2020-09-09 - Meet the Natives: Gina Edition

The Black Bear Diner has its highs and its lows, and noon is, perhaps surprisingly, not one of its more crowded times during weekdays. The reason is fairly simple: it's a working class neighborhood, and most people work, meaning while it may be crowded, that's often more a result of the line for pick-up than it is people sitting down. Still, there ARE people seated: a mother and daughter set wrangling a quintet of small children in a booth, an elderly couple near the window quietly bickering over the healthiest type of artificial sweetener to use, a mess of teens in another booth with their phones, trading and showing videos to one another. The staff is also out in force, with a bored, androgynous blond with a perfunctory smile, and a dead ringer for Velma-with-long-hair in a navy skirt and orange sweater both take orders, the latter never making eye contact. The server at the counter, doing brisk work, is a pissed off fortysomething handing people their takeout orders in exchange for their money, arguing emphatically with a fifty-something year old man to one side of the main line about...schedules and money and child support, it sounds like.

And, of course, there's the least busy person in the room: Gina, bringing two plates of food to two truckers on the far end of the counter, before she settles close to the register, leaning against said counter while she grabs herself a fruit bowl and spears bits of fruit for herself, snacking as she watches the ongoing argument with what seems like zero intent to stop them. Her hair is still its rich, deep purple, but today's outfit is fairly casual: a gold-and-black smoky eye, worn skinny jeans tucked into hiking boots, and a green shirt worn over long-sleeve black mesh. Her nails are also bright, safety orange, and in one ear is a dangling serpent earring biting into a red gem. It should also be noted, the soundtrack for all of this? 1950s - currently Love Potion No.9 by The Clovers.

It's not that Ravn Abildgaard has never seen an American diner before, nor that he's never seen one at lunch hour before, either. It's just that in Gray Harbor, you sometimes forget that ordinary people exist -- people who don't have that shine or sparkle or whatever you like to call it. People whose problems are rent, little Peter's colic, and each other. Ordinary people. He stays in the doorway a moment, watching and reminding himself that not so long ago -- less than a month in fact -- he too was ordinary people insofar he knew. That back then, he thought his little tricks made him unique.

Not so unique now, old man. In fact, you're an outright hack.

He smiles nonetheless as he steps into the diner proper because there is a certain comfort in being surrounded by people who have ordinary, mundane problems. Not that these problems aren't real -- it's just that they're a lot less likely to explode, or eat his face, or turn into hummingspiders flying around stealing nectar from plants that never existed on Earth. There are quite a few things to be said for mundane and Ravn is currently thinking appreciatively about a number of them.

He makes his way towards the counter and stands in line like everyone else. When he does in fact spot Gina -- ah, familiar face! -- she gets a friendly wave and a crooked smile. "Hey there."

No one in the diner compares to Gina with the strength of it. Oh, sure, there might be someone in the kitchen with a hint of it, but for those who glimmer, Gina's hard to ignore. But of course, Ravn's already met her, so it should come as no surprise - nor should, perhaps, her complete indifference to someone showing up to the diner. Even if there is a bell over the door, the blond and long-haired brunette only glance at the ringing, not smiling or hurrying to offer to seat anybody. Gina doesn't even deign to glance, to busy idly spearing a piece of watermelon as the waitress gives up the pretense of focusing on the paying customers and turns around to jab a finger at her husband/boyfriend/ex/whatever and rant over his many financial failings. Someone else on the line may have started recording, and someone else gives a breathy sigh and shouts for them to get on with it. Gina just continues to watch the free show-- it's only when Ravn actually directly calls out does she pause, eyes slooowly glancing in his direction and stopping, measuring him (or trying to remember him) before her gaze returns to the argument, and she spears a piece of cantaloupe. "December's friend, right? Line's for pick-up. Just grab a seat if you're eating in." Customer service? She sounds reluctant to even bring the point up.

"Not sure -- depends on who December is." The copper blond Dane offers a slight shrug that very eloquently says I have no idea who you're talking about and then heads to the nearest chair. He settles on it, crossing one long leg over the other and looks quite comfortable in his black jeans, shirt, and blazer; that's definitely a thing -- the only part of his ensemble that appears to change is the turtleneck being swapped for a t-shirt on hot days. One without print, that is -- colour is very obviously not part of the man's self image.

"So, I am told the omelette here is the scariest thing in town. if I order one, should I ask for a flame thrower or a bullhide whip to go with it?" Cheeky bastard.

"The omelettes are edible, and they meet all FDA food standard requirements." Gina says automatically. Robotically, even. But the request does have her attention shifting away from the argument back over to Ravn. "I don't like fireballs in the restaurant. But I think Carmen's got a whip in her locker if that's how you get your kinks." Even as Gina talks, she's pushing herself away from the counter, stretching, before she calls out, "Mouse! Register." Because clearly that argument over there is going to take a while. The Velma waitress stops in place, wide-eyed, but ducks her head and shuffles over, avoiding the arguing couple as much as she can as she slides to take over handing out the pre-ordered food. "December's the plant store guy. Or some month. July? October? Whatever, it's a month." And about all Gina cares to remember. "Anyway, Cook doesn't do well with omelettes. But it's edible. You getting one?" Is that the slightest smile to her lips? Nah.

"Never let it be said I back down from a challenge, and it is the feature of Gray Harbor I've been warned against the most. I can't quite go to my eventual grave behind the Veil not knowing the true evil of which man is capable, can I now?" Amusement glitter in grey eyes as Ravn looks back at the purple-haired diner owner. "Also, the name you're looking for is August. August Røn -- I do know him, though not well. I haven't really been in town long enough to know anyone well.

"People focus on petty shit with new people. Helps create a target-rich environment when the new ones don't run." Is all Gina responds with, reaching into her back jean pocket and pulling out a small order pad. "What kind of omelette? And do you want other shit with it?" A pen is pulled from... somewhere? as she makes a little note on the pad. The talk of August's real name just earns a glance, and then her eyes are back on the notepad, clearly dismissing this new information as inconsequential.

"Surprise me. After all, deliberately trying to disarm this infamous omelette would be cheating. I'd like a cup of strong black coffee to go with it, though." Ravn is either suicidal or feeling adventurous, if half the stories he's been told are true he should ask to borrow Carmen's whip. "And would petty shit include teasing the new kid in town with a tarot reading and then not actually making the offer, or was that a special show for my sake?"

"Tarot's not magic. It's not connected to the universe or some shit like that-- not unless you've got real power with it." Gina says, writing a few notes in. "It gives perspective. Reading was never meant for you. It was just about you." The diner owner points out, before she turns - with no smile or excuse - to go present the cooks the order through the open window. Then it's a slide to the coffee machines and bear-paw mugs, and she pours a cup that she turns and puts in front of Ravn, "Sugar and shit's down there," And points down the bar. Not at all looking as if she'd go and fetch it for him. Heavens no. "A reading's a good way for me to decide how much energy I waste on other sputters."

"Doesn't mean I'm not curious as to what you ended up with." Ravn shows no inclination to get up for sugar and shit, either. Maybe he does in fact like his coffee black, without sweetener or fertiliser. He curls long, gloved fingers around the mug and looks quite contented with the status quo, at least. Maybe he's just that laid back. Maybe Gray Harbor has just been itself at him so much this week already that in comparison, poor customer service is an inconvenience so mild he's almost grateful for it. "But I'm guessing I must have been worth at least a few minutes -- you're still talking to me."

"Also doesn't mean I have to tell you shit." Gina says just as easily, with no fervor or bitterness in her voice. It's just a simple fact, after all. "If you want one, yeah, whatever. I'm pretty bored." The argument going on over there hasn't gotten physical, but a few people in line have jumped in to try and soothe the pair... while the owner of the place continues to leave them all to their own devices, instead looking out towards the windows, where the sky is growing dark, and a bit of a rumble resounds. "And there's a storm coming in. Thunderstorms put me in a good mood." Not that is shows on her face, which remains slightly bored and apathetic, if an expression must be described.

"What I want," Ravn notes in an amicable tone, "is to see if you're a real deal or a skilled fraud. Either works. Showmanship is showmanship and I wouldn't be particularly disappointed to find out that you're just good at cold reading. Finding out that you're the real deal would also be interesting, considering I've never met anyone who actually did anything but cold reading combined with good observational skills. So I suppose the real question is, am I worth the effort of proving your talent to, or do I only have a few minutes left on that mysterious bank roll of time?"

The tone and the content...actually have Gina giving a small snort of amusement. "You have to pretend to be good at that shit to be a fraud. I don't." She points out bluntly. "Not everyone trips over themselves to impress outsiders." Gina notes, lips curving into the technical definition of a smile. She puts her hands on the counter, leaning forward and lowering her voice somewhat, "I'll give you a reading because you're entertaining me. And remind me a little bit of my crush. But you should leash that ego. I've been retired for years. The shits I give about your faith in me could be put on a sandwich and pass through FDA testing."

"You misunderstand me." Ravn sips his coffee (and seems quite content to do so without sugar or other additives). "My ego's not the issue, my curiosity is. I've worked as a confidence artist -- a fraud, if you will, and I like to think I'm not half bad at what I do, either. Watching another at work is interesting on a professional level. What you personally think of me is -- none of my business? Seeing what you can do, and how you do it, that's what I'm after."

Some emotion flickers in Gina's eyes, but it's just a lowering of her lashes and her "smile" growing wider and whatever it was... is gone. "That explains it." She says, in a voice that's almost...gentle. Slightly knowing. There's a heavy sigh, before she shakes her head and steps away from the counter, towards the milkshake machine near the coffee. "So which work is it you're interested in, birdboy? If it's the cards, that's whatever. Me working with the cards is like writing in a diary. I'll do that shit for me, and I don't really care what someone else says about my grammar since it's not meant for them anyway. If you think I'm running a scam--" Here the "smile" turns into a smirk, "...that'll be fun." In goes a cup of coffee, a handful of cherries, two scoops of ice cream, some assorted chips, then the blending starts up, and Gina raises her voice slightly, "If it's about the diner, watch all the fuck you want. But if you don't order anything for three hours we kick you out."

"I just ordered coffee and an omelette," Ravn points out. "And I am hoping that you are not a fraud. I'd love to meet someone who really can do this. I'm a folklorist, remember? Everyone and their cousin claims they know someone with some kind of precognition or clairvoyance. I've met a number of people who genuinely believed that they do. Some of them -- certainly had something. Whether it was a deep and thorough understanding of people, or they were great at cold reading, or they just were really bloody good listeners. Some of them were in it for the money, but the vast majority are like you -- they do it because it feels right. Most of them believe they have some kind of obligation, but not all. I'm curious -- as someone who studies stories for a living. And, I admit, as a confidence artist who would absolutely love to see someone be the real thing."

"Just letting the new guy know one of the unwritten diner rules." Gina says, focused on blending up whatever drink that is. Splash of coconut flakes, little chocolate sauce, some cinnamon, another whir through, before she pours it into a tall glass, adds a thick straw, and tops it with a cherry. She reaches up into a cabinet, pulling out a box she digs through before finally finding the pack of cards (oh-so-mystically wrapped in a rubber band), closing the box and shoving it back in the cabinet -- just in time for a ding! to sound. Looking over, Gina then goes to collect the plate from the kitchen, setting it in front of Ravn.

It's... an omelette. Eggs, cooked, folded over onto itself... probably? The center of the omelette, where it was folded over, is on the outside a darkish brown , almost papery texture, scrimped together -- was the pan too hot? Not stainless? terribly uneven? It must be, because the edges of the omelette have practically melted into one another, gleaming, oozy yellow that is mainly lumped to the bottom edge of the plate, for a rather large bump that half-oozes a small, now-cooked portion of egg in a puddle attached to the main "omelette." It's not a plain omelette, either: oh no, pitted in the eggs are shallow impact craters in which nestles half-cooked, juicy pieces of tomato that have leaked into the omelette, and the occasional half-burnt, half-green pieces of green onion scatterered in the omelette instead of over it, all contributing to the overall damp, shimmering appearance of the dish. Someone has half-heartedly attempted to "fix" the appearance with a sprinkle of cheddar, only the strands have only half-melted, forming an orange-ish mesh over this entire... dish.

There's two conclusions one might possibly draw, watching Ravn tuck into his omelette:

• Option one: This guy has a stomach lined with aluminum and his taste buds have been shot off in some European war no one's heard about, or
• option two: This guy has eaten in a lot of airport and railway station diners. He has no stomach and no tastebuds left.

Either way, he doesn't seem all that bothered by the, er, less than flattering appearance of the dish. Nor is he whipping out a cell phone to take a selfie for Instagram, tagged #besteggever, but on the by and by, his reaction -- or lack of it -- is reassuringly calm. Or disappointing, depending on what reaction one was indeed hoping for. That guy over there at the next table, he certainly looks disappointed -- the jerk.

Gina... also doesn't look impressed by Ravn's calm. Instead, she simply points out, "You want extra salt or ketchup on your omelette, it's down where the sugar is. Or behind you on the table." Again, Gina looks entirely comfortable not actually getting things for Ravn. Customer service? She served him food already! What more could he expect? "I already answered your question, though. Not a precog. Or clairvoyant. Not how my beat works. But also not obligated. Childhood compulsion's more like it." The cards, still tied with the rubber bands, are tossed towards Ravn easily, without much thought. It's a Deviant Moon tarot deck, clearly used previously, some dogged edges proof enough of that. "Pull when you're ready." She says, collecting her cherry-chocolate milkshake and having a long sip.

Ravn reflects for a moment; some readers he's seen work the cards want patrons to shuffle the deck. Others don't. Gina certainly seems to be the type of person who says exactly what she means -- and as she said nothing about shuffling, he does not. Instead, he carefully picks three cards at random and lays them on the table in front of himself.

Four of cups
Five of cups
Knight of Pentacles

He looks up at her. "I'll be honest with you -- I don't know how to read the actual Tarot. I can fake it with a regular deck of cards, but the real deal is out of my league."

Four of Cups: https://i.pinimg.com/originals/d5/17/f4/d517f49ca29caf286e1212f534f49bcc.jpg

The first card Ravn pulls, and it grabs Gina's attention. Both brows rise, and she leans in closer, sipping her shake. "You could've shuffled if you wanted to." She does murmur. "You do what you want with the cards. That's the whole point. You at least know what this is, don't you? A three card spread. Past," She points to the four of cups, then taps the second one pulled.

Five of Cups: https://lfeb.typepad.com/.a/6a00d8343d2eb653ef00e553d6e8a48834-600wi

"The present." Vibrant, warning orange nails tap against the last card,

Knight of Pentacles: https://i.pinimg.com/originals/fd/26/cb/fd26cb6a64d4a9fb21a88e47c6f38443.jpg

"Future." A pause, a loud sip from her shake, before she licks her lips, "Cups usually deal with emotions and shit, relationships and feelings and all that shit. Pentacles or coins are like, practical or real world stuff." She glances at Ravn, to see if he follows, or if this is all old news for him. He did mention being a conman, after all.

"So cups are equivalent to hearts and pentacles to -- what do you call them, clovers? The black cards that are not spades." Ravn nods. "To the best of my knowledge the meaning of Tarot cards is far more individual than the one I know, though. I'd read this as -- well, not a whole lot of emotional investment in your life, son, so go do practical things. But I'd only be using that as a foundation on which to ask questions from you, to tell me what you really need to talk about."

"Clubs." Gina fills in, resting her forearms on the counter and leaning forward. "Tarot decks and readings are meant to be individualistic. It's not facts. It's themes and stories. Four of cups. Comfort and Satiation. Well-dressed, nice digs, holds the key to their own tower, has all the wine they'll ever need...depressed as fuck. So much they can afford to casually toss some away." Gina says, pointing out the imagery. "The ship is literally sailing in the background, and all this person can do is toss away cups, too focused on their own drama." A shrug from Gina, "So if I was reading this, I'd say you had a good background. Comfortable. Comfortable to the point you could take a lot of shit for granted, and that bit you on the ass eventually. Self involved, maybe? Didn't give enough shits? Life felt flat?"

Gina has another sip of her milkshake, moving on to the second card. "Five of cups is trickier. Old school deck, you see a guy in a cloak. This one I like better. You see a woman bitching at a guy, and he's covering his ears. Spilled wine. A rose. A full moon. Some people might think he's smiling. I think it's a grimace. Warnings ignored. Opportunities lost you don't want to face. Regret. He's got his back to the cups still there, too. The present." Dark eyes glance back up at Ravn, then down again, not deigning to translate this. He can get the gist. She turns to the next card, pausing and weighing.

"You know how the blokes who write the horoscopes always go generic enough that it fits everyone." Ravn puts his fork down and one could get the impression that he turns a shade paler; though possibly it's just food poisoning. "That Past was -- very specific. And, I have to say -- very spot on, too. Not quite certain about Present -- I think I am at least weighing my options. Could be wrong."

Gone is the flippancy and the crooked smile, and the occasional little jibe to tease Gina into showing off. The copper blond could not be more serious if he tried.

The omelette has the texture of... chewy curdled custard, DEFROSTED chewy curdled custard. A little damp, a little tough, salty, and those squishy half-cold bits of tomato doesn't help. It tastes... much as it looks. Gina doesn't have to eat it, though, so her complexion remains the same. In fact, her composure does as well: she genuinely doesn't seem to mind his talk about the generic horoscopes. Nor seem pleased when he mentions how specific and spot on she was. No, she just glances at him, then at the cards, "It's just what the card is showing." She points out - and there's no feeling that Gina's being humble, either. After all, look at the card, isn't she just pointing out what was on it? It's obvious that Gina finds it clear. "Thing about the five is it's usually a warning. Not exactly usual to see it in the present. But it's not like the tarot can tell the future."

Her attention moves to the last card. "Knight of Pentacles is basically a tank. It's not glorious or fancy or whatever. But the Knight's relentless. See how he's wrapped up in all his armor? He's got no legs to get tired, he'll just roll on, and he'll keep his mission in his hands, so he can't take immediate action. He's got to weigh everything against what's in his grip. But the knight persists. He'll go where he's meant to be, efficiently, armored in whatever choice he makes, without stopping." Gina pauses, picking up the card and tapping it against the table, "Relentless fucker, honestly. Dog with a bone sometimes. Stubborn. The future. It's a warning, or a promise. All depends what story you tell."

"From what you're telling me, Present is warning me to not remain stuck in the same pattern that I squandered the Past." Ravn very calmly picks up his fork again, a gesture that shows cracks in his composure blatantly obvious to anyone who does indeed possess an ounce of experience with cold reading. "Present is right about that. And to me, Gray Harbor has indeed become choices, many choices -- the most important of which has been, stay or go. It'd certainly have been easier to go on running."

Gina catches the Dane's attention in a firm grip when she starts speaking of the Future, however; future is per definition a more interesting field than wallowing in the mistakes of the past. He listens carefully and then notes, "I like the sound of the Knight. All business and purpose, no glitter and flights of fancy, or wallowing in his own petty little issues. I see how he might warn against obsession, but to me, he sounds like someone who's finally figured out what he's supposed to be doing with himself, and going about, you know -- doing it. Someone driven by intent rather than stumbling along randomly."

A small smile flits across Ravn's face as he manages to restore his usual relaxed demeanour. "And this, of course, proves two things. That if you lay the cards out like this in front of a mark and guide him on the interpretation a bit, he'll inevitably tell himself what he needs to hear. But also that you do know what you're doing. I am impressed. And perhaps a little terrified, but I'm sure that's very healthy."

Gina collects the three cards - future, past, present, in that order if Ravn wants to obsess about some other detail - and then reaches right across to grab the rest of the deck of cards. "People are shit. They'll always hear what they want to hear." The words are casual, casual enough that her disdain for humanity seems quite sincere and matter-of-fact. "So you can imagine I'm giddy with joy that you approve of me." Deadpan, so deadpan. But the next words are a bit more sincere, "A little terror's healthy, yeah. Helps you live longer around Gray Harbor. The cards are shuffled as she talks, maneuvered this way and that before she taps them against the table, lightly and loosely, to even the edges. "A lot of people find causes, here. They do good work. Pointless work, but you seem like the kind of guy with a masochistic streak," Her eyes flit down to the omelette, rise again to make eye contact , "You'll take to the Harbor like a roach." ANd then she wraps her lips around the straw and takes another large, noisy sip.

"I think you don't give a flying fig on fire what I think. You humoured me because you're bored and seeing if you can get a rise out of some thinks-he-knows-it-all outsider gives you a giggle. And that's entirely fair." Ravn's eyes sparkle with amusement at that. "You might be right too -- or you might not be. I'm not used to thinking of myself as a masochist. I obsess far too much with my own issues to manage to suffer on the behalf of someone else, much less take out the time to find pleasure in doing so."

One eyebrow quirks up, "Honestly, it's more I thought you'd shut up and leave me alone faster if I showed you the shit than if I kept refusing. I knew I wouldn't get a rise out of you." Her lips curve again, in that humorless thing she pretends is a smile, "Conmen don't like being out of control." The voice is soft, careless, the milkshake straw tapped against her lower lip every once in a while. "Even masturbatorily masochistic ones." Another sip of of her drink, "So, if you're so busy solving your own drama - why are you getting involved in the murders?"

"Do you get a choice, in this town? Things happen to you here. Might as well roll with it -- or go have that breakdown on the next bus out of town. One of the bodies turned up at my feet." Ravn shrugs lightly and performs a not very magical disappearance act on the last bite of omelette. "You're not wrong about control, though. I really, really do not like losing control. But that doesn't mean I can't or won't give credit where credit is due. You're good."

What the hell.

"Besides," the Dane murmurs and reaches for his coffee which is rapidly approaching a glacial temperature. "My drama has a lot to do with being pretty damn shitty with people. This town's the first place I've been in a very long time where I wasn't crazier than everyone else. I like it here."

"Kick the corpse and walk away. Smarter choice." Gina points out with a trace of true amusement in her smile, now. She sounds...practical? Joking? Sincere? Casual? It's so hard to tell. "It's what I'd do. Involvement is pointless." The amusement doesn't fade, but only lingers as he talks about control or giving credit. It doesn't even fade when he talks about liking Gray Harbor. The cards in her hand are flipped together, that quick ssssssssssnick of the cards interlocking its own contribution to the conversation. Or perhaps Gina's own retort. Still, Gina herself eventually opens her mouth to add, "Gray Harbor is what it is. Liking and not liking don't have much to do with it. You belong here, or you don't. It sounds like you do." There's no acceptance or sympathy in Gina's eyes: she continues to look at him more as if he was a product of some kind than a person - but that's how her gaze has usually been. "You'll either die here, bones ground to dust, or you'll die outside after a miserable death." Like talking about growing tomato plants, or coffee tips.

Ravn sips his coffee, ignoring its temperature. "Realistically? I can do the math. I'm thinking I'll make it six months, a year if I'm lucky. Then some Veil creature snacks on me and that's it. No great loss. Life goes on. World does in fact not stop revolving around the Sun. Grand state burial fails to happen. But -- and that is a pretty big but, I know -- I might just end up feeling like life actually matters for those six months, maybe twelve. And I'm pretty attracted to that idea."

He chuckles and looks a little sheepish as his usual calm eventually repairs itself. "So -- do you have newcomers to town come in and confess their darkest secrets at you all the time, or am I even more embarrassing than most?"

"That's not how it works." Gina says, and her voice is once again-- not gentle. Low. Clear, but soft. Pragmatic, possibly making it even more terrifying. "They don't just want deaths or a little pain. You can die of blood loss or something, sure. But the shit heads in charge want attention. They want you to think you're special, so they can prove you wrong. They want you to feel happy, safe, comfortable, so they can take that all away, a little tiny twinge at a time." She's resting her weight on her elbows, keeping the conversation personal, especially now that the waitress and her husband/ex have taken their problems outside, and the line seems to be chugging along just fine. No one seems to mind or care what Gina and Ravn are up to, in their small section of the counter. "You're thinking it'll be quick. It's not, not always. And it won't always be about pain. Sometimes it's all just a setup to show you how pointless things can be." A small snort escapes Gina, before she turns around, adding more coffee to her milkshake. It turns into more of a slush when the hot coffee meets the cold treat, and she stirs it with a straw.

"I don't like people." A fact. "And people know I have a rock-bottom opinion of their bullshit anyway. So sometimes. But you're making yourself stand out on sheer arrogance, that's for sure." That not-quite-a-smile.

"Yes, I know," the Dane replies matter-of-factly. "I just told you -- I am pretty bad at people. I meant that. But for what it's worth, I do appreciate you taking the time to explain these matters to me, even if you happen to think I'm an idiot while doing so. I am trying to understand how all of this works. It does seem to me that the other side has gotten the order a bit wrong -- I was bloody miserable when I came here, and I feel a fair bit better being here. But you could be right and the Veil is just showing me a bit of what I've been missing out on before gutting the sacrifice. Either way, I get to be a little better off for a while, so I suppose I'll take that as it comes."

"Don't take it personally. You're bad at people. I hate people." Matter-of-fact returned with matter-of-fact. "But I don't mind hosting the pre-K class for the newcomers. If only because 'I told you so' is so fucking satisfying to say to somebody you don't like." Gina reaches and takes Ravn's mug - even if it's in his hand, unless he fights to keep it - to go refill it. Does he need more coffee? It doesn't matter what he thinks, this is the Black Bear Diner. "There's no chance you're not being force fed before being gutted. But you might as well enjoy the ride." The rest of her milkshake is thrown away: the cup of coffee is returned , refreshed, to Ravn, and the deck of tarot cards have been returned to their cabinet.

Who's going to complain about a coffee refill? Not the man in black, that's for sure. He smiles slightly at Gina's observation. "You're probably right. But as you say -- enjoying the ride is what I intend to do. It's what you're doing as well, isn't it?"

He glances around. It's not an entirely ridiculous assumption considering how the place is being run. It's fairly obvious to anyone with a shred -- even a very small shred -- of business sense that Gina's aim here is not to have the best, smoothest run eatery in town. The Black Bear screws with customers in so many ways that Ravn for one does not have enough fingers to count -- and probably not toes, either. "If nothing really matters, why not do what you want?"

"I'm retired." Gina points out, as if this is perfectly obvious and natural. "If I saw a dead body, I'd tell somebody to call the cops, step over it and go home to feed my cats." Of course Gina has cats. "Anarchy and self-rule's a cute concept, but it's bullshit. You prioritize what's important. A corpse might be interesting, figuring it out might be fun, but getting involved? It's tiring. You go do you, though." Her eyes flick back towards Ravn, "Whole new world for you. But I've been at this longer than you've been telling stories." And, in truth, there is a fleeting trace of just... resignation... in her eyes, before she shakes her head. "You'll learn, though. Maybe stick with October. He's deluded himself into thinking it's not all bullshit, so he's still got hope. Strong, too. Rude as fuck sometimes, though."

"Is he?" Ravn actually looks surprised at that. "August seems very polite from what I have seen -- kind, not the shallow kind of empty smile polite. I'm not arguing, mind you -- anywhere else in my life that's exactly what I would have done. Step back, call the police, let them do their job. Doesn't work like that here, though. Two days ago something I'm tempted to describe as a gremlin or house elf sank a boat in the marina, for one. It was going for mine next, only my cat beat the snot out of it. You can't just... step back, call the police, ignore things like that. They'll not be kind enough to ignore you right back."

That side of her mouth tips again, a sardonic look, "Oh, he's kind. And polite." And that's all Gina says on the matter, save that smile. "There's a difference between self-defense and involvement. Standing your ground doesn't mean running towards the fucker down the hallway, unless they're aiming for you. Eventually you'll learn to just deal with shit you need to and leave everything else alone. Unless you take up one of those causes or are looking for some kind of community service merit badge."

"I'll settle for not being bored and alone," Ravn murmurs. He can picture this woman and the botanist falling out. It's actually not all that hard. One is the embodiment of watch out for each other -- the other of every man for himself. On the Titanic, Gina would not wait for someone to announce that women and children go first; she'd elbow the bloody captain and commandeer a boat. Or bully the iceberg into shuffling off with an embarrassed look.

The hardest part about arguing with people is the realisation that they're probably right. But bloody hell if he's going to let that stop him from trying to prove her wrong. It's the duty of an arrogant person, is it not? "Have you?"

Wait till Ravn actually spends time around August and Gina, and realizes they don't actually hate each other! Anymore. For now, he can keep his daydreams. Since, well, they're mostly true. That iceberg wouldn't stand a chance. For now, however, one shoulder rises and falls, careless. "More than most. I don't get dragged into shit at nearly the frequency all you others hop around to. But I've been at this at lot longer than most of you." Gina's thirty. Thirty. Ravn's age, with her own small business and the air of someone who's seen it all and mocked it as it burned.

"And yet you don't strike me as particularly happy. If this place is as miserable as you say, why are you still here?" Ravn cants his head, studying the purple-haired woman with grey eyes that are -- well, razor sharp would be awkward and probably hurt quite a bit too, but on the whole, he may be a jackass but he's a fairly bright specimen of jackass. "You can't get out either, is my guess."

"Who said the point of life is to be happy Or that I'm not happier here than anywhere else?" Gina asks, both eyebrows raised at Ravn's pointed question. "Sustained happiness is the biggest fucking myth of America. Nobody who isn't deluding themselves can be happy all the time. You're happy in stages, content or satisfied or feeling competent the rest of the time." Another little derisive snort escapes Gina, "But yeah, I'll die in Gray Harbor. It's carved into my bones and it shudders in my blood." Gina's voice is just... factual. Indifferent, even, despite her colorfully purple language. "I've been out. For years. It's better here than there. I might eventually be happier out there. But I'd be a shit person who wasn't me. I am whatever the fuck I am, and I'm okay with that. Which is a fuck ton more than most happy people can say about themselves."

"So actually we are in agreement," the Dane notes and empties his cup. "Here is indeed better than there. Happy, content, satisfied -- sometimes, but every once in a while is better than never. I suppose that given the fact that I am not American, I can afford to admit that I don't really believe all that much in happiness on the whole. But here is indeed better than there. Which is a fuck ton more than I've said about anywhere else I've been in thirty years."

The shudder of disgust that briefly overcomes Gina at being in agreement with Ravn passes quickly! It only curled her lips and shook her shoulders while he emptied his cup - maybe he wasn't even looking at her when he did it? Don't people close their eyes and savor the last of their coffee? Who knows. But she's back under control quickly. "We're in the same mental spot. But on different tracks." Gina points out, quite bluntly. "But whatever. Pre-K is over, new kid," SAME AGED PEER, "I've said what I've got to say. Anything else you're curious about? I might not be this nice next time."

The Dane offers a small, crooked smile under grey eyes that glitter with some strange amusement, then shakes his head. "No. I think that about covers it. I'm always happy to compare notes about the existential angst of the human experience over a cup of coffee, but I think I've pretty much covered the basics. Besides, I wouldn't want to deprive myself of an excuse to come back, would I now?"

Now he's being annoying on purpose. And indeed, not even trying to pretend otherwise, the jackass.

"Whatever." Gina says, pushing away from the counter. "I'll even give you your next omelette on the house." A delicious slimy, half-burnt, chewy and somehow half liquid over-salted omelette, just for Ravn! Is Gina's smirk slightly malicious? Surely not.

And that's it. Gina just turns around and walks to the back, slipping into the kitchen. No goodbye, farewell, later. No sense of if she's gone for good or just gone to fetch something. She just decided to leave, so she left.

Ravn in turn finishes his coffee, not that much remains, and makes a solemn vow to order anything but that bloody omelette next time he visits.

You were absolutely right about that, Aidan. Good god, the horror.