2020-09-29 - Flying Toasters and Homeopathic Homebrews

This scene predates the The World Through Green Eyes event.

Trust.

Trust is what's between a cat and the person it has designated to be its food provider, kitty litter cleaner-upper, and bed warmer. Trust is what makes a stray like Kitty Pryde stay on the Vagabond in spite of the brutal betrayal of being grabbed by the scruff of the neck, stuffed into a cat carrier, and dragged off to be vaccinated and spayed.

She hasn't acknowledged Ravn since. With her shaved and stitched up little tummy and a system full of painkillers she seems to have decided that running off right now is not a smart move. But the way she glares at him, Ravn is quite convinced that it's only a matter of time. Fortunately, this is Gray Harbor, and Gray Harbor has people who talk to animals. Not the kind that advertise on Craig's List or Facebook. The real deal, people who sit down in front of a cat and find out what's up.

And that is why he asked Aidan Kinney to come out and perhaps have a talk with the cat, reassure her that no further violations of her bodily integrity are about to occur. It's strange, how attached a man can become to a stray cat in just a matter of weeks.

A cat has her dignity, and there is nothing dignified about being scruffed, nor shaved. She's probably sore, too, and in more than the emotional sense. Aidan has to agree that a diet of the silent treatment and feline glares is probably not an ideal sign, and so here he is, arriving with a small bag from Safeway. He's colour coordinated today, wearing a white button-down shirt covered in little blue and yellow songbirds, red jeans, yellow Docs, and a knee-length red velvet coat with red marabou feather trim on all the edges. It's not impossible it was more intended as a sort of robe, at some point, but it's a coat now.

It's possible the latter isn't the ideal thing to wear around cats. This hasn't occurred to him yet. Maybe he'll be lucky.

"Um. Knock knock!" he greets as he reaches the gangplank, since it seems a bit rude to walk on unannounced, even if Ravn happens to be able to see him at the time. "I'm here to see a man about a cat," he jokes, then tilts his head, considering, "Or a cat about a man? Both maybe."

"I think it's a cat about a man. An asshole of a man who violated her personal space and paid another man to torture her. Come on out, I even have a kettle of hot water on for instant coffee or tea, whichever you'd like." Ravn pops his head out from under deck and waves at Aidan. He rests his elbows on the boat roof a moment. "Thanks for coming out. On such short notice, I mean. I didn't want to lock her up below deck because I'm pretty sure that would be the last and ultimate betrayal, but the vet actually did say to keep her from wandering off on her own for a few days. I did consider just -- you know, heading out to sea for a bit because she's bloody well not going to swim home, but I have the morning shift at the Twofer tomorrow."

Kitty Pryde sits at her usual spot in the prow, next to the gang plank. The glare she gives Ravn and Aidan alike is easily translated: Stop making noise, I am sulking. Or possibly just, Wheelp, still high as a kite, bloody heck, make that ocean hold still.

While some might argue there are worse things than being high as a kite, there's a distinct difference in not doing it on purpose. Aidan couldn't blame her for looking like she's sulking even if it is the latter. "First you'd have to get her down there, and she doesn't look in the mood," he says, the nod suggesting this is agreement. "I mean, you could head out to sea for the time you're not at work, but yeah, I guess that's not exactly ideal either. Still though, I mean, you'd be berthed here when you're working either way so it's more, do you wanna use being out at sea to help with the rest of the time?"

This is, however, an at least partly rhetorical question, as he focuses on the cat, and gives her a small blink of the eyes as he makes his way onto the boat proper. "...did you already offer her tuna?" he asks, a little bit quieter -- possibly because of that glare. "And either one's good, coffee or tea, I mean. I'm not picky. Though if you have sugar that'd be good?" He sets the bag down on a handy surface. It clanks a little, suggesting it might contain cans. They could possibly contain tuna. Or peaches. As yet no one knows.

Kitty Pryde pops a green eye open at the sound of clanking cans. Recently sedated cat may be nauseous now but it's always good to know where the food stash is, for future reference. Apart from that, though, she doesn't seem inclined to move -- not even when Aidan has to literally step over her to get on board. On the up side, this also means that his Docs don't get shredded by sharp little claws.

"I have sugar, and I've even got a working refridgerator now though it's not very big. I can even get you ice cubes for your coffee, should you suffer from perversions of that nature." Ravn dives under deck a moment, only to return seconds later with an electrical kettle and a Danish butter cookies jar, the kind that Americans keep sewing supplies in. He opens it and reveals that they can in fact also be used for collections of tea bags, instant coffees, and stolen sugar packets. "The only thing I'd never use one of these for is cookies. Have you ever had those cookies? I swear, we invented them to be used as ammunition."

Definitely an upside. How often does a guy luck into a pair of used yellow Docs in his size? Scratching them up might actually get Aidan remembering he can fix that kind of thing -- he tends to forget he can heal the inanimate, which may be good on the whole. On the other hand, he's probably already some kind of stellar object; maybe he might as well be a quasar!

He brightens in an entirely different way at the confirmation of sugar, though he looks faintly disappointed when the tin turns out not to contain any actual cookies. Aw. "I kinda like 'em," he admits, "I mean, they're not my absolute favourites, but they used to show up around Christmas and people'd share 'em. And they're sweet and crunchy and kinda buttery? Though if someone's throwing something at me I'm kinda down with it being those." He glances over to Kitty Pryde again, considering. "Want me to start off with seeing if she's up for a chat?"

"I have never met a single Danish person who actually likes those cookies. They're the sort of thing cheap hotels serve with coffee because courtesy obliges them to serve something but they're bloody well not going to make an effort just for you. We keep home baked cookies in those tins, mostly. I've got various teas, some chai, instant coffee, cocoa -- anything you like that comes in a handy bag because a proper kitchen is the thing I don't have." Ravn grins lightly and puts the tin on one of the empty seats.

"I would really be glad if you would." The ship's cat -- owner, depending on whom you ask -- earns herself a concerned glance from steel grey eyes. "I think she's fine, just -- I'd hate to have her run off. Cats can't really go feral, you know. They inevitably starve to death."

"Well, I mean..." Aidan tilts his head a little. "Honestly, home-made cookies weren't really an option much? And those cookies are way better than no cookies. Like those pink wafer cookies, or chocolate chip ones that crunch? Pretty sure those aren't anyone's favourites but they're still, y'know, cookies." And Cookies Are Good. "When I was with the theatre, when we had an oven available people used to make them sometimes, though. Which. I have an oven." It's not quite an exclamation, though it may qualify as a mild epiphany. "I could bake cookies. I only really tried, like, meal food so far. I can do macaroni and cheese and chicken parmigiana and roasted vegetables and stuff like that. Also I do have a proper kitchen so you can use it sometimes if you want." His eyes narrow slightly. "Now I'm hungry. But, I mean... it's less good cooking just for one person, anyway."

He glances at the tin and its bags of Things to Drink, then goes for one of the packets of cocoa, which doesn't even need sugar. Theoretically. It's briefly checked to see whether it might be the kind that even contains tiny marshmallows, but only set down beside the tin for now, as there is a cat to broach. And a surprising claim. "How do all those feral colonies survive, then?" he asks, more confused than disbelieving, "Or is it more like... cats on their own don't do so hot? 'cause yeah even people it's kind of hard, and we have thumbs." Thumbs are mighty.

Taking a breath, he moves toward Kitty Pryde, slowly, and crouches nearby, though not close enough that he could reach her if he lunged. No crowding the irritated cat. And then, he goes ahead and tries to open up communications. "Hey, Kitty," he says softly, much as anyone else might. It just feels more natural that way. "How's it goin'?"

Bleeeech.

That's about how Kitty Pryde feels right now. Her tummy hurts. Not badly, but the stitches itch and her skin feels like it's a bit too small, and there's supposed to be fur. Her tummy feels drafty. Her insides feel weird. She's queasy, from the painkillers left inside her abdomen to release freedom from pain gradually while she heals.

She's certainly not forgotten that she was subjected to a carrier, nor by whom. She has every intention of pissing in Ravn's bunk once she feels a little better, and then make him placate her with tuna.

Most of all, though, she remembers three little kittens in a spaceship carrier. They felt familiar. Like they were hers, but not hers.

Not gonna screw with those. Enope. Stay away from those.

And also,

bleeeech.

Aidan can't help sympathising with all those feelings except maybe gonna-pee-in-Ravn's-bed, and even that's understandable, at least. He tries, instead, to give her a feeling of comfort and being cared for, even before he tries to let her know that Ravn is apologetic for the indignity (if not necessarily for doing it, per se, but these things can only be so fine-grained) or to probe for a little more information on the kittens. Three has him wondering if they're Dahlia's little trio, particularly with a reaction like that. Why stay away from those? Okay, the teeth are probably at the back of his mind, but this is... still a question.

"She's annoyed," he tells Ravn aloud, still aiming to be fairly quiet, "but I don't think she's contemplating moving on. I think she'll let you make it up to her, in a bit." It's only then it occurs to him he could ask the human about the other matter: "There were three kittens there?"

"At the vet?" Ravn looks up, quirking an eyebrow. "August Røn was there with his three little rescues, yes."

Coffee is being made along with the cocoa Aidan picked out. The Dane is even arranging little bits of tuna and chicken on a saucer, just in case Her Bleeechness decides to give eating another shot. "I suppose I'd be annoyed too. I did grab her, shove her into a carrier, and paid someone to take out her reproductive organs. Do you think you can convince her to tell you how I should do my sucking up?"

Aidan looks up from KP to Ravn, blinking. "August was? Are they-- are they little tabbies, or little black ones maybe? And did you happen to notice anything about, like, their teeth?" A pause, and he thinks to add, "Tuna, by the way. She was thinking tuna. Pretty sure chicken's not gonna offend her, though? But, um, also you might wanna pee-proof your bed, just in case food doesn't to it alone."

"... Please tell her not to pee in my bed." Ravn settles with his instant coffee and stirs it. He calls the contents of August Røn's spaceship carrier to mind and then nods. "Tabbies, yes. They looked pretty normal to me? Kitty was kind of intimidated by them, I think. I noticed because to be honest, there's not a lot that intimidates her, from what I've seen."

Aidan looks back to Kitty, and does in fact give it a more explicit go. Aloud, even. "Please don't pee in your human's bed. Might even be extra tuna in it for you. Tasty things." It's backed up mentally as best he can, though animals are trickier than humans in some ways. There's images, though, a little play of her not peeing on the bed, and Ravn being apologetic and giving her delicious treats and exactly as much petting as she demands.

That done, he briefly chews on his bottom lip. "Dahlia -- d'you know Dahlia? I only really met her recently -- has three tabby kittens too, with way too many teeth, and I think they're that black stray's babies. Which, I dunno why they're not at the shelter where that guy was taking them..." A pause, another small bout of lip-worrying. "I maybe need to go bug August. I was gonna hit the shelter and make sure there weren't others there, which, I guess I still should even if that makes six and that's a pretty good-sized litter, I think. Might be more anyway. Do you know if he got 'em there, maybe?"

Ravn scratches his chin, thinking back. "I don't think he said -- if he did say, I didn't pick up on it. Dahlia -- wait. Is her last name Evergreen? The vet nurse talked about a Ms Evergreen who had three tabbies that had too many teeth. And another batch of three tabbies that bit through a table. I think Røn and I were looking at each other and his kittens in a vaguely uncomfortable manner at that point. The nurse seemed to think his were the same."

He taps his lip. "So if you're right, there's nine of the little buggers. Maybe you're right. Maybe we should be worried."

Tuna is good, Kitty Pryde cedes.

The three tabbies in their unusual carrier though?

Smelled wrong. Looked at her wrong.

Mental images of three little pairs of yellow-green eyes winking.

Cats blink with both eyes, as a greeting, or as a sign of affection. Cats do not wink.

Not cats.

"Um... I dunno. I don't think she ever told me her last name," Aidan says, looking a little unsettled as he contemplates the idea of nine. And if there's nine, what if there's even more? "So then... there's someone else out there too with another three of 'em and we dunno who. That seems kinda..."

He trails off, standing, and moves over to claim his cocoa and stir it. "Kitty says they're not cats, which, I mean we kinda know, they are and they aren't both. At least, Dahlia's. They want to know they're real, and real kittens seems good? They kinda communicate. And, like... some of what they do I think they wouldn't if they know kittens shouldn't be able to? Like, they tore through a nylon bone but I got the feeling it was kinda like when the Coyote runs out over thin air before he looks down. If you know what I mean. And you should definitely give her lots of good tuna. Anyway, she says they smell wrong. And the winked. Which. Mostly cats don't do." The cocoa gets a sip, and the moment it's had to cool is apparently enough to prevent him regretting it too much. "I think... prolly I better go to the shelter. And talk to August. And tell Dahlia. And... and I dunno how we find the other three unless the vet wants to tell us who had 'em."

"I could go ask the vet," Ravn offers. "She talked to Røn, in front of me. She knows that I know -- you know? I can text you what she tells me, if she's willing to talk."

The description of Wile E. Coyote's negotiations with cartoon world gravity him pause. After a moment he nods. "That -- makes sense in context. I'll go buy out Gray Harbor's tuna supply and slip past the vet clinic. Let's not panic, though. We don't know about the third batch, but we do know that Røn's kittens are pretty -- cat. And so are Dahlia Evergreen's. Right? Right. I have been doing my homework and I do have a couple of ideas -- it's just that none of them are perfect matches. If these were cat sidhe they'd have... an agenda of a sort. Besides, well, being cats."

"I'm not panicking, just-- I mean, I think it'd be good to know where they all are and hopefully they're all with people who're, um. Like us? They've got the spark. It's weird though, 'cause it seems... I dunno, I got the feeling like they weren't born with it exactly?"

Aidan moves to sit for a moment and drink his cocoa, and he nods. "They're pretty cat, outside the weird bits. The kittens seem like they want to be kittens. They like being treated like kittens. I think it makes them feel like they fit, kinda. What's a she? I mean, in this context? And what kind of agenda are we talking? But, yeah, if you think the vet's more likely to tell you..." He's okay with that.

Ravn leans back on his seat and mentally puts on his professor glasses (except that he does not use glasses and does not hold a professorate, but, as they say in the town of Randers, Denmark, don't hang yourself in the details, that's what we've got a rope factory for). "Cat sidhe. Or Cat sith, depending on which tradition. A black cat or cats from the faerie realm who sometimes steal souls but they can also bring blessings. Some of the 'king of the cats' style cat sidhe stories are found pretty much all over Europe, not just in the Celtic tradition. We've even got a couple of Nordic ones. However, the Black Stray you saw -- I saw that too. It doesn't have a white spot on the chest -- the Celtic cat sidhe does or do. The Nordic vaetta cats are grey mackerel tabbies, though."

He shakes his head. "I don't think these are faerie world creatures. Inspired by faerie stories, maybe -- lots of things out of the Veil seem to be. But definitely not sticking to the script if they are, because the cat sidhe don't kill, at least not directly. And that woman in the dumpster, she'd been killed pretty bloody directly. So the way I see it? Kitty Pryde's told us everything she probably can. So have the kittens themselves, from what you and Røn both say. Let's hit the shelter and the vet, see if there's more, or something we missed? And we, or you, whatever works, might want to talk to Røn again as well. Put our heads together -- I mean, I don't think anyone wants to give up their cats but if there's something very Gray Harbor going on, maybe we can..."

Ravn gestures a little helplessly, thinking of the expression on August Røn's face when he realised that maybe his three little rescues were not just little mackerel furballs. "Well, maybe we can find some solution that works for us, and for them."

Aidan sips his cocoa and listens, head just a little bit cocked. Hmmm. "Okay, what's a vaetta? Also a king-of-the-cats kinda thing? Though. The black stray'd be more of a queen-of-the-cats, really. But. Yeah. Vet and shelter, and then we can see about talking to the others. We gotta at least keep track of them, I think. 'cause, yeah, there's definitely something pretty Gray Harbor going on with this, for sure. But. That isn't always necessarily really bad? And if the kittens wanna be kittens, then maybe we can just kinda help them be kittens and things'll be okay. Though. If there's a vet around who's like us that'd maybe be the person to take them to for stuff, 'cause..." 'cause a cat with telekinesis is not going to be the easiest patient, he suspects. "But, yeah. Vet and shelter first. You wanna go now? Or, I mean, after we finish our drinks, anyway?"

Professor glasses go back on. "A vaetta or vætte is a nature spirit. They live kind of parallel lives to ours, mirroring our own. The story I'm referencing basically goes like -- someone's driving home from a market day. When he drives past the local hill or barrow where the vætter live, he hears a voice calling out to him, saying something like, "Tell Atte that Watte is dead." He gets home and tells his wife that he heard somebody shouting at him on the road but he didn't see anyone. She asks, of course, what he shouted, and he tells her. And then their old grey cat jumps off wherever nice and warm place it's been snoozing and says, 'Is Watte dead? I gotta get home and take over, then!" Out the door it goes, never to be seen again. Because the cat was actually a nature spirit estranged from his brother, and now he's going home to inherit."

Ravn looks sheepish. "Anyhow. Yes. Vet and shelter. We should do this. And I am pretty sure that these cats are not in fact disinherited faerie princes."

Aidan grins at the story, and takes another drink of his cocoa -- bigger ones, now, 'cause they've got places to be. "Well I mean. They could be faerie princes? But I don't think they know about it if they are. Though that kinda sounds like it'd be an okay thing for them to be, if that cat just acted like a plain old cat until it was time to go away and live its other life. Though I guess... some of how we take care of cats might piss off a nature spirit, maybe." He blinks. "Think that's why she's pissed? 'cause she's some kind of nature spirit?" He drinks down the rest of his cocoa in one decent go, setting the empty cup down with a quiet, "Thanks. Anyway... I'm ready when you are. Do we wanna go get my van?"

"Your van is probably a safer bet than my rented car," Ravn admits. "If I'm staying around I'm going to have to get something more permanent in that regard at some point. And I guess -- I mean, let's get real, I am staying around. I have a boat and a cat, and to top it off, I'm probably going to be renting Vic's trailer for the cold months. Might as well just get used to the idea and buy a proper car."

He finishes his instant coffee, emptying the last drops over the railing. "It's -- possible? I guess we tend to default to Veil here but there's no actual rule that says nothing else can be in play, is there? I don't actually believe in faerie and spirits and whatnot, not in the traditional sense. But whatever the Veil is, it very obviously can adapt existing folklore -- Babylonian gods, Aztec gods, the Headless Horseman, and so on. It might easily adopt Celtic sidhe or Nordic vætter as well, I suppose. Which means, yes, it could be some kind of nature spirit, or at least the emulation of one."

"I dunno, the rental's prolly like a couple decades newer and they gotta worry what people paying them think," Aidan says, "but it's a good van! And yeah, it'd prolly be good to get something you weren't renting, 'cause that's gotta add up, right? Bet Itzhak could help you find a decent thing, 'cause, y'know, mechanic."

He watches Ravn to figure out where his cocoa cup ought to go, and when that's handled, he at least is ready to go, and starts heading that way when his host is too. That plate of tuna and chicken ought to do Kitty for the time being, particularly given her current state of blech, so no real reason to dally. "Emulating a nature spirit sounds a lot better than a lot of the stuff it could choose. I mean. Maybe not super since we know the first one's fine with killing people and it prolly had the kittens do it, but... I dunno, the ones I met, they weren't killers in the, like, we're vicious and malicious kind of way. They're babies. And they liked us, and being kittens." It's a bright side, right?

Ravn nods and winces slightly at the mention of the New Yorker. "I mean, that's definitely who I'm going to ask for help. At some point. Just, he's got a lot on his plate and a lot of that is my fault. I'm a little wary of adding more, at least right now. It's... complicated. But then, I suppose that everything in this bloody town is complicated." He glances at Kitty Pryde. "Except them. Which is what I love about them. Cats are ultimately selfish creatures. They're very up front about what they want and need. They are honest. I'm not so great with dogs because dogs are just that bit better at social mechanisms that they can actually lie to you. Cats just piss in your shoe."

So the van is not impressive. Ravn is largely indifferent; it gets him where he needs to go which seems to be more than can be said for the car he rented himself. Prone to random refusals to ignite, he's already quite tired of it. It's not often he misses his old life back home but when it comes to a decent ride that just works and gets him from one place to another without a fuss? Yes. Absolutely. Miss that. "You know the vet clinic down town? That's the one we went to."

"How's it your fault?" Aidan asks, confused by that, but the theories on cats v dogs and humans gets a thoughtful look, and a small nod. "I like both, but, more when they aren't pissing in my shoes."

To be fair, the van is impressive, in its way. It's impressive it runs. 'A couple decades' was generous; this is almost certainly older than Aidan and possibly by a fair bit. But, it's also apparently been taken decent care of over those many years, albeit never updated and looking as though it's likely been lived or at least camped in in the not too distant past. But it's tidy inside and it smells okay! As far as the clinic, Aidan has to consider just a moment before he nods. "Yeah, I think I know it," he agrees, and if he's wrong... well, there's not enough distance in town to be very wrong.

As it turns out, he's not, and soon enough they're finding a parking space for the van. Onward and vetward!

Nurse Constanza Flores is not a difficult woman to identify for two intrepid amateur sleuths, one of whom has seen and spoken to the woman previously. She is one of two vetenarian's nurses currently affiliated with the clinic and -- as Ravn pointed out earlier -- the other is not a female. Also, her name is printed on the lanyard on her chest. Deductions worthy of a Sherlock Holmes are not required here.

Flores is a Hispanic-looking woman in her late twenties, early thirties; no one you would look after twice in any capacity unless you knew what you're looking for in the first place. A non-descript person, ordinary, normal. Except for that little bit of something which probably is how come she's the one clinic employee who may notice things such as mackerel tabby kittens with too many teeth. Or indeed piece together that the cat mouth-shaped hole in a table does in fact originate from a cat mouth and not some strange, structural damage that's probably to be blamed on climate change, the poor quality of the wood, and coindence.

The wait room holds a few people, one with a guinea pig and the other with a labradoodle that looks a tad grumpy but not too sickly. The lack of crowd makes it easy to approach the counter and indeed, easy to not get overheard.

"Hi," Ravn tells Nurse Flores. "You probably don't remember me but I was in here earlier with my stray who needed to be vaccinated and spayed. I was with Mr Røn and his three kittens. You told us about Ms Evergreen's kittens, and another litter of three tabbies."

The Dane pronounces August Roen's name in a way that causes the nurse to blink and pause to do a bit of mental piecing it together before she nods. "Oh yes, I remember. The, er, unusual kittens. Mr Roen's kittens seem quite normal, though. At least compared to the others." Her brown gaze wanders a moment, to the edge of the counter.

It has bite marks. Cat mouth-shaped bite marks, suitably sized for a kitten. There's a piece missing, like a cartoon shark having taken a bite out of a cartoon table.

Aidan is an exceedingly amateur detective, but this deduction is indeed well within his expertise! Particularly when Ravn's there to say 'that one there' and back up the whole only-one-female-nurse-here thing. And the badge. Yeah, okay, it's not one of the world's harder mysteries.

The same cannot be said about the kitten situation as a whole, of course. Aidan gives her the sort of bright smile that's served him quite well over the years, intentionally or otherwise, and adds his own, "Hi! Nice to meet you, I'm Aidan. I know Dahlia's kittens. How are Mr. Roen's more normal? And..." he follows her gaze to the counter, looking at the damage, "...did one of them do that?"

Nurse Flores glances at the bite hole and winces slightly. Then she glances back at Aidan in that particular fashion newcomers to Gray Harbor soon learn to associate with being checked out -- not in a sexual context but as to whether you've got the thing. The Art, the shine, the music, the light, the sparke, the presence, the glow, the pull, the whatever it feels like to the person doing the checking. The results come in positive; Nurse Flores' eyes even widen a little because as far as shine powerhouses go, Aidan Kinney is definitely up there. "Yes. Not Ms Evergreen's bunch -- the other one. The Evergreen kittens are -- surprisingly well behaved given the circumstances. They have far too many teeth and they chew things but they still act like cats. The other litter, though."

She sighs lightly, in the fashion of someone who finally gets to spill the beans after having tried to alert her veterinarian to the situation half a dozen times and getting told off for imagining things. It's almost like opening a flood valve.

"The Jankowski litter. They're the same as Roen's and Evergreen's -- three mackerel tabbies. I'm not even sure that there's anything unusual about Roen's bunch, although, if you put those kittens in the same room, you won't be able to tell which one is which. At least not at a glance. The Jankowski lot aren't friendly, however. The Jankowskis got them from the shelter and I am telling you, there is something wrong with those cats." Flores waves her hands as she talks, and the gesture she makes at wrong includes snapping motions of one hand, like something that bites. "They're angry. I know it sounds crazy, but those cats are looking for a chance to hurt somebody. I wore the gauntlets while handling them -- thick pig leather up to my shoulder, and I was terrified. They bite through tables. I have no idea how the Jankowskis even keep them. Mrs Jankowski was all sunshine and bubbles, it's like she doesn't even realise."

Aidan is not exactly unused to being checked out that way, not around here. The reaction's not a first either, truth be told. The sense that she's checking it is actually slightly comforting; not everyone who shines actually knows anything about the situation, even here. He nods a little at the first part of the answer, eyeing that bite mark again before he looks to her again.

The name's noted; there's a flicker of surprise at the note about Roen's batch, which he's clearly going to have to try to ask about, but which is also probably in about the best possible hands. "Those three seem just-- normal?" he asks, "I mean, like... entirely your standard kinda kittens?" The rest has him absently gnawing his bottom lip, and nodding again. "So it's kinda like... a spectrum thing happening? From normalish to not? And the scary end's with the Jankowskis. ...I dunno them." This might be a small problem. "Are they, um. You said she doesn't seem to realise, is she, you know, not equipped to notice that kinda thing. Like..." Another glance to the bite mark, the one that she's probably the only one here who can remember the true cause of.

"Dahlia's kittens, it's like they want to be... kittens. I mean, normal kittens. They just don't totally know what that means they shouldn't be able to do, I think?" He speaks a bit quietly, just in case; no need to get wary looks from a worried labradoodle owner. "But treating them like kittens makes them feel... I dunno, kitteny. Only, it sounds like the Jankowskis would be treating theirs that way and they're still, well, terrifying." He glances to Ravn, then back to the nurse. "I mostly wouldn't ask, but. Any chance you could tell me where I could find them, please?"

"I'm not allowed to give out that kind of information." The veterinarian nurse wants to, that much is obvious. There are two people standing right here who see the things she sees, people to whom this actually makes sense and at least one of them is shining like a Cape Cod lighthouse in the dark of night. But it's her job on the line -- patient confidentiality is very much a thing, also for veterinarians and their nurses. Clinics can get sued for breaking patient confidentiality.

Maybe that's why she walks over to engage the owner of that labradoodle in a very serious discussion about the food allergy that causes its paws to bleed. And doesn't exit the database on the computer screen on the counter while she does so.

Ravn glances at Aidan and then at the computer. Then he follows the nurse. "Excuse me? One of my parents' dogs had that very same problem. Turned out the poor sod was allergic to road salt. Have you tried essential oils and zink supplements? I have a friend who swears by homeopathic treatments --"

The labradoodle owner is a blonde woman in her forties wearing the kind of knitted sweater that you buy on Etsy to support someone's organic sheep farm and homespun yarn shop. She wears a large rosequartz pendant around her neck and a fingerring with an ankh symbol. She is being approached by an admittedly quite attractive and very much intent on charming man ten years younger, focusing all of his keen interest on her and poor little Robbie the Labradoodle with the paw injury. Talk to me, Ravn's body language and facial expression says. Tell me everything. Tell me about that meditation course you did, with the weed and the shaman drumming sessions.

Hustler knows how to cold read and turn it up to eleven to create a suitable distraction. One which, perhaps not all that surprisingly, Nurse Flores joins into, promptly beginning to lecture them both on the pitfalls of taking medical advice from Google and Facebook grandmothers.

The result is certainly distracting. One could almost feel sorry for that poor woman with the labradoodle.

Aidan looks about to try to persuade her more intensely before she's heading dogward; surely he'd have caught on by himself soon enough, but he glances after her and than to Ravn, catching the look to the computer and following it. It probably makes the lightbulb come on a little faster than it would've otherwise.

He can't help watching the Distraction a bit, arguably a matter of professional appreciation, but since it's important to be keeping track of who's paying attention to what -- and specifically, him -- at least he has a pretty decent excuse. He's not amazing with computers, but if he's lucky, that won't matter. He eases gently around the edge of the counter toward the monitor, to get a look at what currently shows, and whether he'll need to risk actually poking around.

And there it is, indeed -- the name and the address. Ms Jankowski, kittens Eeny (female), Meeny (female), and Moe (male). A small house in the suburbian part of town, firmly planted in the middle class, so very normal. Definitely didn't read the part of the traditional script where villains live in miserable hovels or sparkly penthouses, but never in a two-bathroom Cape Cod style house with a carport and a nice lawn. A phone number, an email address.

All three kittens having received their shots and dewormers. A note to wear gloves when handling -- Moe bites.

Over there, at least, the distraction seems to be working. The woman with the rose quartz necklace and the labradoodle looks almost dazed -- she's standing between one tall guy with an accent going on about homeopathic cures and in the other corner, a veterinarian nurse ranting about idiots who look up their restoratives and symptoms on Google and WebMD instead of seeing a genuine practitioner, and honestly if the situation wasn't quite so serious, the appropriate thing to do here might just be setting off the fire alarm or turning a fire hose on them both.

The screensaver kicks in. It's flying toasters. No, really. 1995 called, it wants its graphics back.

Aidan has a pretty good memory, but just to be certain, he slides his phone out to take a picture of that screen, and then flips to a notepad app to jot the important bits down as well -- mainly, that number and address. The names, he's unlikely to forget. It's really pretty quick, even if that screensaver makes him blink. Has he ever even seen that before? He was maybe two when it was current.

The temptation to try poking around further is resisted; he's pretty sure he's got the bits he needs, and he wouldn't want to risk causing the nurse more trouble. Instead, he slides back around to the front of the counter, leaning up against it backward, phone hidden away again, and watching the Distraction more directly, now. Clearing his throat feels a little too obvious, so instead, after a few moments, he chimes in with, "Little boots would be really cute, though. I mean, for that road salt situation? Maybe not so helpful for allergies, I guess. But it'd still be cute."

Labradoodle lady shoots Aidan a look of sheer gratitude. Unaware that she is indeed the target of the distraction going on, all she knows is that for some strange reason she's trapped between a tall guy with an accent and a nurse with a temper. Both of whom for some reason suddenly appear to come to their respective senses and agree that actually, boots might be a great idea, but let's hear what the actual veterinarian has to say, too. Labradoodle lady will probably never be quite certain how exactly the fellow with the dark curls managed to negotiate this cease-fire. She will, however, think of him fondly for a while for doing so.

The rest of the people in the waiting room look disappointed though; watching the three-way argument killed time more effectively than thumbing through the various outdated pet magazines lying around for perusal.

Only when the two men are safely back outside does Ravn ask, "Did it work? Please tell me I did not just give a speech in defence of home-made homeopathic cures for nothing. The academic in me is cringing."

Aidan gives the Labradoodle Lady a bright, friendly grin, and thanks Nurse Flores for her time and help, once she's back behind the counter. Once he and Ravn are outside again, that question makes him laugh. "They live over off Spruce," he says, "so at least your inner academic probably isn't cringing in vain? I got a phone number, too, but that kinda seems like it'd be even trickier to work with than just kinda showing up."

He lightly chews his bottom lip as he heads toward the van. "Not that that's, like, ideal exactly, either. I guess I gotta figure out exactly what I'm actually hoping to do about this before I figure out how. Like. If they're sparklecats and these ones are more... dangerous and they're with normal people, should I be trying to get them away? Or. Try to somehow get them convinced they're normal kittens?" The doors are unlocked, the lip still getting worried a bit. "I could...I'm pretty sure I could try to talk to them from outside. The kittens. See what's in their minds. It kinda feels better when I can see them like, literally, but I don't actually have to..."