2020-10-09 - Tennis Matches

The sky is clear and the air isn't too cold for an autumn day; the hour is early and the evening rush is still hours off. There's a couple of lingering tourists sitting around on the deck with the Twofer's famous tater tots, and the occasional regular wanders past the bar to order something not too complicated from the Sith Apprentice -- are you going to tell Vic Grey that that's a silly designation? No, didn't think so. Bad Dark Side jokes it is.

Ravn doesn't mind. He's got the basics down but let's be honest here -- those who want complicated drinks ask the other bartender, the one who knows what she's doing. He still spends most of his time cleaning tables, picking up empty glasses, and entertaining out-of-town patrons with silly sleight of hand tricks. He's pretty good at that, even without 'cheating'.

Zoey is seated at a side table with a mound of tatertots before her, being picked out methodically as she watches the people in the bar, her earbuds in, her toe tapping out a beat on the benchseat before her. There is a sketchpad in her lap, but her pencil is behind her ear, a half-drawn anime hero roughed out on the paper in mid-air strike to some villian. When Ravn passes near, she shoots a foot out and taps him on the outside of his thigh, "Hey, bartender. Can I get another vodka?" The red Kinky kind, her brand.

"Absolutely not. Cutting you off until that drawing is done, young lady." The service here is impeccable; at least the tourists at the next table blink, then seem to realise that from the exchanged looks, there's some kind of in-joke here. An assumption which turns out to be proven quite true in short time when the barback wanders past again, dish cloth over one arm and a shotglass of bright red alcohol on a small tray -- served up with maraschino cherries on toothpicks and a suitably bright yellow paper umbrella. Because if you're going to drink something Ravn finds to be ridiculous, and he knows you can take a joke, expect to be ridiculed.

He puts the glass down in front of the artist and rests his hip against the table, arms crossed across his chest and smiling. "Getting ideas for the festival, or just doodling?"

Zoey blinks, offended and shocked at first... but then she laughs. A laugh that sounds like music in many areas. Her fingers find the pencil tucked behind her ear as she says loudly, "FINE! Meanie!" There is a smile on her face, though, as that pencil starts scritching and scratching on the surface of the art paper once more. All is right in the world. Even if the tourists at the next table don't get that, at least until Zoey looks up and gives them a big, saucy wink. Then that drink is delivered and she flutters at Ravn, "Oh thank you kind sir!" Overacting. It's a talent.

More quietly when he rests against the table, she shrugs, "Ideas and just getting things out of my head." She shows the paper, "That's you!" her finger indicates the mid-air hero.

"I can fly? There's a skill that might come in handy some day." Ravn looks at the sketch pad with that particular mix of curiosity and awe prominent in those who cannot draw a straight line with a ruler if their lives depend on it. "I'm surprised you're not making money off this -- isn't Patreon a thing anymore, or does that sort of thing not work in Gray Harbor?"

Zoey actually gives a sigh, a pointed one. "I made almost a quarter million on Patreon, and with my published works, but that mostly came from Japan. Turns out, it takes a lot of effort and time to market one's self to draw a crowd. Then you have to factor in the greedy, demanding publishers making deadlines move around on you to "take advantage of the climate" when it comes to Cons and everything," she trails off, sighs again. "I kinda walked away from it. It became a job and a chore, not a love. I've only started drawing again when I came here," she says with a flippant shrug.

A slow grin spreads on Ravn's face. "So you're rich and single, is that what you're saying?"

He leans in a little to take a closer look at the drawing. "I'll be the first to admit that I don't know much about art. Certainly not about cartoon style art. I've always been impressed by those who can do this. Take a picture that's in your mind and somehow put it out there, make it real, get the rest of us to see it too. It's an amazing talent to have. I can't imagine how terrible it must be to lose the will to do it -- but I'm glad you found it again. Gray Harbor is good for something, it seems."

Zoey shrugs a shoulder, "I'm not destitute? And just because I earned that much doesn't mean that it's still in the account. Most of it got spent, or given to people that I love, to ensure that they were taken care of when I stuck my thumb out on the highway to come north." Reaching for her drink, she takes a sip as he looks over the drawing, angling it for him. "Just like anything, it just takes passion and talent, right? Do something enough, you're bound to get good at it. Yeah, it's inspiring, this place. I'll give it that!"

"I'm teasing, Zowie. Passion and talent." The barback looks at the drawing properly (and the tourist couple at the next table absolutely crane their necks too). "I've seen some of Grant Baxter's work too. Gray Harbor has a thing for artists from what I've noticed. Like I said last night -- warriors and artists. Painters, writers, musicians. It likes us."

Ravn walks around the table to pull out a chair; things are quiet still and it's not very likely that his services are going to be in high demand any moment -- at least not until the next yachter drops a plate of onion rings face down and gets grease all over the floor, or some tourist's kid gets sick all over the restroom. It's a job. It's not a glamorous job.

Settling on that chair and resting his chin on one gloved hand he watches the artist at work. "You and Grant need to talk art sometime. And when you do, I want to sit there and just listen and soak up the atmosphere."

A little laugh, "I think that the Pacific Northwest is sort of a Mecca for artists, Ravn, not just this place. It's kind of nice having a place so peaceful... well," she gives a shrug, "Maybe not here, but someplace like it, right?" Considering his words, a grin slips to her lips, "Sounds like a good friend to have, another artist, yes? You should set it up, a tatertots-and-pencils date or something."

A beat later, she decides to look Ravn in the eye, "You know, the other night on the boat. That was nice. I wanted to thank you for that. The first time I've hung out with anyone, really."

"You've met Grant. Purple-haired kid at the Waffle Shop. Skater. Artist. Mouth and mind runs at a speed where the rest of us often just sit and stare at him blankly but he's the nicest kid on the west coast. He's from one of the two 'big families' of the town but he's got no airs about him about it whatsoever." Ravn ponders Zoey's suggestion a moment. "You know, maybe when I know the boss better I might suggest it. Only met him once so far."

He nods slightly at her observations about boats and hanging out. "Apart from the fact that we never did get our pizzas. I figure we should do it again sometime -- though we may have to pick up the pizza ourselves. Poor delivery kids keep getting assaulted, they're going to stop delivering to the marina, I suspect."

"Oh!" she blinks, "I guess I forgot his name! I suck at names. Took me two days to remember yours!" The bit about the boss confuses her a second, but she nods in understanding that he might have to clear it with someone, somewhere. Likely Grant! It occurs to her that it is not unlike setting up a blind date. She is stirred from that thought by the musings on delivery to the marina, "What? Seriously? Whoa, I guess I was lucky you let me sleep it off till dawn, huh? Last thing I need is to be assaulted!"

"To be fair, no one here can pronounce mine, nevermind spell it. I actually keep a list of how people mispronounce my last name." Ravn cracks a small grin. "I'm not that great with names and faces myself. But yeah. It's a long story and I don't know half of it."

He lowers his voice a little and leans in a little --perhaps in order for the next table to not overhear every word. "Bloke disappeared into the Veil months ago. I got hired on by one of the bartenders, though of course she cleared it with Marshall's partner who ran the place in his absence. Everything's a little chaotic at the moment but that seems to be pretty par for the course in this town. I'm not sure what his take is on things like artists' days but there's only one way to find out, I figure. I know that a friend of his -- and mine -- plays at the Eighty-Eight piano bar, might be small concerts or amateur nights could become a thing here too." He pauses, and then shrugs. "Or it might be I should mind my own business. Only one way to find out with a new boss. Old boss. Something."

Zoey laughs at that, leaning into the booth seat and laying her head against it, watching Ravn speak. He's always so funny. There's a little hero worship in her eyes as he goes on, even if the subject is somber. It's in the delivery, man! Lifting her head, she looks around, "It seems that the chaos is pretty well handled, don't you think? For being shot up and whatever, this place looks fine." A shrug, "I don't think that anyone minds their own business in this town. Doing so leaves you on your own, out on a limb, and that seems super dangerous. Don't you think? So... in this case... asking questions is saving your life, right?" Over-simplification meets exaggeration!

"Bar had to close for a few days for repairs. I'm pretty surprised it got re-opened this fast, I admit." Ravn glances back at the windows; some of them still have the new glass labels on; repairs are not entirely over with yet. "I'm getting the feeling it's not the first time. No one's said as much outright but talking to the repair crew and some of the patrons -- you get the feeling that this sort of thing happens at the Twofer every once in a while. Maybe because there's so many of us here regularly. Which is honestly the sort of thinking that makes me contemplate becoming an accountant in Seattle, so let's not go down that road."

Into the Two If By Sea slumps an Alexander. He looks disheveled and borderline homeless, as usual, with the oversized green army jacket and the sweater that it's still a bit too warm for hanging down to his mid thigh. His jeans are likewise old, and those stompy black workboots have seen things, THINGS. He's also carrying a glass vase filled with flowers. Mostly daisies, freesia, and other common blooms. He hesitates in the door, then moves towards the bar. "Hey," he says, to Ravn, throwing Zoey a wary look, like she might sprout fangs. He puts the flowers on the bar. "For Bennie and Easton. Are they here?"

Zoey's eyes get wider at the flowers, giving Ravn a look, clearly unsure what that is all about. But, since Alexander's wary look, the purple-haired pixie girl just keeps her greeting to herself, a little confused. It's not her fault that she tucks her feet up next to her butt in the booth, wrapping arms around her knees as she watches. Ah, defensiveness.

"Just me and the early birds so far," Ravn replies to the other man, raising a gloved hand in a hello. "But I can get you something if you want to wait? Pretty certain Zoey here would like to say hello. She's new in town and ... one of us. Trying to show her the ropes a little but I'm still learning them myself, so I don't have answers to half the questions."

He glances back to the girl with the sketch pad. "This gent's Alexander Clayton. He's probably one of the people in town who knows most about how things work here. Definitely the right man to ask about Gray Harbor. Alexander, this is Zoey -- she's the new waitress at the Black Bear." Beat. "And I've absolutely forgotten your last name, Zoey." Ravn looks sheepish.

Zoey lifts a hand half-ensconced in the sleevecuff of her sweatshirt, giving Alexander a bit of a quick wave, "Hey." While still watching Alexander closely, she says to Ravn, "Lowenn." The last time she was introduced to someone In The Know, she met Gina, and that can be a bit of a drinking-from-the-firehose experience, so Alexander is watched. That's when she says, simply, "Waffle Shoppe."

Alexander squints at Ravn a bit. "I don't think anyone knows exactly how things work here. The town has just tried to kill me a lot, and consistently failed thus far." He glances at Zoey. "My advice? Leave. Immediately. Don't come back. But you've probably already been told that, and you're still here. So. Hi., Miss Lowenn." He smiles, then studies her. "An artist?"

"Myes, I think we've all said that. And Zoey pays as much attention to that advice as I did. Actually more -- she really did consider leaving for a day." Ravn smiles lightly. "What can I get you, Clayton? Don't say nothing. I owe you for that speech you gave me on the beach as is."

Zoey gives a nod with a light smile to Alexander, a motion of her hand toward the sketchpad on the booth table, a drawing of an anime hero and villian mid-fight. "I even stood at the bus stop for half an hour before I decided that maybe staying was smarter. To learn what this is," the emphasis on the word maybe calling back to what Ravn insinuated.

Alexander leans in a bit to study the drawing. "Dynamic. I like the action." He leans back, shakes his head at Ravn. "You don't owe me anything. I wouldn't mind a pop, though. It's warm out there." Not really, but he is wearing a sweater AND a coat. He sort of slinks to an empty chair and considers them both. "Which part of this are you interested in, Miss Lowenn? It's mostly all bad, but it is somewhat interesting. From a certain perspective."

Ravn vacates his chair and wanders bar-wards with a chuckle. He glances back a moment while trying to decide what kind of soda (not pop, damnit) a man like Clayton wants. Until recently, Ravn lived in the illusion that soda is basically soda. A few weeks of bartending has certainly broadened his horizons in that regard. It's not a Pepsi versus Coke issue. It's a Pepsi versus Coke versus Dr Pepper versus root beer versus half a dozen other brands that a foreign guy doesn't even begin to recognise.

He settles for Coke in the end, filling a glass with ice cube and bring that along with the bottle and a straw. Because that's another argument junior bartender is not having either -- straw versus glasses. The only thing Ravn is sure about when it comes to straw versus glasses is that Americans love to argue, and if they don't have something to argue about they'll bloody well make something up. He picks out a similar combination for himself (and tops up the beer of the older guy in the corner who basically just wants a place to sit outside of the wind).

The door to the Twofer open, admitting Seth into the newly renovated interior of the establishment. Pausing at the door, the large bouncer removes his sunglasses, unbuttons his blazer, and slips them into the neck of his white button down shirt as he surveys the repairs, and takes a gander at the people milling about eating tots or having a drink. Satisfied by what he sees, Seth strolls forwards towards the bar, lifting a hand in greeting towards Zoey and Ravn, the latter he gives a mischievous grin, "I'll keep it simple. How about just a scotch, neat. I'm pretty sure you can handle that, Darth."

A Seth reaches the bar, the tall man 'Rikers' over the back of the chair to take a seat at the counter, glancing over towards Alexander for a brief moment before turning his attention to Zoey in her booth, "Hey there. How's the waffle business?"

Zoey gives a soft little "Thanks" to Alexander at the compliment to her art, but she shrugs to the direct question, "All of it?" It's a simple enough requirement, in her mind, to know what she can about all of it. When Seth arrives in his manner, she blinks and gives a laugh, "It's great! I love the blueberry!"

If Alexander loves to argue, it doesn't appear to be over what sort of pop or the straw-versus-glass debate. He takes both glass and bottle with a murmured thanks, and pours the soda over ice, then sticks the straw in there. Coke, it appears, is fine. He blinks at Zoey. "...there's a lot of all of it." He looks like he's about to go on, but Seth appears, and is the recipient of a borderline hostile stare. Possibly over the borderline, but Alexander's natural expression is sort of stareish and creepy, so there's wiggle room. "Monaghan," he says, tonelessly.

Ravn quirks an eyebrow at Seth. "You did that on purpose. It's going to stick. I hate you." He wears black and Vic Grey calls him her Sith apprentice. Yeah, it probably is going to stick, at that. The resentment is clearly superficial, though; the -- Sith apprentice -- selects a decent Scotch and pours it over ice for the bigger man. "You and Clayton already know each other, I imagine?"

He heads back to the table carrying the Scotch and his own Coke and pulls out the remaining chair. "There's a lot of all of it, but we have talked about some of it. I think the part we were working on last time was how there's people who work for -- the other team. And rail vodkas in the case of Monaghan and I, but we can blame Maggi Gyre for that one."

Seth sighs, reaching his fingers into the glass that is set before him and pulling out the ice cube, flicking it without malice towards Ravn, "I said neat. That means no ice. Add it to your notebook, Darth." The redheaded bouncer grins, "And no, I didn't do it on purpose, but I am damn sure going to now."

Seth turns towards Alexander and Zoey, lifting the glass to his lips and taking a sip of the amber liquid. If the coldish greeting from Alexander bothered him at all, it doesn't show. "I would say that we know of each other, more than know each other, isn't that right, Alex? How's being a dick working out for you?"

Zoey watches as the three find their social pecking orders, sorting all of that masculinity out, offering a smile to Ravn as he finds a seat at the table. The conversation continues, and she looks up at Alexander rather expectantly. As if Ravn's explaination leaves nothing to question, at least in the areas of "how much" to explain. She seems used to the abrasive nature of male "bro-ness" jibes at each other go.

"My name is Alexander," Alexander corrects, with a frown. "And I survive," he says, the frown deepening. "I'm an investigator. Not a detective. I don't have a license." Another dogged correction before he hunches over his soda, shoulders rolling down and inward. He glances from Zoey, to Ravn. "Yes. Some people make bargains with Them. The Shadows. Other people just enjoy causing suffering and misery, and hurting people, and they like that."

"Oh hell. Sorry about that." Ravn doesn't look all that apologetic about the whiskey; it was an honest mistake and his badge says Bartender in Training for a reason (though let's be honest here, it's probably going to say Darth Abildgaard tomorrow -- assuming that anyone can spell it). More impressively, he catches the ice cube in the air as it's flicked at him -- without even looking at it. Manual dexterity is very much Ravn Abildgaard's thing.

"De Santos told me about that," he nods at Alexander's words. "I'd missed that memo. I was under the impression that humans played for Team Humanity -- didn't realise that being on the other team was even an option. I find that idea rather disturbing. I'm not new to the idea that the world's got assholes but there's being an asshole and there's literally signing on with the aliens."

Looking to Ravn, "No big deal, Darth." Seth says with a cheeky grin.

"Right, right..." Seth says, as he slowly turns around to focus on Alexander. "No license, so you just go sticking your nose into places without any recourse to fall back on. Good way to find yourself arrested for trespassing. I'll keep that in mind. Just keep your nose where it doesn't belong, Alex.....ander, and we won't have any issues, alright?"

He leans back against the bar, resting his elbow on the counter as he leisurely sips from his glass, his blue eyes riveted on Alexander for a few moments more before he just starts to shift them around to the various people talking as he listens about the 'other team'.

Zoey seems troubled by all of this talk, but at a certain level it makes sense to her, one can see it in her face even before she speaks up. "I would think that psychopaths would welcome the company, or sociopaths with a vengence would find solace in the like-minded," she says as her brain works through the idea, "There are bullies, rapists and abusers in the world, so it follows that there are those that might be so twisted as to be out to harm everyone that they can on any and all levels." A shudder shivers through her. It also seems that she is pointedly ignoring the side-banter, focusing just on what is pertinent to her.

Alexander's eyes snap back towards Seth, sparking with anger as he alllllmost gets called Alex again. "My nose is always where it belongs, Monaghan. Any issues with that are yours, not mine." He takes another sip of the glass, like he's trying to be cool. Alexander is not cool; for one, his face is expressive, hiding nothing of the mingled frustration and wariness with which he regards Seth, until he turns back to the other two. To Ravn, he says, "Team Humanity? Have you met humans? Some of us have no problem fucking people over for a dollar here and there; why wouldn't they sign on with actual horrors?" He nods to Zoey. "What she said. But it's not many. I think. There was a troupe of actors who would torture people, try to get them to feed the Shadows. Then dragged us all into a Dream and tried to have the group sacrifice one member. But that's the most organized one I've seen."

Ravn glances from one man to the other. There's a lot he doesn't know about the less than blatantly apparent workings of Gray Harbor but in spite of what a lot of people seem to think he is in fact not an entirely lost cause when it comes to adding pieces of information together.

Just, sometimes, you look at the pieces you've got and decide to not play.

Instead, he latches on to what Alexander said. "I've met humans," the barback says with quiet confidence. "Good humans, bad humans. A lot of humans who weren't worthy of the label in the first place. But here, in a place like this -- yeah, I guess I'd expect even the bad ones to play for the right team. I was clearly wrong in that assumption. Doesn't mean I'm going to like it. Doesn't mean I'm not going to keep believing in humanity in general. Most bad people are shaped by circumstance, not choice. Most bad people didn't get to pick their deck at the beginning of play."

Seth on the other hand looks calm and collected, possibly even stoic as he regards Alexander, peering at the man over the rim of his glass as he takes a slow sip from it. "Whatever you say, Alexander." Seth smiles sweetly at the investigator, giving the man a wink as he fires an imaginary pistol towards him. Pew.

The enforcer sits back, falling silent as he listens to the discussion about good vs bad, Human vs alien for a moment before turning his attention towards Ravn, "So are you are a nature vs nurture kind of guy, or do you just think some people are just born 'bad', so they gravitate towards that kind of thing? I mean, for me, it is clear that some people are just born broken. Others get a raw deal and play the hand they are dealt. Some, their moral compass doesn't spin the full 360. I don't think there is really any pattern to follow, all roads lead to Rome...some just take longer to get there."

Beat. "Still, if things really are us versus them...I'm for us. If we have to start probing heated wire into a dish of blood to see if it reacts, I'm sure I can find a lighter somewhere."

Zoey just listens now as wisdom is imparted, chewing on her bottom lip as she tries to imagine the far-reaching implications of things, as she reconsiders recent news in the scope of this new information. Blinking, she sits back in the chair and just stares at nothing for a few minutes, for changes to one's perception of reality can be like that. Stunning.

Alexander huffs out a disgruntled breath. Stoic is another thing, like cool, that he is not. He narrows his eyes at Seth. "Sarcasm," he mutters, like he has to remind himself of what that is. Ravn's words, on the other hand, cause a sudden shift in his expression, his mood going from stormy to sunny in a second - even if the smile is brief. "You're a good man. It's nice to think of people like that." He takes a drink, and adds, not looking at Seth even as he answers the question posed, "Some people lack the capacity for empathy, or regret, or shame, or doubt. They're beautiful, in a way - all sharp edges and shining clarity of thought. But capable of terrible things. Most people aren't, though. Most people just fuck up. And once you fuck up once, it usually puts you in a position where your next choices are shittier than the previous ones, and the easier shitty choice just makes things worse, and offers even more terrible choices." He shrugs. "And that tends to piss people off, so they're angry and miserable and hungry, so...they bite." He glances at the silent Zoey.

"I think we don't choose where we're born, or in what circumstances. Some blokes are born rich and have no bloody idea what the world is like, go through life thinking that losing a tennis match to the other trust fund kid is a life destroying disaster. Other people sleep under bridges and wash wind shields for small change, and think you're a bloody saint for buying them a burger." Ravn doesn't elaborate on whether he's been in either extreme but from the looks of him -- probably not. Sure, his watch is good quality and his clothes fit well, but an Armani suit they are not. And a homeless bum he certainly isn't.

"I used to travel with carnies and hustlers," he says instead. "People who -- well, let's just say that at least in Europe, Romas and carnies don't have the best of reputations. And I can't blame those people for sometimes getting caught up in bad things. If I'd stayed around, I probably would have ended up running drugs or similar, taking advantage of my good, very not-East European or Far East look. But I knew those people and most of them would have been very happy to live perfectly normal, suburbian white picket fence lives if they'd only been allowed citizenship and a work permit. I just... don't subscribe to the idea that people are born bad."

"Which basically boils down to what you just said, Alexander." Ravn offers a small, lopsided smile. "Sorry. I used to teach. Sometimes, it catches up with me. Kick me under the table or something."

"Huh." Seth says, swirling the amber liquid around in his glass for a bit as he contemplates things. "I'd have to disagree there. Some people are just born bad. You have your people like Gein, or Dahmer, and I don't think that that kind of behavior is a product of their environment. No, some people are just born...evil."

The enforcer shrugs a shoulder, lifting his glass to his lips and taking a sip before he continues, "But you are right in that some people just end up getting caught up in bad things and do it out of necessity to survive. Some do it because they like it. I'll even give Alexander a nod and say sure, there are some out there that are just sociopathic or psychotic...whichever it is, I'm not a psychologist, but I don't think the later fall into a nurture type of situation. Something like that is just in their nature, they are born to it. What is the saying? Some people just want to watch the world burn? I think those are the ones that are hooking up with your 'Them', and there is no reasoning with someone like that."

Alexander smiles, briefly, at Ravn. "You illustrated the principle. It was valuable." He finishes off his drink. "And there are sociopaths and people who are...inherently sadistic in the world, I think. But very few. A much higher number of serial killers and other violent criminals have been subjected to abuse as children than in a baseline population. Not all of them, and certainly not all abused children become criminals. But when you're hurting, it's easier to gain control by hurting others." He shrugs, pulls out some cash to pay for the soda. "Thanks. Nice to see you, Ravn. And to meet you," he nods to Zoey. Poor Seth just gets a grudging, "Monaghan," before he leaves without fanfare.

Zoey watches Ravn as he gives all that background, adding to her meager knowledge of the man. Introductions such as this, here in this bar, are always the most interesting. You get to see boys acting in their native environment, it almost seems. Amused by the back-and-forth, the redhead just mostly listens to the conversation, eyes following each speaker in turn. Lingering a time or two. Otherwise, it's like watching a tennis match. Seth, Alexander, Seth, Alexander.

Ravn nods a goodbye at Alexander, not really surprised at the speed with which the man departs. It's Alexander Clayton. Ravn hardly knows the bloke well, but he's sort of a little bit famous in town for being and acting exactly like that.

Instead, he nods at Seth. "I'm going to cede that yeah, there are probably some who are born broken. But the vast majority aren't. You know that old silly flick, Rocketeer? American inventor turned super hero in the thirties, blah blah, hero stuff happens. Mob tries to steal invention. Nazis try to steal invention. Mobsters go 'fuck no, we may be criminals but we're not Nazis'. Mobsters and hero beats up Nazis. That's... kind of how I see Gray Harbor. A lot of people here, people like us, may not be what your preacher would call good but they're still on the right team."

Itzhak comes through the door almost immediately after Alexander leaves--they can be heard exchanging a quick hey-see-ya-later as they cross paths. Then Itzhak's pushing in, half-humming, half-singing under his breath. He's got his mandolin again, or still from earlier this morning; he must be busy in the general area, instead of at his garage. A tall, lanky, skinny guy with a mane of black curly hair and a beak that would do an osprey proud, he rolls in on a funny half-sauntering stride.

"Alexander." Seth retorts in much the same tone as Alexander gave him. The piercing blue eyes of the bouncer burrow into the back of the investigator until he is out of sight before they return to focus on the room at large.

"So," the redhead says with a grin "Who was that guy, anyway?" Seth grins and lifts his glass to his lips, draining the last of the amber liquid from it before setting the empty down onto the bar top as he turns to Ravn. "Hey, that's a good movie. I like that movie...Jennifer Connolly is certainly not hard on the eyes. It's a shame that Billy Campbell didn't get more leading roles after that. Yeah, I know he did TV, but it isn't the same as the 'big screen.'"

Zoey is seated at a booth table, curled in the corner as Seth and Ravn discuss the facts of life as they apply in grand ole' Gray Harbor. She is watching the conversation, for she is mostly a quiet thing, absorbing. A great listener, they call that, or just half-distracted with thoughts of implications and the sheer difference that their words color the place, as opposed to the way that she perceived it just days ago.

"Alexander Clayton," Ravn supplies. "Private investigator, I believe. Mostly us stuff -- not so much runaway brides or unfaithful husbands, I think."

He looks up at the arrival of Mr Tall and Beaky and waves him over with a gloved hand while standing up. "Yo, Rosencrantz. Pull up a chair -- tell me what you want to drink. Zoey, this is the guy I told you about -- the violinist. Itzhak, these are my new breakfast buddies -- Zoey Lowenn, Seth Monaghan."

Clueless as clueless goes.

Zoey beams a bright smile at Itzhak, giving him the same half-sleeve covered wave as she is introduced.

"Yo!" Itzhak calls back to Ravn. "Hell with a drink, I'm starvin'. Okay but one a them pear ciders, the local fancy kind, got the unicorn on the label, I like that one." He swaggers over, mandolin case over his shoulder, and hikes his eyebrows at Zoey, looking her over. "Zoey, yeah? Ravn's told me a lot about you, nice to meet you." He offers over one big, calloused, inked hand for a shake. Seth, he glances at kinda sideways. "Yeah, Seth and me know each other." A slight stress on Seth's name, because, notably, Itzhak did not call him Monaghan. Take heed, Ravn, here's a subtlety in how Americans use first name versus last name that probably wasn't taught in school. "How's by ya, Seth, how's business."

Seth open his mouth to say something to Ravn, but then just closes it again with an amused grin and shake of his head. Instead he glances over towards Itzhak as he arrives and gives him a quick nod of greeting, "I can't complain, Itz. I haven't had to bust that many heads over at the Firefly, so any night I can focus on the lighting instead of bouncing some fool is a good one." At least that is how his night job is going. "How 'bout you? Everything copacetic? Haven't seen ya in some time. You should stop by the Waffle place some morning. Zoey is the waitress of choice over there in the am, she slings a mean cuppa."

When Ravn makes his way back around the bar to fill any new drink orders, Seth raises his glass and wiggles it back and forth. "Refill please, Darth."

Ravn is not at all blind to the fact that Itzhak Rosencrantz usually calls everyone by their last name (unless he's calling them Ravn, Abildgaard, buddy, pal in which case somebody is about to get lectured). He pops the cap off one of those very specific pear ciders and fills a glass with ice, but does not comment. Something up with Monaghan? Duh. This time, at least, the Scotch comes without ice.

Pasts don't matter. Team Humanity it is.

"You know that really is going to be a thing now. And Vic will be so bloody proud when you call her Emperor Palpatine." He settles at the table again, distributing the requested drinks and picking up his own Coke. "Anyhow, Zoey does art. I keep telling her she needs to get friendly with Grant Baxter. Got any other names you'd recommend, Rosencrantz?"

Zoey reaches out, surprised, and softly shakes the offered calloused hand with her own half-sleeved, dimunitive fingers. "He has?" she squeaks, glaring at Ravn for such atrocities such as gossip. About her, no less! A glare that attempts to convey that there will be Serious Talks Later, Mister. The blush on her cheeks for being "known" is quite evident, but her smile grows. Maybe she sees why Ravn calls Itzhak his best friend.

As for Seth's comment, she lightly kicks him under the table. Because. It is joined with a grin. (Girls!) As for Zoey doing art, well, the measly proof is in the sketchpad lying open right on the table where she left it to curl around her flavored vodka.

Itzhak's eyebrows go up when Zoey blushes, and he gets a broad and delighted grin. As a reward for her blushing and glaring at Ravn, he gallantly bows over her hand, like some kind of big jerk who thinks he's charming. (Doesn't inflict a kiss on her hand, though, there's gallantry and then there's being a creeper.) "Oh, he sure has. Like with the art, yeah! Grant Baxter, and Sparrow I don't know her last name but you'll know her when you see her, and shit, who else, lemme think."

He also finagles an order of chicken wings and loaded tater tots (the specialty of the house) to go along with his cider. He wasn't kidding, he's hungry. "Ehhh can't complain," he answers Seth, in the tone of one who absolutely could complain. "Yeah, I been fuckin' busy, lemme tell you. Remodeling the garage and everything. Just about done now, but every time I say it's just about done somehow something crops up that needs two more weeks."

"You know," Seth says to Ravn with a cat-has-eaten-the-canary grin as he retrieves his refill and takes a sip of the liquid inside, "I hadn't thought about calling her that, but now that you mention it I think that is going to be a done deal. I am sure she is going to love it. I may just have to make name tags for the two of you, Imperial symbol and all...ow!"

Seth looks across the way at Zoey, reaching down to rub at his shin as he gives her a mockingly menacing stare across the table. "What the hell was that for? See if I try and help get you tips anymore. Geesh." He looks between Ravn and Itzhak, "Sometimes you just can't do a good deed without getting punished. Seriously."

The enforcer turns his attention fully to Itzhak again, with a nod. "Yeah, I get it. You ever feel like not complaining, let me know. I'm sure I can lend an ear to not listen sometime." A beat, "I may have to come see you for business sometime. I have a '68 Cobra GTO sitting in my garage that needs some parts and some love to get her roaring again."

"Remind me to download a copy of Metallica's version of the Imperial March for the bar speakers, or something." Ravn sips his coke. "I actually need to talk cars with you at some point too, Itz. If you can be arsed -- what I'm after isn't going to impress you a lot. Needs to have wheels, not break down every third day, and get me to Seattle every once in a while. Definitely not one of your fancy cars."

He glances at Zoey. "Rosencrantz runs the local garage. If you're into cars, you definitely need to go take a look at his Manta Ray."

Stingray, Ravn. Siiigh.

"There's another garage, Jack's, but I'm pretty sure he moved outta town." Itzhak, disdaining the nice glass of ice Ravn prepared for him, just swigs straight from the cider bottle. "It happens, yannow? People just get fed up, head on out. Sometimes they come back."

Just a cozily bizarre statement in the middle of a nice afternoon at the Twofer. "Stingray," he tells Ravn, half-grinning, "but you get points for remembering the 'ray' part. Sure," to Zoey and Seth, "you're welcome anytime to say hi to my baby. Both my babies. My snake lives there too. ...you got a Cobra '68, you say?" An avaricious gleam twinkles to life in Itzhak's gray eyes. "I gotta swing by and have a look at her." And he rolls his eyes at Ravn. "'Course I can be arsed, yutz, what, am I not going to help you? Please!"

His accent, New York Yiddish and so abrasive it could scour a pot, really leans into all the little inflections and rises and dips. You wanna know what he thinks? No worries! He'll tell you.

"Anytime, Itz." Seth says as he glances at his watch. "I am still over on Elm, you know the place."

Seth drains the last of the liquid in his glass, setting the empty back on the bar and reaching into his jeans. Producing his moneyclip, the redhead pulls a few bills from the clip and tosses them unceremoniously onto the bar top, covering the drink and leaving a nice tip. "I didn't know Metallica did a cover of that, Darth. I'll have to check it out sometime." Seth stands, rolling his neck around on his shoulders until there is an audible pop somewhere in there. "Sorry lady and gents, but I have an appointment I have to keep before heading to the Firefly. I'll catch you around."

Ravn watches the other man leave (and indeed, the other, more experienced bartender not letting cash lie around on the counter top, for frick's sake, Ravn, learn the basics). Then he looks back at his two companions. "You know, I like him. Definitely has some history but, batting for the right team. Sounds like you already knew each other, Itzhak."

He hitches a shoulder. "Anyway, I meant it about the car -- I'd love to have some suggestions, but I really am looking for something... You know. Something me."