2020-09-07 - I'm Not A Serial Killer, Honest

It may be late but that doesn't stop Jessica from being at work. She's been plunging the depths of the Gazette Records Room to try and bring some clarity to all these strange perceptions people are having. Sometimes they don't seem to match up with what Jessica remembers herself. The things she knows for 'sure'. Trouble is, the Records Room is a mess - and that's being kind.

"Karen!" Jessica yells out as she emerges from the dark room. "Why are the articles for 2016 in a file named 'LY' instead of a file named '2016'?" This is when she discovers she is the only one left in the office. A frown before realisationg hits her. "Oh, because it was a leap year. Sure. Of course. Why not?" A sigh before she heads on over to her desk near reception. Dressed in boots, jeans, amd t-shirt, she looks like it has been a long day at work. A quick check of her phone for messages before she tastes the coffee from the mug on her desk...then spits it out into the trash can nearby. "I think that was brewed in 2016 too" she grumbles to herself.

The first thought that crosses Ravn's mind as one of his walks about town takes him past the Gazette's offices is that apparently it doesn't matter where in the western hemisphere you are; local newspapers are struggling in the wake of the internet, and they are struggling hard. On some level he's impressed that Gray Harbor still has one -- where he's from, a town of 18,000 is not a village at all, but very few of them manage to maintain some kind of local publication all the same.

The second thought that occurs to him is that the lights are on.

What's the worst some janitor can do? Tell him to come back in the morning. But maybe, just maybe somebody is working who can direct an out of towner to a few quick answers. He slips in through the doors and looks around the reception area, searching for indications of a human presence -- preferably one with a pulse.

Maybe that last thought is the reason he pauses a moment before approaching the one desk at which there is human movement. In this town, where attempting to read a stranger's aura or otherwise sniff out their ability -- or lack of it -- within the supernatural or the metaphysical, he hesitates just long enough to ascertain that the woman in question does in fact seem to be, well, physical. He coughs lightly to attract her attention.

Jessica lets out a squeak of "Jesus Mohammad!" as she jumps at the light cough. She blinks at the intruder, trying to get her breathing in check. Why is a strange man in the office at this time of night? Is he a ghost? One of them? A serial killer? All three are common in Grey Harbor. "Can I help you?" Be cool, Jessica. Don't let him know that you're discretely dialling '911' just in case.

While the intruder's initial long look probably was probably a good deal creepier than he himself realised, he does in fact look pretty harmless. Sure, he's dressed in black from top to toe and even wearing gloves like someone who doesn't want to leave finger prints, but as far as cat burglars and serial killers go, he needs to work quite a bit on the body language; he's got confident or intimidating all wrong, most of all just looking a little sheepish.

"Excuse me? I saw that the lights were on," the tall man says, speaking with an obviously European accent. "I, er, hope it's all right? I can come back in the morning if it's not, I just --" he trails off, realising that in fact, he probably is just one phone call away from ending up having to explain to some nice police officer just what the hell he is doing there in the first place.

Amazing how fast you start to think normal rules just don't apply to this town. Go me, terrifying women randomly now.

Jessica, glowing with her glimmer to those in the know, looks the man over and decides that he's not a killer. She has a good instinct with these things. Well, fair to middling. "No, it's okay. If it's important, then the people need to hear as soon as possible." She's referring to his reason for being there. And it must be important for him to be showing up at night...in black...with serial killer gloves on. "I'm Jessica. Jessica Flores. Please, have a seat." A gesture to the visitor seat at her desk...which she has to clear of files before Ravn can sit.

"Can I get you a drink? Coffee? I'll even make a fresh pot." Jessica will be having one regardless. "I don't think I've seen you around town before."

Ravn lets himself be herded in the direction of a seat -- any seat. If he is indeed a serial killer, at least he seems to be a pretty polite specimen -- not that Norman Bates wasn't depicted as one of those, too. Who knows? There could be a knife hidden in those boots, definitely, although it'd probably be a little inconvenient to get to -- his black jeans are pulled down over the boots so he'd probably have to sit down and pull the boot off to get to it. Maybe he's a serial killer with poor planning.

"Ravn Abildgaard," he says and sits. "Uh. Coffee would be nice? That said, I really just wanted to look at a few papers and headlines. I've got a few friends in a tight spot and I am wondering how to help them. I just wanted to see how the paper has -- well, approached their situation. One of them is quite having his business ruined by ridiculous rumours as it happens."

Serial killers can always strangle people...it's why they wear gloves. Jessica heads on over to the kitchenettette (it's tiny) and gets to brewing some coffee and finding a mug for her visitor. One that doesn't need to be fumigated before use. It might take a while. She's never out of sight in the small office area.

"Ravn Abildgaard?" Jessica peers at him once more. "Hera mentioned you. She didn't mention you were a famous chef though. At least that's what I've heard on the grapevine...and seen on social media." A snort of amusement about looking at old papers. "I've been trying to do the same thing but our library seems to have been organised by a dyslexic blind person. Who is having issues? I'd certainly be interested in getting to the bottom of that kind of thing."

"I'm not, you know." A serial killer? Like he'd admit it if he was. It quickly becomes evident that the man in black meant something else, though. "I'm neither Swedish nor a chef. But that is what I'm talking about. There are some absolutely crazy stories going around about people, and somehow, everyone else buys into them, too. Hera probably did not mention anything about me being a celebrity because when we met, I was just some Danish guy who fell out of a truck outside her art gallery and stumbled inside, thinking it was the local tourist information office. And that is the truth of the matter -- that's who I am. The rest of it? No idea. I can barely cook an egg."

"You fell out of a truck?" Jessica quirks a brow in his direction. "Literally or figuratively?" This could be an interesting story too! A laugh about the gallery being the tourist information office. "I'll let her know she needs to have better signage."

This is a serious problem though. The confusion among the citizens of this fair town about the reality of the town. "Hera may not have realised you were a famous chef" Jessica suggests with a shrug before pursing her lips in thought. "But I guess you'd know more than anyone what you are. You mentioned someone being in big trouble with such confusion? I know there's a big argument over Poorhouse versus Pourhouse - double 'o' versus 'o', 'u'. And I was trying to find articles and advertisements in old Gazettes to help clear up the issue..." The look on her face suggests she failed. "Let's put it this way. Murders are filed under C for 'Crimes' or B for 'Bad Crimes' or S for 'Sad Crimes' or Y for 'Yucky Crimes'. Imagine what they've done with something like advertisements." A shake of her head. "I don't remember it being this bad."

"Milk and sugar for your coffee?" Jessica asks as she pours the coffees.

"A little of both," the Dane muses. "I got kicked out of it and told that a European shitmonkey like me could find another ride to Portland. So there's another point for me not being a celebrity -- if I really was a Swedish TV star, surely I could at least afford my own ride."

He listens and nods at the Poo/urhouse observation. "Yes, exactly. I actually watched Leon and Maggi Gyre have that very argument over there, right in front of me. One says Pourhouse, the other says Poorhouse. I think they called a truce in the end -- that it'd be too expensive to change the paperwork anyhow so whatever the sign says, goes."

The look on the man's face when the reporter describes the archiving system, though -- that actually supports the theory of him being a serial killer. The academic, the university lecturer, the researcher -- horrified. "Good lord. No wonder nothing makes sense and no one just looks up anything in the papers here. How do you do your job? -- black, please."

Ravn's coffee is easy to prepare and it soon arrives on the desk in front of him. She is pouring milk and then spooning sugar into her own. "White and two large lumps, like my women I guess" she smirks before shaking her head. "That was a really bad joke. Ignore that. It's been a long day...week...month." Settling into her own chair, she blows over her beverage for a moment.

"You hitchhiked here? Damn, you sure picked the wrong place to blow into. Are you sure they driver said 'European shitmonkey'?" Jessica seems impressed at this. "Not often that Americans could name Europe. Must have been a university educated driver. 'Shitmonkey' is expected though." A sip of her coffee, much better than her earlier cup.

"How did the person who thought the name was different to the sign explain the sign? I can't believe that no one has a picture from before all this started happening. People are always taking pics of what they eat and where they eat. There must be something out there with what the sign looked like last year. Or the menu."

A dismissive wave of her hand in the direction of the Records Room. "We had to downsize recently and I'm terrified that most of our records ended up on the bottom of bird cages" Jessica frowns. "Since we're predominantly internet now, you'd think they'd be easier to find. You'd think wrong. And with our editors being murdered, and reporters barely showing up for work, we're lucky to put anything out there. Anyway, the Poorhouse dilemma is the only one you know about?"

"No, like my preacher -- black and full of beans, except that joke only makes sense in Danish where the word for prayer is the same as the word for bean." Ravn smiles slightly; even horribly bad jokes relieve tension.

"No. I mean, no, it's not. Every other person in town you talk to right now, they'll tell you that there is some insane story going around about who they're supposed be but aren't. There's a former astronaut whose boat lies at pier a few spaces from mine -- he's been turned into a Russian spy, as has a Jewish guy I play the violin with. I know a bloke who literally got married this week but the story's still up about how he dumped his fiancee at the altar. I know a man who supposedly shares his wife with another man, and they have thirteen kids between them -- the wife is twenty-one or two, something like that. I know a woman who's supposedly in witness protection from a serial killer boyfriend that she's certainly never heard about. It goes on like that. The story I came in here for tonight is about the chocolate shop in Main Street -- I know the bloke who runs it and I am very certain that it is in fact not a cockroach-infested hell hole. I wanted to see the headlines for myself because the story's pretty much ruining his business."

Jessica will just assume that Ravn has an energetic black preacher...and why shouldn't he? A smile at his 'joke' in return before she listens intently to his words. "I live on a houseboat myself" she notes casually. "The Honeybuns. Closest to the shore. An astronaut who is also a Russian spy?" Jessica nods along to the other cases. Some she may have heard about, some are entirely new.

"It's almost like inane social media rumors have become reality through a need to believe this trash. Like current politics I suppose. Thirteen kids and only twenty-two?" Jessica shakes her head. "We're not in Arkansas so I don't believe that one. I know about that chocolate shop" she nods. "Has the Department of Health been in there? Are there official reports? I would like to think that there are no headlines in the Gazette based on mere rumor. Are you sure that incident started with us?"

"Last I spoke to Vydal he was talking about having every clean, big smiley health report laminated just so he can beat people to death with them. I am absolutely positive that if we were to go over there now, the place would be spotless. It is indeed as you say, like Facebook gone insane." Ravn sips his coffee with the obvious appreciation of a man who does indeed love his coffee very much, particularly when no one's let a rabid Starbucks employee fill it with sugars, spices, syrups, sprinkles, or pumpkins. "The reason I came in here was -- well, I was actually thinking to take advantage of this insane story thing. To clear Vydal's name a little because he doesn't deserve financial ruin over this, you know?"

He leans forward in his seat a little and looks slightly sheepish, like someone who isn't really comfortable taking advantage of an obvious advantage. "Well, if I am perceived as this Swedish TV super star who's in town to prep for a reality show Gordon Ramsay-style -- surely I can clear his name? And maybe having a reporter or newspaper person involved in that, write up the bloody interview, pretending along. And we'd be able to see if... you know. If reality can rewrite that, too."

Jessica's eyes narrow a little. "You want me to do offical fake news to counter fake news? But you're not a Swedish chef, Ravn. How long do you think you'll be able to keep up that deception? What happens when the camera crews don't show up? What happens to the reputation of this newspaper when it is revealed to be complicit in a deception? Regardless of the worthiness of the intention."

Jessica shakes her head. "No, I won't help you fix this in that way. Tell Vyv to send along copies of the reports and I will talk with the Department of Health. I can put it on the front page that all is well there. That there is some kind of public hysteria happening. That fake news is permeating the town." A sip of her coffee. "Will I be listened to? Maybe not, people like to believe lies if it backs up their perceptions, but I'd rather try and fix that with the truth than more lies." She studies him a moment. "How up on what goes on in this town are you? In Grey Harbor there really is a conspiracy of deception. What is happening is not a spontaneous outburst of hysteria. It has been planned to make the people frightened and disorientated, so they can take advantage. I don't want to add to that by being caught in a lie. Let's use the truth to win this."

"I'm a newcomer to town who's flailing around and trying to learn the rules of a game that no one told me I would be playing." Ravn does not seem bothered by the rejection and the rebuke that is somewhat implied in it. He files away the information given much in the fashion of someone who knows he's an amateur at the table, watching an experienced poker player show him how this game works.

"And the odds are -- if I understand how this works -- that once you publish, the actual articles somehow rewrite themselves just enough to sustain the fantasy. Or are we about to find out if they will? I suppose that it depends on what the purpose of it all is. If it's to confuse us, a flame war between newspaper agencies might just suit them fine. If there is a need for Vydal's boutique to be disreputed, then your article will -- vanish?" He pauses and catches the look. "I really am a newcomer. Three weeks in. Have had enough of Gray Harbor's oddness happen to me in those three weeks, though, that I am an absolute, firm believer. I have been a fish."

"It sounds like printing the truth would be the perfect opportunity to see what happens. Does it change into something the opposite of what I wrote? Does it effect our memories of what we wrote? Do we even know we have been effected?" Jessica frowns as the ideas descend into a maelstrom of supernatural control over all their lives. "If they can do that...then we're probably fucked." She relaxes back into her chair, pondering the ramifications, before a deep breath. A smile is summoned. "Can't surrender before we even fight, right? Obviously, some of us are still remembering a truth."

"We're the only newsagency in town. Local at least. It will only be a war of the ignorant versus the Gazette. Not the first time that has happened." Another sip of her coffee while the nails of her free hand tap upon her desk. "Three weeks, huh? And you've been a fish. I wish I could tell you that it gets easier, but it won't. Just cling to what you know is truth. Work with others. We're stronger united. And if you have 'powers', try not to use them unless as a last resort. It attracts them. I wouldn't be surprised if what we are going through is the result of the extravagant use of our gifts. A disruption of reality if you will. The Veil equivalent of climate change."

"... I actually heard someone say we have to Greta Thunberg our way out of this, just this evening." Ravn cannot help a small smile at the reference. "You know. Do things, instead of just talking about it and shaking our heads. I have no illusions that I understand how all of this works, or that I have some kind of brilliant fresh eyes wisdom. What I have noticed, though, is that survival here seems to hinge very much on the human connection. Also, the survival of your sanity. So -- my idea wasn't a good idea. I'll take your word for that -- you're the professional and I'm the guy who is in fact not even the celebrity people seem to think he is. However, if I can help out in any fashion -- I'm not a professional writer by any means but I am a professional researcher on some level. And for this? I am absolutely happy to help."

"At least you're trying to do something" Jessica confirms with a smile. "We do need to find out what is going on, before we forget what changed. And we need to do it together. None of us know how it works. All we can do, and as a researcher you know this, is take the evidence and come to conclusions supported by that evidence. Trouble is, everyone comes to a different conclusion, and they're probably all valid." She drains her coffee. "If you are a researcher, maybe you could help me go through the Records Room to find some of those stories and ads to try and figure out the truth? Maybe you could be searching the net for images or comments about some of the changed things, but from the past. Before they 'changed'. I'll certainly appreciate your help. But for now, I need to get back to my 'Honeybuns'. You said you lived on the water too? Would you like a lift?"

Jessica grabs her jacket off the back of her chair and slips it on, before moving to turn off lights and set alarms. "Let's hope nothing else changes before tomorrow."

"Sure thing -- I live on the Vagabond. And I'll be happy to both help and take a lift home. I'm sorry if I came across like some kind of stalker before. I was just... Well. I wanted to be sure that you were real. Because Gray Harbor." Ravn finishes his coffee and stands up. "You wouldn't be the first person I met who -- wasn't."

"Really? Well, you can tell me about that on the drive." Jessica closes up the Gazette for the night, but she will be back there way too early in the morning.