2020-09-06 - Fake It Till You Make It

(TXT to Tim) Alexander : Dr. Bakshi. This is Alexander Clayton. Do you remember me?

(TXT to Alexander) Tim : Clayton. I do. No need for doctor, though, it's an Art degree, it's not like I can practice medicine.

(TXT to Tim) Alexander : It's an earned title. But as you like. I wonder if you might have time in your schedule to meet up? I have a proposal for you, if you have interest.

(TXT to Alexander) Tim : A proposal, now that sounds interesting. Is this the Weird sort of proposal? Because I'll be honest, I'm not on your level. I avoid that shit at all costs.

(TXT to Alexander) Tim : Much to my Aunt's dismay.

(TXT to Tim) Alexander : No. Not that sort of Weird. At least only tangentially. It's more of an art commission. Of a sort.

(TXT to Alexander) Tim : Ah. I suspect I know what you mean. Preferred place to discuss that kind of thing? Anywhere in GH works for me.

(TXT to Tim) Alexander : How about Gray Pond? The weather's not horrific, and there's a picnic table with a nice view that isn't usually mobbed by children.

(TXT to Alexander) Tim : That works. See you there in an hour? Gotta stop and get a coffee,

(TXT to Tim) Alexander : Of course. Thank you.

It's a warm and pleasant afternoon, with just enough of a breeze to make the light sparkle on the water of the pond. School has started back up, so at the moment the pond is almost deserted - there's a couple of retirees on a picnic blanket, and a church volunteer group picking up trash, but nothing else but geese disturb the peace of the pond. Alexander is sitting at a picnic table tucked around one side of the shore, where the pond meets the woods. It's not a popular spot - there's not enough open ground for a proper party, and what ground there is happens to be a little marshy and muddy most of the year, thanks to a nearby stream. Which suits the investigator fine. He's dressed in an oversized plaid flannel, and dark jeans, doing something on his phone while he keeps an eye on anyone approaching from the parking lot. He looks underslept and a bit strung out, but no worse than usual.

Tim's car is a flashy thing, a late model Hatchback Civic Si in dark purple. It still has a California plate, so someone still harbors hopes of fleeing this insanity and getting back home to SoCal. Hey, it could happen. Not all Baxters remain trapped. Right? ...right. He tells himself that.

He's in a long-sleeved, lavender gray, button down shirt, black linen pants, and black leather shoes. The later means he has to skirt various muddy bits on his way to the picnic table. He makes faces as he does so, like, Why is there so much water here? You know what was awesome about LA? No water. Ground was always dry. All in all he looks like the kind of guy who'd hang with Byron, not Alexander; still, as he meanders towards Alexander, a pair of EY coffees in hand, he's entirely casual. "Clayton. Or did you want me to call you something else? Alex, Al..."

Alexander's attention, with its lizard-like focus, lands on Tim as soon as he recognizes the man making his way towards the table. He raises a hand, just enough for a greeting, and otherwise watches in silence as Tim approaches, his head cocking to one side as he notes the two coffees in his hand instead of one. Although he visibly flinches when Tim starts in on the nicknames, he manages not to shout, although his voice is very firm as he says, "Alexander is fine. Thank you. Please. Just Alexander." An attempt at a smile, halting and a little nervous. "Sorry for calling you out of the blue." A pause. "How are you?"

There's no indication Tim notices or cares about the scrutiny. Of course, he teaches, so it's possible he comes across more than a few people like Alexander on the regular. (Especially around here.) He offers over one of the two coffees; it's a strong, dark roast latte. "Didn't think to ask what you liked so I kept it simple." He has a sip of his own. A true Southern Californian, drinking a hot drink on a summer day.

The firm tone gets a smile from him. "Alexander. Got it." He sets a hip on the edge of the table. "No worries. I'm used to it." He gives Alexander a long look, then shifts his attention out over the pond. "Word is there's big trouble brewing right now. You know." A sidelong glance. "The underground kind of trouble."

Alexander blinks at the coffee a couple of times like he doesn't quite know what to do with it. He does take it, after a moment. "Thank you. You didn't have to." He sniffs at it, then takes a sip. "It's good. Thank you." The cup seems to be more a place for his fingers to fidget than a drinking vessel, though. There's a nod at the last. Without much hesitation, he says, "Yeah. Someone's trying to take over. It's messy and bloody. You should stay out of it, if you can. I think it might get worse before it gets better."

"Mmmm. Another one of those." Tim makes a face. "No problem, can do. Saw plenty of that bullshit in LA. S'why I'm not on anyone's specific payroll. Safest way to operate, if the ah," he raises his eyebrows, "totally accidental and not in any way arson of that game store is any indication."

He shrugs about the coffee. "Makes it look like we met to chat and have coffee, not get up to questionable shit. Which, apologies, but," he gives Alexander an up and down look, "you kinda exude. One of us should keep up appearances."

A more real smile flickers to life on Alexander's face. "No apologies needed. But, when you're me, the aura of questionable shit is so pervasive that no one even notices anymore. Anyone who happens to recognize me will just assume I'm trying to tell you that the aliens were responsible for Picasso." A shrug. "Can't say they weren't, I guess. But I actually did want to...um. Hire you. If I can. For some documents for a person."

Tim coughs a laugh. "See, the coffee means I am the good Samaritan who humored you and got you a cup of coffee so I could at least enjoy hearing about Picasso being an alien from Charon, or whatever." He flashes his teeth, has a bit more.

"Mmmm, yeah sounded like. So, first thing's first. Are we talking, high-level get through TSA kind of shit? Or 'get into a club at 20' kind of shit. I can do the former, it just costs a lot more. There's no need to shell out that kind of cash if all you're doing is trying to fly under local radar." He pauses here, to see what Alexander says.

Alexander chuckles in return, brief and low, but with actual humor. "I do appreciate the coffee. It's very good. I'll find a suitably horrific conspiracy theory about art to share with you at some later time." He looks down at his cup, his brow furrowing. "...in between. I need a teaching certificate suitable for high school, fingerprint card that's clean, and a bachelor's diploma in physical education. If you have the ability to make the certificate and fingerprint card check out in the databases, that would be ideal." He clears his throat. "I can provide examples of all the documents, if you need them, but they're somewhat old."

Tim blinks, tilts his head. "Okay the fingerprint card, that's normal. I do a lot of those. But ah," he raises an eyebrow, "Teaching Certificate?" He frowns. "Yeah I don't think anyone's ever wanted a teaching cert. Tech certs, yeah." He shrugs that tidbit off, gets down to brass tacks.

"I have a guy who does e-records work. Costs extra, but you're not asking for a high end government database so won't be much." He scratches his beard. "Examples would help if you've got a specific cert authority and college in mind. I have sourcing for that but it can be random, may not be what you'd like." He raises an eyebrow. "Maybe your guy has a Boston accent, it'd look weird to have a degree from Ole Miss. You know?"

Alexander opens his mouth. Then he closes his mouth. Then he opens it again. "You may have noticed that some people are remembering things differently than you remember them, recently. Because Gray Harbor is...Gray Harbor. Someone I know. The town remembers them as a teacher, now. And a coach. It's not a very nice memory, but he's actually pretty damned good at the job. And good for the kids. And the job is good for him. And I think that he would shoot himself - or anyone else - before he let the kids come to harm. But he couldn't ever...when the memory shit wears off, I want him to keep being able to do it. Somehow. He can't pass the background check normally, but if he has the paperwork. I think, with encouragement, people will decide not making a fuss is more important than facing the fact that they believed something that wasn't reality and don't know why." His smile is sad and crooked. "People in Gray Harbor are used to doing that, and just once, it'd be nice if it actually worked out to make things better than worse."

He takes a breath. "So. I'm not sure about colleges or anything like that. He's a townie, so probably something local. Seattle or something. Just the state certificate would be fine. It's not really...I don't expect anyone to believe it, just to be confused enough about it that they don't want to risk challenging it too hard."

Tim nurses his latte as he listens to Alexander's explanation of the 'memory situation'. "Ah, wow." He hesitates, then says, "Like, okay. I have been hearing some weird shit. Like that Diner, the Grizzly? I swear on the drive to the coffee place it says 'Black Bear' Diner now. Except then I tried to look up when the name changed and why, and I couldn't even find Grizzly...whatever it was, anywhere. This part of the same shit? Because that's next level, even I can't get the whole internet scrubbed."

He leaves that for the other topic. "Local's easy. Comm coll into UW or WSU, people do that a lot, especially folks who don't have a fixed in. WA state cert, done deal. Fingerprint card's the usual. Should take, mmm," he thinks a few seconds, "maybe three weeks."

But now, the important part. "You think that'll all revert?"

Alexander scowls, his brow drawing down. "That's not one of the things. It's the Black Bear Diner. It's always been the Black Bear Diner. I've never even heard of the Grizzly whatever diner and I've lived here my whole life." Grr grr grr, much like a bear himself. He shifts uneasily in his seat, then looks away. "But yes. Things like that. Which affect other people." Not him. "I don't know exactly why or how much more is going to get changed. But...yeah. I think it'll eventually revert. It'd have to, wouldn't it?" He throws a pleading look in Tim's direction, his dark eyes wide and troubled.

Tim blinks slowly at Alexander. It's the slow blink of someone who is going to humor him. "Ah, yeah, sure. Black Bear, Grizzly Bear..." He can't bring himself to say it's the same thing, one of them is on his home state's goddamned flag. He settles on, "Bear Diner," and nods in a way which is one hundred percent not him agreeing it's only other people.

And as a result, he can only respond to the troubled look with a wince and a shrug. "Maybe? Hell I've only been here like, not even a year. It's all weird bullshit to me, and it just keeps being more weird. But like, look," he gestures with his coffee cup, "let's say it all did go back. Are their," the other people, "brains gonna just...accept it changed again? Because, that's fucked up."

Alexander doesn't need sincerity. He just, very clearly, needs people to not flick at the delicate and teetering balance of his sense of reality any more than endless repetitions of "Mr. A!" and people talking about classes he never taught are already doing.

Honestly? If not for the serial killer to keep his mind occupied, Alexander probably would have already had a very messy screaming breakdown. So his breathing slows, visibly, when Tim does his slow blink and doesn't challenge his desperate conviction that he, at least is remembering everything correctly. He swallows, then takes a drink of coffee. "Yeah. Probably. The Veil protects itself. People who don't stand out get their minds fucked with all the time, one way or another, when shit gets weird." He grimaces. "It's not fair. But it's marginally better than us all being burned at the stake, or hauled off to some quarantine facility somewhere until we're vivisected."

Tim watches Alexander's reaction, wary. Ready to--run for it? Yell for a cop? It's hard to say. He doesn't exude 'I can defend myself' in any way shape fashion or form. At all. He can probably run like hell, though, and he might have a hell of a set of lungs on him.

But Alexander doesn't flip tables or scream or in any way give Tim a reason to engage in flight or flight, so Tim sticks to the salient point: normies are screwed in this town. "...wow." He grimaces, has more latte, in case that'll improve things. (It does, a little.) "So basically, this is the place we're supposed to be, and they're trespassing, and for that, they pay a price." He shakes his head. " That's some bullshit right there."

He sighs, straightens up. "Well. In the mean time, I can get you the docs. E-records, I need to check how long those will take. I'm used to giving times for, you know," he jerks a thumb north, "border crossing type stuff. This might be faster."

"Or we're just resistant to what the Veil tries to do to all of us. I'm not really sure any of us are supposed to be here. Not for ourselves." Alexander shrugs. "It's just hard to leave. But, thank you." He smiles, just a little, then reaches down into a small backpack that's been crumpled up beside his thigh. "Here." He pulls out an envelope that has one of those satisfying bulges to it that suggests it is filled with cash. And it is. He pushes it over. "Five hundred. I know it'll cost more than that, but just let me know, and I'll gather the rest. I appreciate your help, Doct--uh. Timothy."

"Supposed to doesn't mean good or okay. It's not good or okay for a lot of things to be where they should be. It's just where they should be. Good and bad, that's something else. You gotta work that shit out for yourself." Tim bobs his eyebrows, accepts the envelope and stuffs it into one of his pants pockets. The linen pants are, it turns out, baggy for a functional reason: the bulge is hard to see once it's among all that cloth.

"Sure thing. Once I hear back from my e-records guy I can give you the final cost." He finishes off his latte, tosses the cup into a nearby trashcan. That name, ugh, it makes him wince. "Augh, no. My dad calls me 'Timothy', dude. Tim. Just Tim." He raises a hand, turns to go. "Catch ya around, cuz."

"I...suppose that's true. In general," Alexander concedes, with a crooked sort of smile. "Somewhat fatalistic. But true." The brief amusement fades into another scowl when Tim insists on a nickname, and he mutters, "It's a perfectly good name. There's no need to amputate it." But at least he does it somewhat under his breath. And then there's that shout and he just lets himself fall forward until his forehead hits the picnic table. He flaps a hand in an absent goodbye to Tim, and contemplates plastic surgery.