2020-08-12 - The Cat in the Cradle

Gray Harbor has a few things going for it as a tourist destination; not quite enough to put it on a traveller's map as a Must See destination, but just enough that at least in the summer, the sidewalks downtown crowd with people who aren't locals. There's the yachters in their white caps -- a nation of people who think the only suitable colours to wear are stormy blue, forest green, and dark navy, and no polo shirt without some naval motif or logo embroidered on the breast pocket in discreet metallic thread. There's the plaid shirt wearers in their man buns and combat boots -- some wandering in pursuits of cafés at which to see and get seen, others genuine nature lovers stopping in on their way to or back from the national park. There's the occasional kid having discovered grunge music two decades too late, wandering around wistfully hoping to meet the ghost of Kurt Cobain. There's women in sun dresses, men in light shirts, kids dashing in and out between the legs of adults -- tourists.

It's a perfect day to set up and do whatever your thing is, to tease wallets out of pockets. A kid with pierced eyebrows is playing an acoustic guitar; he's doing Carry On My Wayward Son, which makes him an instant success with a couple of girls, one of whom is wearing a shirt that reads Jared Padalecki Is My Secret Husband. A mime in a gold suit, his skin painted to match, stands still, pretending to be a statue of Lord Nelson on Trafalgar Square; when he suddenly winks at a little girl she screams and hides behind her mother.

It's a nice day. A pleasant day. The rare sun is out, chasing away the grey skies from which the town takes its ominous name. Life is good.

Ravn Abildgaard easily passes for one of the tourists as he wanders along, perusing the shop displays. He's got a bag in one hand, the shape of which indicates that he's lugging some laptop around for some reason; perhaps he just went and bought it in the games and electronics shop further down the street. The Dane pauses here and there to watch the mime and to nod approvingly at the guitar player, tossing both a few coins as he walks past.

Aidan works the Boardwalk most often, partly because he likes the sea and partly because most people like the sea, and no one's down there trying to just get through the day except the other people who work down there, really. Downtown, sometimes you get grumpy people doing errands and getting annoyed by the knot of people blocking the sidewalk. It's touristy enough and nice enough out today that people are mostly in decent moods, however, even locals more inclined to pause and watch the performers, maybe even toss them a coin or two. Or a few, in the case of certain Danes.

The magician's done fairly well in his last performance, and just finished folding his table up into its strange-wooden-shoulder-suitcase form and settling it in place. Now he's starting down the street himself, folding the bills from inside the top hat and tucking them into his pocket, pouring the change from it into a small zippered coin purse, trading it into his pocket for the notes and a wallet to put the former into the latter, once the hat's back on his head. It's a practiced little series of movements, as much as any of his tricks. But rather less entertaining. It does mean he can afford a nice snack, though, and that's what he's in search of as he lifts a hand to wave to the guitarist and notices a familiar blond in black between them. "Hey!" he calls brightly, adding a second, redirected wave.

Today the top hat and tailcoat are over an open hawaiian shirt like a sunset with silhouetted palm trees, a white sequined tank-top that grabs the light greedily, and the red skinny jeans Aidan was in when they first met. He also, it turns out, has a big pair of roundish plastic black sunglasses, a bit Jackie O, which emerge from his rear pocket and get slid into place as he approaches. Sunny out.

They are such a vision of contrast; one man in sombre, quiet shades of black -- the other, a veritable fountain of colourful statements. Ravn grins broadly at the busker and, upon realising that his show is over, wanders over there; wouldn't do to disturb him when performing, although he wouldn't mind a chance to see if he could figure out how some of the tricks are being done. Just, professional interest, yanno.

"Good day?" he asks and nods his head at a group of passing tourists with cameras who pause to snap pictures of the golden Lord Nelson fellow. "Looks like the right kind of weather to me. I was going to grab something to eat before heading out back to the bay, want to join in?"

The top hat and coat are black! And the glasses and boots! Arguably the palm trees, too! ...and yet... no, somehow, that is not the colour anyone's likely to be noticing on the otherwise-darker man by contrast. "Good day!" he confirms, with a grin that's nearly as brilliant as his shirt, "And I was just going to grab a snack too, so yeah, thanks! Where're you thinking? I could eat... okay not anything but a lot of things. Definitely anything anywhere here's gonna sell us, anyway." The statue-dude gets a quick grin and up-nod when they're in his general area; no tip right now, but then he's been out here a while, might've sometime earlier. He tilts his head, looking at Ravn's bag: "Writing stuff today?"

"Anywhere that has food and coffee," Ravn grins and nods. "Well, no, today was picking up the laptop in the first place. Typing on a cell phone drives me nuts -- but, I didn't want to lug something like this around while I was on the road. It's heavy, and it says steal me to all the wrong people. An old cell phone, no one bothers to nick it, at least not if the guy holding it is six foot three -- and they don't happen to know that he's a lanky asthmatic."

There are numerous places on Main Street that one can grab something to eat without having to put on a tie or pay a small fortune; most of them are crowded by tourists as you'd expect, but not to the point where one would require an ice breaker to get through. With a bit of constructive elbowing the two men manage to end up possessed of paninis. Thankfully, there is a bench not too far away, and a lady with two grumpy kids in tow is vacating it. It's like a sign from above in a street full of people, and Ravn makes his way there to claim it before that group of teenagers over there decide that they're tired too.

"I mean, they kinda do know he's lanky," Aidan points out, grinning, "Turtlenecks and blazers don't suddenly make us look like The Rock, y'know. But yeah, still. Even light ones would be less travelling light than just a phone." He falls in beside Ravn, doing his part to part the waters as they make a bid for their foods, and when they emerge and spot that bench, he has absolutely no shame or hesitation in running over to leap up onto it while it's empty. "I claim this bench in the name of the Grey Harbor Guild of Street Magicians!" he declares, striking a heroic pose with one foot on the seat and one on the back of the bench, panini held victoriously high, before hopping down to sit properly on his rear and set the table-case down on the ground beside him. The edges of the bandages on his arms still peek out beneath the cuffs of the coat -- and show entirely when he decides it's getting warm, and sheds the thing wholesale. "How's things going over in boatland?"

"Speak for yourself, I am absolutely a pro Samoan wrestler, footballer, whatever it is that the Rock actually does outside of acting." Ravn grins back. "Boatland's got a cat now. Skinny black thing strolled on board like she's always lived there and claimed the other bunk. I'm too smart to argue with a cat about bed ownership and besides, she claws me if I get too close. Pretty feral -- I'm going to have to work on getting her to settle because if she's staying on the Vagabond she's getting spayed before I suddenly have eight cats."

He raises a gloved hand to point into a bit of an alleyway between two buildings. "She looks a bit like that one, in fact." 'That one' is a small, thin cat that -- at least from out in the sunny street -- looks to be entirely black, with large, yellow eyes. It sits in front of a dumpster, staring determinedly at it, tail swishing. It's not a pretty kitty. It's a feral angry thing. It's a cat that wants something in that dumpster, and for some reason is looking straight at Aidan about it.

"Wrestling," Aidan decides, "...and maybe cooking except I think that's mostly metaphorical." He takes a good bite of his panini, and chews it for a few moments while Ravn answers the question, brightening (further) at the answer he gets. Whatever he might've said originally is delayed by spotting 'that one', and he tilts his head, regarding the cat. "Careful, if you let that one claim a bed too you'll end up on the deck. Or, like, back on my couch, which I guess could be worse," he says, absolutely talking with his mouth full, though at least he lifts the sandwich hand to cover it.

His brow furrows a bit as he watches and finds himself watched in return. "Is... is it looking at me? 'cause I feel like it is," he says, and reaches out gently with his thoughts to touch the creature's emotions and try to interpret what he or she has in mind. At the same time, he decides, "I'm gonna take a look," and gets back to his feet, leaving coat on case and both by bench, but bringing the sandwich along. Either he expects Ravn to hold the bench-fort and protect the gear, or he trusts no one'll mess with it. Or he's not thinking that far ahead, which probably can't be ruled out as an option.

"The cat collective will probably let me stay around, at least until they figure out how to open a can of tuna on their own," Ravn murmurs and digs into his own Italian style sandwich. "When that happens, though, I am going to be clawing at your door like a lost stray -- again -- while the feline hivemind sails off into the sunset."

She's a skinny thing, the black cat in front of the dumpster, tail swishing in frustration. Entering her mind feels a bit like wandering bare-footed through a patch of fig cacti; pretty harmless at first but you're going to be picking tiny needles out of your skin for a week. Her yellow-green gaze intensifies, staring right back as if she too is some kind of mind reader. On the sliding scale of mental abilities of your average wet brick to Emperor Palpatine tasering storm troopers for looking at him wrong, however, the cat ranks somewhere just below this is not the cat you're looking for, blame the raccoon instead. Her mind offers surprising resistance for, well, a cat -- which is to say, not a whole lot. Enough, though, that if there is indeed such a thing as kitty midichlorians, somebody ought to call the Jedi Council about her.

Mental mindscapes drift from feline to man.

The rowdyness of courtship; he is a heavy mackerel tabby and he comes down on her with all his weight. Together, they make music.

The heaviness of pregnancy; she feels life stirring inside her, small bodies floating inside her body, causing her to beg harder, dig into more dumpsters, knock over more trash bins, and steal more fries from tourists. The small bodies need sustenance.

Birth. It's a mess. She picks a good place for her kittens; at the bottom of a bathroom cabinet, atop the soft, warm towels.

Hands that pick up her babies one by one.

The arguing. Female voice, unkind, upset. Male voice, forgiving but as always, yielding. She does not understand human social mechanics; she only knows that the female is the dominant one among the two. The male is kinder but weak. She'd never mate with a tomcat that was such a push-over. Toms need to know their place but this one, the human tom, is a servant.

The shelter. The human tom brought her home from there when she was just a kitten herself, wobbly but old enough to leave her mother. The shelter is not a bad place -- the humans there will feed you and keep you warm and give you toys. But it is not a good place either -- you have no freedom to roam, no choice of what company to keep. Most cats there smell wrong; they are neither toms or not. Many of them do nothing but eat and sleep to allieviate their boredom.

She doesn't want to go back. They will take care of her babies there -- she knows this because they once took care of her. But she cannot go back to jail, cannot lose her freedom. When the car door opens, she bolts.

It's the human female's fault that she lost her babies. Humans, interrupting nature, thinking that it's up to them to decide when a cat can breed or fight or play. Humans who have an entire house to nest in, begrudging her one silly stack of towels. Complaining about the food she eats, the hair she sheds on the furniture, the dirty paw prints on the floor.

The black cat's tail swishes as she looks away from the human in the top hat and resumes staring intently at the dumpster.

Go on, human. I've got a message for your people.

"It'll be like the owl and the pussycat only both pussycats," Aidan says as he rises, "And also your boat isn't pea-green, but we could always paint it." The actual owner would surely love this plan. "I'm pretty good with spraypaint." Yup. Love it. "But my couch is yours anytime, unless someone else is on it, in which case, it kinda depends how friendly you're both feeling I guess. But I mean, I also got floor and a bed and there's space in Baylee's trailer a lot too, so." It's important to have solid plans for when the feline armada commandeer's one's floating home.

THIS feline, though, he moves toward, quieting down so as not to scare her -- and maybe to better take in what his mind gets from hers, preferably without managing to trip over his boots or a curb along the way. The images aren't a shock; he's read animals before, and while it seems to range a bit, images and emotions are usually the sum of it. The clearer communication, the thought with intent -- that pushes from the sympathy for her situation out into surprise. He studies her as he moves closer, slowly so as not to startle her, even if that seems like it might not be necessary here.

"Hey," he greets her quietly. "I'm sorry about your kittens. And dude. Is there something in there you want? I'm gonna take a look, okay?"

It's a dumpster. As dumpsters go, it's not a particularly disgusting one. There's no graffiti of note upon it. No one's puked or worse all over it. It's just there, green and square and plastic, in the way that dumpsters tend to be. There are a few empty sandwich wrappers lying on the ground in front of it. Somebody from the panini shop nearby isn't particularly careful about taking precise aim when he or she takes out the carbage, or maybe this is just where the breeze deposits whatever it steals as it sweeps down Main Street. The magician opens the dumpster lid with the practised ease of, say, anyone possessed of the manual skill of a two-year-old and up.

The smell that wafts up to greet him, though. It's not roses. It's not grease covered sandwich wrappers with a whiff of cheese. It's not panini bread going mouldy. It's the kind of smell that someone who has, on occasion, rummaged through dumpsters before -- hunting for anything up to and including random curious items to use in a street act -- recognises. Something is decomposing down there, below the plastic bags and that ratty old coat. At least it's something that has not been decomposing for a long time since city services empty these things out pretty regularly.

The thing about things decomposing in dumpsters is: you usually don't want to find them. You especially probably don't want to find them in the middle of eating delicious panini not-exactly-lunch, even if you've left said panini a good long distance away. And when you have access to things like delicious paninis on a nearby bench, the prospect of digging through dumpsters that smell like something died in them becomes even less appealing than when one doesn't. And it's not exactly enticing then.

Aidan eyes the contents, then glances down to the cat. Then a glance around, and curiosity wins. He takes a breath (through his mouth and facing away; some things stick once learnt) and then leans to look in, lifting a hand over the space. It makes small movements as if picking through the contents from a good couple feet away, which is precisely what he's aiming to do. It's not a talent he's had long, and takes more concentration and thought than the ones that came to him much earlier, but at least that means a little less mental focus on the smell.

Back on the bench, the guardian of magician's gear looks up a moment from his reverie as if something tapped on the edge of his mind and then fluttered away on tiny, silent wings. Let's face it; Ravn Abildgaard is not really very perceptive when it comes to the fine mechanics of the workings of the -- whatever it is. He's never learned to listen for it. Give him three months in Grey Harbor, and he'll probably be as suitably paranoid as the rest of you shivering wrecks.

If only Aidan was so lucky. There is something enviable about being so blatantly naive, so ignorant of How Stuff Works. The street magician is already rounding up all the DO NOT WANTs his mind can muster; if this had been a crime show with an audience, not a single member of that audience would have bothered to gasp when indeed, the garbage bags politely shuffling aside beneath Aidan's gaze, reveal a foot wearing a bright red pump with a square heel. It seems quite nibbled on -- the foot, not the heel. Tiny teeth have left a literal thousand bite marks, turning parts of the ankle into something that, with a bit of care to pick not the most horrible metaphors here, might be described as strawberry jam-like.

Gotta hate being right.

There are many things in life that Aidan appreciates at any given time, and right now he appreciates that his panini features neither strawberry jam nor tomato sauce. And also that he hasn't eaten all that much of it and it's way over there, because the part he has eaten is suggesting it might feel right at home in the dumpster. Thankfully, it's a rather diffident suggestion, and Aidan's able to convince it otherwise by taking a step or two away into fresher air and less morbid scenery. He takes the opportunity for a couple better breaths and a moment to think, gaze falling on the cat again.

I've got a message for your people.

Tiny, tiny teeth marks.

"...did... you do that?" he asks, trying to put the question into mental images that might get the inquiry across to the feline mind without having to... well, imagine it too hard. But-- how would a cat get a body into a dumpster? How would a cat kill a person to begin with? ...and should he be worrying about Ravn's safety with his new roommate?

I will do it again.

The black stray contentedly licks her paws; all innocence as she sits there, unperturbed and indifferent as only a cat can be.

Then she looks up at Aidan with eyes that glow a bright shade of yellow-green, far brighter than any cat's eye can possibly glow unless trapped in a really terrible Instagram filter. With a final swish of her tail she jumps to the top of a stack of crates cluttering up the alley and further on, up to the top of a half-wall, separating the alley from the courtyard of the print shop next door.

Don't try to stop me. Stop them. Do unto others. A life for a life.

And then she is gone. One does not catch a cat that does not want to be caught, unless one has a net, a trap, and about forty lifetimes' worth of patience; any shelter worker can testify to this. The little furry bastards can teleport.

"Hey," Aidan protests softly as the cat starts to leap away, and slightly louder as she disappears, "Hey! It's do unto others as you would have them do unto you!" The thought's sent too, maybe with better odds -- maybe not, with a cat whose eyes glow radiant chartreuse in the afternoon, whose teleportation might well be more effective than most, whose mind sets a barrier, who thinks words back.

He stares after her a moment, then turns back to the dumpster. And stares at that a moment or two, as well. It's only after he's got this very important staring thoroughly accomplished that he dips into his pocket for his phone, pulling it out of his pocket as he heads somewhat absently back across the street toward Ravn.

The proud Guardian of the Bench, Knight of the Panini, and All Around Man In Black, looks up as his friend returns. He opens his mouth as if to make some inane observation befit a man sitting on the bench in the sun with a sandwich, surrounded by the easy flow of tourists and residents on Main Street -- but something in Aidan's posture causes him to just quirk an eyebrow instead.

Aidan's brow is furrowed, and as he gets nearer, it's clear he's worrying his lower lip a little bit as well. "So..." he says as he gets near enough to speak at normal levels, "I, um. I think I gotta report a body?" He reclaims his seat, but not yet the sandwich, instead looking at his phone, and failing to start to dial it. A glance back to Ravn, and he adds, "Um. I think that cat killed her? Somehow? In like. Feline vigilante revenge sort of?" A pause. "I don't think I'm gonna tell the cops that part." His nose wrinkles slightly. "I'd kinda rather not tell the cops anything? But probably they're better to tell than the trash collectors. I mean, they didn't sign up for that."

"... Oh hell." Ravn pauses a moment and frowns.

This is the part where, probably, someone who professes to be an academic nerdboy should be freaking out a little more. Screaming a little? At least turning a little green? Then again, he stole a wallet out of the jacket of a decomposing park ranger so maybe body horror just isn't one of Ravn's triggers. He steeples his gloved hands under his chin a moment and thinks.

Then, "There's police officers who do the... shine thing, aren't there? Maybe, instead of just dialling 911, we should talk to one of them. They must be used to things like... uh... feline vigilantes." Ravn shoots a dubious look into the alley. Feline vigilantes sound quite unlikely. Almost as unlikely as being turned into a tuna or chased by old East Coast horror novella characters.

"Yes, ish? I mean, I know there are. I think, like, the new Captain dude even? But I don't really know any of 'em to call. I kinda... mostly try to stay away from cops." It's not sheepish, exactly, but there's a touch of apology in it, like he thinks he ought to do better as the person who's lived here longer, or something.

Aidan chews on his lip again, thinking. "She's upset 'cause she had kittens, and the wife or girlfriend of the dude who owned her got pissed and talked him into taking them all to the shelter. Where I guess the kittens must be, but she wanted to be free and ran away when the car opened. I dunno if that," a look to the dumpster, "is the lady or just a lady -- or I guess even a guy in heels, I didn't really look at more than I had to -- but she, the cat I mean, said she'd do it again. She said it's a message for my people. Humans, I'm pretty sure she meant. And not to stop her, stop them from... controlling cats, I guess?" 'Messenger of Murderous Moggies' may not be a title Aidan was born to carry.

The Dane winces. "I don't know who'll believe that... Maybe we should just tell them that you went to throw away a bad panini and saw ... that."

He stands up, laptop bag under one arm. "I guess we better go report that to whoever's at the front desk. And then, if we get a chance to talk to somebody who shines, we can add the rest. I mean, it's not a crime to throw away a bad sandwich."

And then a gloved hand rests on Aidan's shoulder a moment. "Are you -- do you need to bail? I mean, I can tell them it was my sandwich."

Aidan makes a face. "Yeah. I mean, you'd be surprised the shit people won't believe sometimes and this one even I'm like... how'd a little cat like that kill a lady and put her in a dumpster?" A small pause. "I'm not sure she's a normal cat." Another one, considering, and he amends, "I hope she's not a normal cat. Maybe I should meet your cat."

As far as needing to bail, though, he considers briefly, then shakes his head. "I mean, I'm not breaking any laws or anything. It's just kinda habit, 'cause... there's a lot of assholes." He takes a breath, and exhales it upward, making the curls not quite caught by the hat bounce. "But I mean. There's good people there too and there's definitely no laws against busking here or living in a real trailer in a full-on trailer park anywhere so, yeah." A nod, and then a smile to Ravn, smaller than the more common grin. "Thanks, though. And... we should say throwing away a wrapper, 'cause there were definitely wrappers there, and also 'cause I kinda still want to eat my sandwich."

"I think I'm done with mine," the other man murmurs. "And yeah. There' s something about cops that makes me uneasy too. Even if my conscience is clean I just... wish they'd be over there, and I'll be over here. But our consciences are clean. So let's go... write this off as more Gray Harbor being Gray Harbor."

It's entirely possible that on some level he feels responsible for the younger man. Possible, and, all things considered, probably a bit ironic.