In both directions. But most people are okay enough." A glance towards the bar. "Bennie's pretty great, if you want someone who's nice. She's made of nice."

"Tap away," the Dane murmurs. "You tap things. I sit and look at people and wonder what's in their pockets and how hard it would be to steal it. To each their own bad habit, right?" He glances towards the bar as well and nods with another small smile. "Yeah. She's made of sunshine. I feel like if I'm ever going to sit down for a longer chat with her, I should pick up a pair of shades first. You don't often meet people who are just genuinely nice."

He looks back at Alexander with those blue-grey eyes of his and studies him openly. "So you're a local boy? Grew up in the madness?"

Alexander's shoulders relax fractionally, and his defensiveness eases at Ravn's response. He even offers the briefest flicker of a smile. "Do you know how to pick people's pockets?" he asks, sounding genuinely curious. Talk of Bennie turns that slight smile into a wide one, a flash of something sunny that takes ten years off his face. "Good. You understand. She's not all unicorn farts and flowers, but she's good." He nods, easily enough. "Born and raised. Went to Portland for college, traveled around a bit afterwards, but," he sighs, "I came back. What's the saying? Home is where they can't turn you out when you come crawling back?"

"Beats me. I know how crazy it sounds but Gray Harbor feels more like home to me after a week than anywhere I lived for years." Ravn gives a small shrug, the kind that says, yeeeep, I do know just how much sense that makes. Then he nods. "Well, yeah. I do know how -- doesn't mean I do, though. Just something I taught myself for shit and giggles as a teenager. And the... You know, the shine thing. It comes in handy for pulling sleight-of-hand tricks."

Alexander stares at Ravn, then shakes his head. "You've got it bad," he tells the other man, solemnly. "I'm sorry. Or your home sucked. And I'm also sorry." He takes another swallow of his beer. "Do you move things, then? I don't move things at all." He sounds wistful. "If you're strong enough, you can open doors to the Veil if you can move things. And take things from the other side. I don't recommend either of those things, for the record. But you can."

"I can steal things," Ravn corrects, lowering his voice a little; maybe not every summer guest, sailsportsman and student in the bar needs to know that. "I suppose that means yes, I move things. Honestly, though, the things I've seen people do here in just a week -- I'm an amateur. If I was to give it a shot, I'd probably just do it the oldfashioned way most of the time -- it's a lot easier."

"Everyone's an amateur," Alexander says. He frowns at his bottle. "Not modesty. We're all just fumbling in the dark, really. Trying to figure out how and why, and sometimes things change. But it's wise not to rely on it, no matter how strong you are. It attracts Them."

"And by Them you mean the things that feed on people." The Danish guy nods. He has apparently been paying at least some attention in the week or so he's been in town. "People here seem to kind of come in two groupings. Those who don't want to know anything and just want to go about their lives -- the 'get on the next bus out' crowd. And people who are more along the lines of 'well, you're not going to leave' -- they seem to be trying to find out what's going on too. I'm kind of trying to meet the last kind. Because I figure you've all done a lot of the research already and it'd be pretty silly of me to start from scratch instead of peeking at your Cliff's Notes."

That, at least, may explain why he doesn't mind being interrogated. Interrogations can go both ways.

Alexander hesitates, then nods. "Yeah. Dolorphages, I used to call them. Before I really talked to anyone about this stuff. Or the Shadows. I didn't even know if they really existed, or if it was just," he reaches up and taps his temple, "me being me. But they do. And they feed off of pain, suffering, and fear. Bad juju, if you like. Using powers attracts them, and then they hurt you to feed. Or because they want to?" He shakes his head. "I don't know that a traditional predator-prey relationship is at all suited for trans-dimensional entities, or what it is they actually get from us. But they fuck with us, and they seem to really enjoy it." He finishes off the beer, peels off the label. "Some people think the Dreams are punishment for using our abilities. I don't know. Insufficient data. But...yeah. People try to look into it. A lot of them burn out quickly, though. One bad Dream too many."

"Pain eaters," the Dane translates thoughtfully; the man did profess to being an academic. "If they're anything like old world faerie it's not punishment. It can be feeding. But more likely, it really just is as you say, fucking with us because why not. Like bull fights, or whale killing in the Faroes. Animals get hurt but what the hell -- there's more where they come from, and besides, it's traditional. Can't get in the way of tradition."

He shifts his position slightly, glancing over his shoulder a second to verify that indeed, no one particularly needs him; supposedly he is working, after all. As no one has managed to create a dramatic mess near the bar though, Ravn stays seated. "I get what you mean about burning out. Getting depressed. Scared. The girl you argued with -- didn't argue with, whatever you prefer -- keeps talking about people, and whenever I ask about them, she tells me they're gone. She has a list of people who's disappeared or died or gone away that's longer than the phone directory of my home town. That sort of thing has got to grind you down over time."

Alexander nods. "Yes. Most people seem to call them the Dark Men. But I don't know if anyone's ever seen one. You more...feel them. Know they're there. Fear they're there." His shoulders hunch, and he starts tearing the label into tiny, neat shreds. Shrrrrp. Shrrrrp. A slight background noise almost lost in the laughter of some tourists a few tables down. "And yeah. Most people try not to notice. Just sort of gloss over the disappearances, the deaths. It's...easier. To do that. Sometimes they hire me, if it was someone they really loved. But most of the time, all I can say is 'here's where they probably disappeared from, and they're probably not coming back'. And then they just...go on. As they can. If you stand out, like you or I, it's easier to remember things." A pause. "But that's not necessarily better."

"Everyone tells me to make friends. So that someone'll come looking for me when I eventually disappear. That the sort of thing you mean?" Ravn absentmindedly dips into a pocket for a coin -- some small, foreign denomination -- which begins to wander across his knuckles, on top of the yellow rubber. It does not seem to really be a conscious thing; it's entirely possible that Alexander is not the only person present who has a habit of doing things with his hands; possibly to keep them from wandering off on their own and returning with people's car keys. "I'm not going to say I think this place sounds great. It sounds like Hell on Earth, to be honest. But it feels like home. I've kind of spent the first thirty years of my life doing nothing and just wandering around. I get that the life expectancy here drops dramatically once you set foot inside the city limits, but hey, maybe what life you get actually matters."

Alexander blinks a couple of times. "No." A pause, before he explains in tones that suggest he's trying to be reassuring, "If you disappear, your friends won't be able to find you. No one will. You either get out on your own, or you...don't. And you die. But friends are nice because they're friends. So you should make them." He watches the coin walk across Ravn's knuckles with a fixed interest, like a cat watching a fluttering bird. "Hell on Earth is close. But when you're not being tormented by supernatural predators, it's mostly just a small town, and it's not that bad." It doesn't sound sarcastic at all.

"We've got a saying back home for when we do something stupid: Gotta be a reason you die." Ravn adds another coin; he wasn't kidding about doing sleight-of-hand. "At least if you have friends, someone'll notice you're gone. Back home, it'd mostly just be somebody grumbling about paperwork. I'm not really the kind of person who leaves a large grieving crowd of friends and family."

Alexander just stares at Ravn for a long time, longer than is even remotely polite. "You sound very lonely. I'm sorry."

A small smile flits across Ravn's face. "Maybe that's why Gray Harbor feels like home? I don't know."

Alexander thinks that over, then nods. "It's possible." He reaches into his pocket, wriggling in his seat a little to free his phone, and says, "Give me your number. I'll text you. So you know someone. Even if it's me." He looks up, offers another brief smile. "Enjoy the summer, though. It's the least awful time of the year."

"I'm Danish," Ravn says dryly. "We have one week a year it's not raining, and that's usually because it's snowing instead." He takes out his cell phone all the same -- an Android, in a bright pink and sparkly Hello Kitty casing. "And from the sounds of it, I'm not the only person around here who's not so great at personal relationships."

"You'll fit right into the Pacific Northwest, then," Alexander says, dryly, with a look out at the overcast sky. He raises an eyebrow at the cell phone, but doesn't tease. He just sends a text when he gets the number, then puts his own phone away as he stands up. "No. Most people around here are a little broken. Some are a lot." And then? He just walks away, going up to the bar to pay his tab and tip, then shuffling out of the bar without anything so polite as a 'goodbye'.