2020-12-18 - A Very Baxter Welcome

Chris didn't intend to arrive at the park while feeling like a tennis ball was bouncing around his guts. Still, when two separate conversations with two independent people or groups of people fingered Alexander as the right man to provide some answers to the questions he's had for most of his life, the firefighter couldn't help but feel nervous. He arrived early, waiting on a park bench in a black-and-golf GHFD hoodie to chase away the autumnal chill on the gusty ocean breeze. He spares frequent glances at his watch.

Alexander is already here, although unless those pointing-outs came with warnings, he might not inspire much confidence. He looks like he's mid-forties, underslept, possibly strung out. Fading bruises cover his face, and one of his hands is in a full-hand brace. His clothes are...unique. An incredibly ugly Christmas sweater under an oversized Army surplus jacket make him look like a homeless man who's about to harass someone for change. Even his hair is a little disheveled, like he forgot to brush it. He pulls out a phone to check the time, then starts prowling. He shines, to those who have eyes to see, and when his gaze sweeps over the people in the park, it comes to rest on Chris. He heads towards the man, his eyes dark and penetrating, staring openly and even rudely. "You're meeting Alexander Clayton?" he asks, and his voice at least, is somewhat pleasant.

For his part, Chris looks like a typical blue-collar worker. His dark denim jeans are well worn, as are the leather work boots on his feet. He wears a slowly fading red flannel shirt beneath his hoody, which he currently keeps raised. He's in shape and carries himself with a certain amount of pride, although the gaze that returns the question carries with it a moment of surprise. "Yeah," he calls back, "That you or... he send you?" Having heard the man is a private investigator, and having seen more than his share of television, he's willing to consider a certain amount of indirection.

Alexander's lips twitch upwards. "That's me," he says, and there's something almost apologetic about it. He gives the man a once over. "Christopher Baxter. Hi." When his eyes get back to meet Chris' own, he says, quite seriously, "You should probably leave this town. But you're here, so you probably won't. You had questions. Want to walk? Have you been in town long? Why are you here?" His own questions are fired abrupt and rapid fire, and the man's good hand is tapping a nervous sort of rhythm on his thigh.

The air seemed to get just a little bit colder, which brings Chris's hands closer together in his front pockets, where his hands might be spotted fidgeting together. "You're the second person to tell me that I should probably turn back the way I came from and get out of here, but it's hard to take advice from people who don't follow it themselves, right?" he questions, managing a half-smile at his rationalization. Still, he'd already uprooted and moved here - and had made more progress unlocking his past than he had in decades back home. "A Danish fellow said that we're related. I guess there's a lot of us around, right?" He finally recollects that Alexander asked him about walking, which he belatedly decides it to be an excellent idea. He gets up from the bench, taking a moment to stretch his legs as he exhales a visible puff of fresh air. "Yeah, let's stroll."

"I was born here," Alexander says, with a what's your excuse kind of air. The mention of a Danish fellow makes him snort, lightly. "Ravn. Yes. I suppose we are. Distantly. And no, not very many. Baxters aren't generally welcome in Gray Harbor. Do you know an Addington was killed in this park by a Baxter? His throat cut, and his wife and child were never seen again." He points to the carousel. "Don't ride that. On the day Elvis died, a Baxter girl disappeared while riding it. She tends to make people into dolls if you get Lost around it." His hand returns to his pocket after those cheerful little anecdotes. "Have you been Lost yet?"

"Lost?" Chris echoes without a great deal of understanding behind the intonation. "I don't think I have, sir. I'm just trying to figure out what all of this means and how I fit in. I mean, I guess a lot of people are." He makes mental ticks through the things that Alexander points out, uncertain at this point just what to believe. He's seen and done his fair share of weird shit, though, and lately, he's finding that he's far more open-minded than he used to be. "All I know is that my father was a drunk that tried to hide everything from me. After he died, I found one of his old yearbooks, and it led me here. That's about all I know."

"Lost. Finding yourself somewhere else. Somewhere dangerous, without meaning to be there." Alexander clears his throat. "Other people call it Dreams. But I usually think of it as being Lost." His shoulders hunch as they walk along; these paths would be pleasant in a warmer month, but now they're skeletal and damp from the chill, misting rain. "It's not uncommon. Among people who have abilities. To drink, or do drugs. It can be hard." A long pause. "Gray Harbor is a thin place. Between here and somewhere else. We call it the Veil. Some things there like to eat our suffering. They'll notice you."

"Nothing so far that couldn't be explained by a little too much to do drink," Chris explains, lowering his head to observe the place. He was used to brown winters across the state, but things didn't get quite so overcast. "I don't know that my dad had anything kind of... abilities," he offers skeptically, "Or, at least, if he did, he hid them. But you can't protect a curious person by hiding them from the truth from such obvious questions. I've got a Jane fucking Doe for a mother. How is that even possible?" The man grunts lowly, shaking his head with discontent. There's plenty of built-up anger on the subject. "When I get upset, I like to hit the gym. Keeps me focused."

"Maybe she didn't want to be associated with a child," Alexander offers, apparently oblivious that this might not be a kind thing to say to someone who clearly has some pent-up anger about that particularly association. "It's possible that his never activated. My father, if he had them, never showed them either." He gives a sidelong look to Chris. "You're here looking for your mother, then? Birth records are at the Catholic Church, and the hospital. Maybe the historical society, if there was something notable about your mother or your birth."

Chris gives a slow nod. "Maybe. A secret affair? I always figured it was more likely my dad was a sicko who kept a sex slave out in a cabin in the woods somewhere," he grunts again as he walks, scuffing his feet against the firm ground underfoot. "It's easier, I guess, to write him off as an asshole than to admit he might've had some fatherly instincts in him somewhere and was trying to do what he saw to be the right thing. A mother would be a good start, but that's not all I'm after. I deserve," he pauses to find the right word, settling on "answers."

Alexander thinks about it. "I'm not aware of any sex-slave incidents...thirty? Years ago?" Another sidelong look, attempting to judge the other man's age. He seems content with his guess, because he continues, "I may have missed it, though. Or it was covered up. But more likely, not." He falls silent for a bit, tilting his head back. Then says, "I don't know what you deserve, Mister Baxter. But we would all like answers. You might want to talk to Grant Baxter or his father, too. The latter is a lawyer, and might be the right age to have known your father when he was younger."

"Guess it'd have to be thirty-four, but probably close enough," Chris replies, giving a slow shake of his head to the other name mentioned. "Yeah, Ruiz and Ravn both mentioned Grant as a good person to talk to. And I'm plenty comfortable digging into the institutions and doing some of my own research. I have a knack for it, I guess." He gives a quick snort to clear up some congestion. "These, uh, things that are feeding on us across the way. Is that why everyone says to get out of here?"

"Yeah. The Shadows. Or the Dark Men. If you want. They're dolorphages," Alexander says. "They feed on pain, anger, misery. They'll feed on you, if you stay. And there are other dangers. It's not a good place, Gray Harbor." Alexander's voice is matter of fact, like what he's saying isn't completely crazy. Then there's a little hitch in his step, before he catches himself. "Javier recommended me?" A soft grunt. "Well, that helps. Liking your own research. But you'll have to be discreet. The Addingtons, in general, don't like Baxters. And you might notice their names on a lot of things. And don't die here. Or on the other side of the Veil."

"It seems like there's a bunch of freaks and misfits, but it seems like I might be one of them. And we take care of each other because nobody else will, right? Family." Chris was slowly starting to piece things together. He wasn't sure whether to believe everything, but he'd at least consider the crazier things in the back of his mind and connect it to his own experiences. Was it all that more insane than some of the things he's discovered that he can do? "I heard a tiny bit about the family rivalry, I guess. Maybe my mom was an Addington? It might explain the secrecy."

"I don't consider you family. I don't know you," Alexander says, without any notable anger. Just a whole lot of tactlessness. "It's not a rivalry, exactly. Of, if it was, the Baxters lost. Most left town long ago, or hid under other names." The idea that Chris might be an Addington/Baxter cross actually brings him up short. He stops walking for a full minute before starting to shuffle forward once more. "Don't breathe a word of that idea where it might get to Margaret Addington. Or spread it around unless you can confirm it. Maybe even after. I don't know that it's ever happened before."

A lead. It was speculative and utterly devoid of hard evidence so far, but it seemed to make the most sense to Chris. "A regular Romeo and Juliet tale, right?" He shakes his head again, adding a shrug of his shoulders that accompanies a brief shiver that runs through his spine. "What's their deal, anyhow? If the war between them is long gone, why are they still out for us?"

Alexander doesn't bother to hide his skepticism, but he says, "Anything's possible." At the question, his lips thin. "I'm not entirely sure. I believe that Margaret thinks that when we die, we have the option to take some of what she calls the light from the world. Our abilities, mostly. I think. And I believe we can. We buried the ghost of an old Baxter, and his spirit did remove something that changed the way we used our power. Made it smaller. Can we all do that? I don't know. But the Addingtons, or at least Margaret, think the possibility is too much to be borne."

Chris pauses for a moment to breathe out a long sigh. His head hangs. "It always comes down to power in the end, right?" he grunts. "But it seems like they're just as much of a threat in that department -- unless I'm misunderstanding something. Which I probably am. I mean, I don't think it's in any of our interest to remove things from our powers. Why not work together?" Admitting that he's little more than a babe speculating about the nature of the world the doesn't yet understand, he doubts he'll receive a great answer. "Anyway, it sounds like I have more enemies than friends around here."

"It's still a mystery," Alexander admits. "None of us really understand why we even have these things, or the core of the conflict between Baxters and Addingtons. Margaret might, but she doesn't like us. You might try; she hates Baxters, but she wouldn't recognize you on sight, at least. The younger Addingtons are mostly okay. They've been kept in the dark as much as we have, though." The last comment makes him smile. "Welcome to Gray Harbor." The stroll has taken them towards some trails leaving the park and going towards what looks like a rougher end of town. "I should go. You have anything else you need right now?"

"I guess not." Chris seems inclined to make a reverse stroll back toward where he came from. Maybe his car is parked somewhere over that way. "Thanks for the information and the advice. I guess I'll see where the records go, and figure out how I find into all of this... mess." He glances over his shoulder, bobbing his head and offering a faint smile. "Obviously, I can't just up and leave now."

"It's fine. You have my number. Give me a call if I can help," Alexander says, with a bob of his head. Then he turns and walks away, without any sort of 'goodbye' or 'have a nice day'. "No one ever leaves when they're told," he mutters to himself, the words just barely floating on the air.