2021-03-07 - Very Humble Beginnings

A roof is a good beginning. A beginning is also all it is, and Ravn Abildgaard at least has no illusions that this place is going to slam its doors open to the world tomorrow morning. It smells in here -- like old, stale air mixed with traces of the meats that resided in the cooling counters, a long time ago. Those counters are gone; but the smell lingers, mixing with various industrial chemicals. The place is grimy in that particular fashion of somewhere that was locked up some time back and left to its own devices. There's the occasional spiderweb, there's the occasional rat foot print in the dust on the floor, there is the dust itself. Place's going to need some serious cleaning.

Fortunately, cleaning is something Ravn does very well -- and perhaps more surprisingly, enjoys doing. The Dane is armed with no small amount of household chemicals and cleaning utensils. Sleeves rolled up (but hands still gloved in black) he's gone to work washing down the windows first, from the inside. A small transistor is tuned into what sounds like a European station; 1990s pop rock in a foreign language. He's certainly visible from the street outside, and every now and then, some local pauses for a glance, and once or twice, to ask what HOPE is an acronym of.

Standing on the other side of the window and watching for several seconds before waving, Perdita Leontes is dressed... casually. Her long hair is up in a high ponytail, and she's wearing a running shoes and athletic gear. Is hell freezing over? The thick puffy vest over her chest leaves her arms clad in a thinner black knit that covers her palms, but those leggings are, well... tight. She tilts her head and looks up at the building, clearly curious.

"What are you doing?" is asked through the glass, her smile genuine and friendly.

The cheeky grin is perhaps not surprising. It is not very difficult to see what Ravn is doing. Oh, he knows that what Perdita meant was, why are you doing it -- but that's not what she asked, and literal Dane is in a mood to be literal. He salutes with a wet rag full of soap and replies, "I am washing a window!"

Well said, Captain Obvious.

Still wearing that small grin he seems to decide that perhaps a break is in order; at least he steps off the chair he was standing on and tosses the rag in the bucket. "This place is a mess. Going to take some time to clean it up and getting to look like anything but a ruin. Good thing I have plenty of time, isn't it? Hi, how are you today?"

"Listen, if you're trying to get a sexy car wash going you're going to need to show a little more skin than forearms, though... for a lot of women that's a good start." Perdita smirks at Ravn and moves to stand in the doorway, nose wrinkling ever so slightly at the odor, though she's clearly trying NOT to make a face at it, at the same time.

"If I ask 'why' you're cleaning a window, are you going to tell me it's because it's dirty?" she leans against the nearest wall, looking relaxed, as if she hadn't just been running, or at least power walking. Those perfectly toned legs don't stay that way on their own, after all.

"Oh yes. And when you ask me why it's dirty I'm going to tell you about air pollution." Ravn keeps grinning lopsidedly. Then he straightens up and stretches his back; it's hard work after all. "I think the sexy car wash might work better outdoors too. It's hard to get a car in here -- at least if I want the walls to keep standing. Want a cup of coffee?"

No, there's not a coffee machine here. Yet. But there is a duffel bag in a corner, and inside that, apparently, there is a thermos bottle and a number of plastic cups. Ravn pours himself a cup of black and raises an eyebrow at Perdita. "I have dairy creamer and sweetener but no real milk and sugar. Basically? Cleaning the place up. It's going to take a while but I don't expect to have to do it all by myself. Might be a bit before we're actually ready to open the doors to the public, though."

"Sure, I could use a cup. Is it always this damn cold here in March or did I just get lucky?" she smiles and glances around inside, clearly curious. "So, Mr. Literal, what exactly is this space going to be once it's all cleaned up and aired out, or is that going to net me an answer of 'cleaned up and aired out'?" She steps inside, clearly not a vampire. Not that they exist in Gray Harbor. Right?

"It's a nice sized space, so... anything from a microbrewery to a hipster Euro-punk music store to a place that exclusively sells black clothing that all matches perfectly in shade." she smiles wryly at Ravn, examining the building thoughtfully.

"That's a tempting business plan. Maybe we should do that instead. Buy beer, a shirt, and a CD with obscure German punk rock." Ravn hands the cup over and pours another for himself. "Well, if you're going to be a spoilsport and ask the right questions -- it's going to be a community centre of a sorts. A volunteer nonprofit, to help some of the more vulnerable elements around town. Or, I suppose I should say that off the record? We're going to try to punch the part of the Veil right back that likes to torture and feed on people. Supposedly, kindness and altruism hurts the ones we call dolorphages. Time to do a little damage care bear style."

He dips into a pocket for a cigarette and leaves the package on the chair -- in case anyone else is a smoker. "It all ties back to that theory -- that there are three kinds of people in town. A lot of them end up on living in cardboard boxes under the boardwalk. When they disappear? No one notices. Don't know if you've managed to meet Alexander Clayton but he's kind of been collecting names and death certificates all over town fifty years back or longer. The statistics speak for themselves -- Gray Harbor eats vulnerable, traumatised people."

There's a laugh, and Perdita accepts the coffee but makes no move to take anything else, "Those things will kill you." She says softly, a little sadly, as if she's lost someone, and fairly recently at that. "I'm all for the Care Bear style damage, though." She looks thoughtful at the mention of Alexander, then nods slightly, "Met him at the party with Buffy. Daddy type, sort of..." she gestures vaguely to her clothes, "Frazzled? I think that was his name, anyway. Either that or I've managed to just traumatize or anger you by describing a close friend in a somehow insensitive manner." she snorts, as her welcome has been less than welcoming, thus far.

"Daddy type sounds more like August Røn." The Dane pronounces the man's name with a vowel that definitely does not exist in any anglophone language. It's probably not spelled the way he says it, at least not to a non-Scandinavian eye. "Tall lumberjack type, salt and pepper, the kind of bloke you'd expect to be den mother to half the town? That's August Røn -- or Roen, as you people who brutalise perfectly good Danish surnames would say. Clayton's a smaller fellow - about forty, tends to have a bit of a disheveled look. Bit twitchy, but probably one of the most intelligent people in town."

He sips his coffee and rests a hip against the window sill; does he get soapy water on his jeans? Yes. Does he care? Not really. "Clayton's a private eye -- sort of unofficially, he hasn't got a license. If a murder happened in this county in the last forty years, he can tell you who, where, and why they did it. Which means he's the one person who actually put all of this information together and painted us a picture of where the things we call Dark Men get their dinner. People like you or me -- when we get chewed to death in a dream, at least other people notice. A lot of those guys on the boardwalk or in the bus stop are just retconned into unfortunate statistics by the Veil, and no one ever knows what actually killed them."

"Listen, you define your Daddies your way, I'll define mine my way." she tosses her ponytail, playfully, "I happen to like twitchy nerdy types, they typically end up easier to handle than big burly lumberjacks... though there is something to be said for a big man who can casually toss you over his shoulder and then go pose for a paper towel brand after."

She sips at her coffee, frowning slightly, though not from the flavor of the coffee, "So... why aren't we marching through the Veil singing inspirational pop tunes from the nineties arm in arm with our fellow... psychics? and meeting them head on? Bullies never thrive when met face to face, they have to come at you sideways. What would happen if we all rose up and said 'enough is enough' and pushed back?"

"In my case? Because I'm a folklorist. Stories is what I do. The Veil runs on them -- stories, narratives. Ever read a good up and overcome story where the hero decides on page three that we'll just go hug the villain better? You need to work hard to make it work or it doesn't count. It's silly but, it's how this shit works. So we're going to do this from all the way down where we've got a run-down shop, and all the way up. That said, I need to introduce you to de Santos -- the guy who's spearheading this project. He's all about the inspirational tunes and speeches, the free hugs, and the care bears. What's more scary is, it works. I've seen that guy literally love a Veil ghost into submission, with a little help from his friends."

Ravn pauses. "Oh, and the Veil's killed him a couple of times for it. He got better."

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Perdita sighs, "This town just gets weirder. Next you're going to tell me there's literal vampires running around. I mean, I met Baba Y'ga and a twink with daddy issues in the form of an angry burly ghost that I somehow managed to convince I could exorcise, but... Are there normal days around here? Like... do our kind of people get to just... go out for coffee and get groceries?"

She leans back against the wall, smiling, "I mean, I know I signed up for Weird, but... people coming back from the dead? That... sounds painful, to say the least."

Ravn can't help laugh quietly before he shakes his head. "I mean, I'm sure normal days exist. Some day maybe we'll even have one. Worst part of it is how quickly you get used to it, really. Go to Safeway, pick up shampoo, fabric softener, some cereal, nearly get killed by gremlins, don't forget the Graham's crackers..."

He draws a leg up and bends it, resting the sole of his foot against the wall behind him. "You do have some influence over how weird it gets. The less you draw attention from the other side, the less weird. Not just a matter of power though -- I have nearly none, and let me assure you that since I started poking my nose into de Santos' idea about fighting back with altruism, I've seen plenty action. It's not all bad. Some of it is just -- funny. Apparently, go kart races and dance battles are a thing too? Or pet shelter jail breaks. Weird is a good word for it, a lot of this stuff is just... weird."

With a trace of a wry smile the Dane adds, "I haven't seen vampires. I'm sure vampires can happen. If somebody in town imagined it or heard about it, it can happen. Let's hope that if it does we get more Bram Stoker Dracula and less Stephenie Meyer glitterboys because at least let me be staking something that I can have an ounce of respect for. Did you run into Michel and his Angry Ex again?"

"Gremlins, too? Like... cute and cuddly little fuzzballs, or full blown manic monsters that try and sabotage planes, because if they fuck with my car, I will snap their necks with telekinesis. I've barely patched things up with the mechanic and I don't want him to think I'm damaging my car as an excuse to be friendly. He still thinks I'm after his boyfriend." she rolls her eyes. "I don't date cops, it ends badly."

The question about Michel makes her raise an eyebrow, "Not yet, but if I do I'm kidnapping the poor little thing and dragging him to the nearest priest I can find or hunting down Baba Y'ga and giving her a lock of his ridiculously pretty hair as payment." she snorts a laugh to herself, looking down at her hands. Once again, her nails are clear, though much shorter and more reasonable for actually doing things.

"So... once the coffee break is over, put me to work. I'll contribute to this altruism movement and anybody who has a problem with it can kiss my surgically perfected backside."

"In this case, more the plane kind than the Steven Spielberg movie kind. They live in the sewers, and they steal things. Seems pretty harmless at first until you realise it's not at all coincidental what they steal. Brakes off a speeding bus. Hull valve on a yacht. The screws that keep a heavy armature from falling down and crushing somebody. I've seen people die from their stunts. So, definitely not friendly gremlins, no." Ravn shakes his head.

Then he pauses. "Wait, Rosencrantz thought you're after de la Vega? Don't take it personally. Half this town seems to have been on a mission to get in de la Vega's pants at some point. I used to work as a bartender at the Two if By Sea and -- well, Rosencrantz wasn't imagining it. The captain, and for that matter, Rosencrantz himself seem to attract every thirsty loner around. Not sure why, but then, I'm pretty straight so... I guess I'm missing the point. Be happy to have you help, sure -- the more the merrier, eh? I was thinking about him earlier -- we do have a parapsychologist in town. Maggi Gyre. Maybe he should have a chat with her about how to get rid of the damn ghost -- but maybe that requires somebody else to distract the ghost while he does."

"Great, homicidal folklore minions." she mutters, shaking her head, "Sounds kind of like the Gremlins from the movies, too, other than the cute little mogwai... who were mostly dicks even before they became Gremlins." Perdita sighs and makes a mental note to mind for the Gremlins, too.

"I am definitely not on a mission to get in de la Vega's pants, or Itzhak's. They're both certainly handsome enough, but I only go for guys old enough to literally be my father if they let me drive their Bugatti. Also, forty percent of cops are, you know, violent with their significant others and I have this bad habit of making people want to hit me or kiss me..." She looks down at her nails, "I'm down to distract it while she whammies it. I'm pretty sure Saint Sarah doesn't give a damn about some skinny white boy, but she looks after her own well enough." another sip of coffee, and she smiles, "Or you could distract him. He seems to like pretty boys, after all."

Ravn laughs and finishes his cigarette. "I'm not sure I qualify for 'pretty boy' at thirty years of age, or does that sort of thing not have an expiration date? But yeah. If he ends up staying in town, we're going to need to do something about Angry Ex. No one deserves to deal with that kind of abuse. Got a friend named Aidan who's got a similar problem, though at least that one doesn't yell at everyone else too. I had one -- though I wasn't lying when I said she was destroyed. Or I thought she was -- I've got ghost crows on my window sill calling out her name so who the fuck knows."

The Dane sighs lightly. "Either way, yeah. I'd be up for some ghost intervention. Just need to figure out how to do it in a way that's safe to everyone involved. Everything is a little more complicated here where the Veil can interfere and ghosts become a lot more than just weird noises in the dark and things at the corner of your eye, you know?"

"I... haven't exactly had a lot of experience with literal ghosts. All mine are metaphorical, though they occasionally pop up like a bad penny." she sighs, "Ghost crows, now? Are you sure they aren't, you know, ghost ravens? Since your name is spelled... I'm sure you're aware when an American sees that name, they don't think Ravn." she pronounces it properly, mimicking the way Ravn pronounces it almost flawlessly.

"So... where do you want me?" she looks around the room, eyebrows raising slightly. There's... a lot. That needs done before this place will be ready to be a community center.

"Anywhere with soap and a rag," Ravn says earnestly and picks his own back up. "I started on the windows because why not the windows... But it all needs to get wiped down and cleaned up, and it's probably going to take some time. Then -- paint jobs, furnishing, the works. Can't hire professionals to do it for us, that'd defeat the purpose of the story." He winks.

And then he nods, dipping the rag in the water bucket again and wringing it out. "It means the same thing in Danish. It's one of those old heritage names that aren't quite common anymore except in what you'd probably call country club circles. Kid in black eyeliner back home would use the English spelling for the coolness factor. Crow or raven? You know that the only way to tell a black crow from a raven is to count its wing pinions? The bastard didn't sit still long enough."

"What if a professional donates some of her time, for free?" Perdita asks, eyebrows raising. "I have thrown a few parties in my day as arm candy, after all. Once this place gets open, you'll need a big grand opening party, with lots of donated goodies from local businesses contributing to the good of the town." She unhooks her thumbs from her shirt before rolling the sleeves up and pulling off the puffy vest.

"Aren't ravens... larger?" She spreads her hands, indicating a size larger than that of a typical crow, though not enormously different. "Not that I know a lot about birds." she grabs a rag and starts cleaning, starting on the front door's interior side, since that sets the tone for the rest of the building after all, seeming surprisingly at home with getting dirty... for all that she looks like she wouldn't touch anything dirty for fear of being contaminated.

"I think corvid size varies," Ravn says honestly. "We don't have ravens in Denmark anymore. They used to be a pretty big deal in medieval myth but industrialisation drove them out. I've seen them in Greenland -- didn't strike me as noticably bigger, but then, they didn't come sit on my hand, either."

He applies water to the window pane with large, sweeping movements; this is clearly something he's done before. "Way I see it? You want to help plan an opening bash, I'm sure as hell not turning you away. I'm officially known to be the most boring homebody north of McMurdo Station. De Santos is a little better at social things than I am but neither of us are quite glamorous types. The more people we can get involved, the better. You've owned a TV, you know this story. Starts out small, montage, montage, montage, some complications, another montage, everybody is involved in the end. Even the grumpy cop and the boring librarian and the mayor who only thinks about money. We're living an eighties movie here -- but what the hell? If it saves lives? I'll even wear a Flashdance t-shirt."

"Okay but if the locals start coming at me shouting 'burn the witch' I'm not hanging around to pop open gates with my... assistants. I never got around to buying better ones." She glances down at her modest bust with a wry grin. "That was an Elvira, Mistress of the Dark reference, by the way. Mamá loved Cassandra Peterson." Perdita begins putting her back into cleaning the door, working on getting it looking like new again.

"Hey, you could always do a full Flashdance number, the choreography isn't THAT hard and I could help you with the flips." She winks at Ravn, bending to get at the bottom of the door in a way that just so happens to end with her butt sticking out, ever so innocently.

"If I'm doing anything of the sort, it'll be playing it," Ravn says with obvious amusement, applying elbow grease to a stubborn window stain; one of those where some kid thought it'd be funny to leave their bubble gum stuck to the glass. "Nothing says mid-eighties disco montage like a classical violin, right?" He pauses. "We should get Rosencrantz to do that. If you haven't seen and heard him play already, you need to. The man is a genius performer. Hell, half of Hoquiam might drive over here and pay for an entry ticket if we get him and his band."

He glances down. "Have you found a place to stay? Let me amend that. Have you decided whether you'll be staying? Gray Harbor is -- something else. It gets livelier when the tourist season begins. A quarter of Seattle comes out there for sailing, and a fair number of people from Olympia as well. I worked at the beach bar for a couple of months last fall -- it was definitely not boring. Not that rich yachters can't be quite a handful at times."

"I'm still at the Murder Motel. Prices are reasonable since it's off season, and I want to make sure I can find work before I commit to a lease. If worse came to worse I could sell the car and buy a beater, but I'd rather not. It's the one nice thing I earned for myself." Perdita shrugs a little, "But tourist season's not that far off, if this damn cold snap would just piss off already. Who knows, maybe I'll find a rich sugar daddy who needs yacht candy for the summer and go back to my old ways instead of trying, and failing, to go straight." she snorts, indicating that she's not ready to go back to hanging out with old men for the things they can buy her.

"I'm absolutely certain that finding some well to do yachter who wants the company would not be hard. The question is whether you want to, indeed." From the tone of Ravn's voice the idea doesn't strike him as particularly shocking. "From what I've seen, living on my boat at the marina most of the year, yacht candy is a good enough term for it. Something about big luxury yachts does seem to bring out the urge in rich people to get the rest of the set of status symbols while they're at it, and you can't squeeze a Maserati onto a boat. I think."

He wrings out the soap and starts cleaning down the window with pure water next. The water, once it returns to the bucket via rag, is anything but pure. "What do you do for a living? Gray Harbor's not a thriving job market but it's not depression era Los Angeles, either."

Ignacio approaches the Community Center. It's a brisk damp cold but at least it's not the Mid-West..yet. Right? Either way the Spaniard that sounds all of New York pauses with the door pushing it open with a shove , shoulder, shove and he's in! The door did not eat him today and that's a win for the Harbor! Messenger bag, nice jeans, moto jacket, knit cap. He limps in with an easy practice, and a lopsided warm smile that is just happy to see...people? Who knows. "Ravn, I leave you alone for five minutes and you go off and get social. I'm so proud." Looking to Michel and Perdita his hand lifts, "Hey there. Welcome."

"Okay, honestly? I was a personal shopper for a little old lady. I was going to scam her out of her millions, but... She was a sweet old bat, even if she did call me 'Mariá' half the time toward the end. I ended up helping her with errands and managing the household... toward the end." she looks a bit sad, but also like most of the memories were fond.

As the door gets shoved in, Perdita lets out an indignant squeak and goes tumbling back onto her possibly surgically altered ass, scrambling away from the door she was just cleaning, less she get it worse. "Okay, ow." She rises to her full, impressive... 5'5, and looks up at Ignacio, hands on her hips, like she's about to dress him down... but then she laughs and shakes her head. "Hi."

Ravn, standing on a chair and washing down the front window with a rag, laughs. "Don't get hurt, you two. Ignacio, say hi to Perdita. Perdita, Señor New York accent is Ignacio de Santos who is sort of our official spokesperson -- by which I mean, he gets to deal with the press and I don't. Because he already works for them. Saves so much time."

He glances at Ignacio next, smiling. "Perdita's our first volunteer to help clean the place up. She's new in town and seems to have decided to stick around. I wonder if one of our high end people are still looking for personal assistants -- I think Vydal talked about having scared his off, you should talk to him. I know for a fact that Hyacinth Addington's is approaching a nervous breakdown."

Ignacio stops the door with a murmured "Lo siento." He looks to Ravn and then back to Perdita with some pleasant surprise, "I- that's great. We really appreciate it. Um," He looks to Ravn in a conversation that doesn't (and doesn't need to) happen finding agreement, "Let us at least cover lunch as a thanks. " But the taller man is doing the introductions and a hand is offered to her. "Hey, pleasure to meet you, and-" Yeah PA work is good, but all the same he looks to Ravn as he brings up Vyvyan Vydal; terror of the Tiramisu, "Aww but she seems so nice thoooogh. Why are we feeding her to the precarious particulars of the picky pasty chef?"

"That is rather convenient, working for the press and having them in your back pocket, isn't it?" Perdita's smile is wry, and she reaches up absently, rubbing at her head where the door bonked. "No es nada, tengo la cabeza dura." she shrugs slightly at Ignacio. Her Spanish is a little out of practice and bears a distinctly sort of American undertone to her accent, but she's fluent.

"I don't know if I could handle working closely with the Addingtons, Ravn. Hyacinth seemed sweet, but I'm fairly certain the blonde wanted my skin for shoe leather. It's not that I couldn't handle her... it's that she couldn't handle me." At the proclamation that she's nice, Perdita tilts her head to smile sweetly at Ignacio, "At least someone notices my kindness and charm."

"Hyacinth will skin you alive with her perfect manicure, then grind you up for fertiliser on her woodworking table if you manage to piss her off," Ravn says bluntly and continues to wipe down the front window. "She's rich, spoiled, and sometimes unreasonable -- and she works her arse off to get this town to work. One of the most committed people I know. And if I were her PA, I'd murder her in frustration. Talk to her -- you might hit it off. Worst case, you've lost half an hour of your life. Best case? You get to work for the most influential woman in the county."

He glances down at Ignacio. "You keep telling me that. I keep telling you, Vydal's a peach. Tells great dirty jokes too, just need to listen between the lines. Also, Vydal committed to see if he can find room for one or two of our people when we get this place up and running."

For a guy who makes his home in a trailer park Ravn doesn't appear very intimidated by the town's financial elite.

Ignacio really has some crazy mix of his family's Iberian Spanish and NY Puerto Rican? This tracks. Judiciously Ignacio draws a deep breath, lips pressed together, "Handle is such a...strong word. Manage? Wrangle? Cope? Cope might be pretty accurate." He's benevolent, not delusional. There's a patient look with a slow nod offering, "I think... people do their best with what they have. Sometimes one can drive a car but not know how the road rules work or where the roads go though."

Looking back to Perdita he boggles with a grin, "Why wouldn't I? It's incredibly generous of you to come out an help us. Seriously, thank you. That's amazing." Looking back to Ravn he holds up his finger and says "I... okay granted. But again...why would you-...." do that to someone? He looks at the kitchen area that is designate and takes a deep breath. There is a slow nod. "Yeah. Okay... I can do this. I can work with my father, I can get them kitchen ready for Vydal. No problemo." Looking to Perdita he chuckles admitting with with is a fondness (progress!) "I grew up in my dad's restaurant in Harlem learning how to cook. Was supposed to open a restaurant with him but I came here because...reasons ya know? But I think... yeah I can mange that." Looking to Ravn he says "He, um, he wants to come out and see it. When we're done."

"She'll try. I don't skin easily." Perdita's voice is light, but there's steel behind the words. She's someone who's been to hell and back in many ways, after all. "I'll... talk to her. Like you said, the worst that comes of it is she hates me. I seem to be really good at pissing off the rich and powerful in this town, after all." she shrugs to Ravn, before smiling again, "Vydal was... well dressed, very prim looking at the birthday party slash pow-wow I accidentally crashed, right?"

She turns her attention fully to Ignacio, "Of course you can do this. But if we're going to burst into a musical number I need to pop by my motel room for my Disney Princess shoes because these things are meant for distance running, not theater." she gestures down at her sneakers, which look like they've been worn outside of a carpeted area MAYBE once before. Seriously, what does her motel room look like, just... trunks of clothes?

"Better your father comes to see the place than mine does, Ignacio. Mostly because he's dead and I like for dead people to stay dead." Ravn grins quietly and wrings out his rag in the bucket again. The amount of grime on the window panes is decreasing but he's got his work cut out for himself no matter how much he actually enjoys cleaning things. "I don't think Vydal's quite ready to let people touch his actual creations but he did mention deliveries and vegetable chopping. How much damage can somebody do, chopping vegetables?"

He nods at Perdita. "That's Vydal. Sharpest tongue in Gray Harbor, heart in the right place. As for the rest? Well, you haven't pissed me off yet, that's got to count for something. Or does one need a Bayside address to join the 'rich and powerful'? Atli Addington isn't as bad as she seemed that day." Grey eyes sparkle with amusement. "Crashing was a good choice, though. She may want to keep the family dirty laundry inside the family but they don't have that luxury. We're all fighting a war here, people need to know what's going on. That includes you."

Ignacio scoffs, "Please, Tiana had a great pair of kicks as did Vanellope. Heels do not a Disney Princess make. Everyone knows it's all about the animal sidekick and the musical number which... if you hang around here long enough? Will show up." There's a wry grin as Ravn talks about his high end buddy. "Kid's got mad suit game." There is a pause in the amusement as he catches wind of the rest of that causing Ignacio to take a slow, deep breath. "Oh. That." Yeah that. There's some considerable thought put into that and it's with sympathy he points out, "They lost fifteen family members in three months to a madman. I have to imagine that's rather difficult for them. People grieving don't always react the same as people not affected by that great burden. It's a lot to work through."

The topic of fathers has Perdita silent, wringing out her rag and going back to cleaning the door with a determination. "If anybody starts coming through it again, warn me so I can dodge." she laughs softly as she works, before turning more serious at the talk of loss. "That... cannot have been easy to deal with. I don't even like most of my family, but it would still mess me up pretty significantly." she sighs softly, "You're making it really difficult to stay irritated with Barbie, you know that? And I'm good at holding a grudge. I come from a long line of grudge holders." The door is looking, if not new, at least a lot cleaner.

"You're going to get used to that." Ravn looks down at the girl. "People are dealing with all kinds of stuff here. Sometimes they lash out. It's not fair, it's not right, but it's often understandable." A small grin. "There are perks to not having any living relatives, I guess. I have some cousins and aunts back in Denmark, but no real contact with any of them beyond the occasional Christmas card."

He jumps off the chair and seems to have decided that it's time for a chat break. "So, am I going to be seeing either or both of you at the Poorhouse tonight? Because I think I may accidentally have committed to maybe going, and I kind of need somebody to hide behind."

Ignacio looks to Perdita and tries to find some way to be jdicious and not just go ooooh Her. "Barbie's a person and people are a work in progress. I don't think any of us would do as well as we are without working on our own things." There's a longer more thoughtful pause with a slight frown. "My...dad's trying to work though some of his stuff. He and, uh, he and my brother don't talk and he and I are...working on it. Like the old lady in the park pointed out if we don't try to work on things they'll never get better."

Ravn's question pulls his attention around and Ignacio blinks, "Ya know I could... I'm out here anyways. I haven't done karaoke in...forever. You need to hide though you're gonna have to curl up in a leeeetle ball cause I'm not a big guy."

"The Poorhouse? I might be able to join, but I don't know exactly how helpful I'll be to hide behind. In case you haven't noticed, Shukar, I'm no Amazon." She winks at Ravn, stretching out to her full height once more, before wetting her rag and starting in on the trim around the door, glancing over at Ignacio as she does.

Her voice is calm, though frustration and a bit of old hurt are plain, a slight accent that is neither Spanish nor from anywhere in the Americas seeping into her speech, something distinctly Slavic, "I'm sublimating my frustration with the real woman who tried to humiliate me in front of the rich and powerful of this town when I have, until now depended on the rich and powerful to earn my living, frequently to my humiliation and pain. So rather than say or do something I'll regret, because there is a real person who's hurting behind her facade, which I recognized on my own, even if I didn't know the reasons behind it? Atli Addington didn't direct attention to me, then insult me. Barbie did. Because I haven't met Atli yet, I met Barbie. Hakyarèl-pe?" she has finished the portion of the trim she can reach easily, and so she pulls a chair over, locking the door before she uses it to stand and reach the rest.

"Mm-hmm, I get it." Ravn nods with a good-natured smile. "Rich people can be dicks. Privilege often walks hand in hand with assholery. I'm not saying you should just forgive Atli for snapping at you. She had no right to do that. She snapped at me as well -- I just don't care very much because her opinion in a stressed moment like that doesn't matter to me a whole lot. If she was in a position to hurt me? I'd care a whole lot more. This is Gray Harbor, though -- sure, living on Bayside and driving a Maserati is nice, but it doesn't make you special. Special around here comes down to what you do. The super stars of Gray Harbor aren't the people with the biggest wallets, it's the people who pull other people's backsides out of the fire when the Veil strikes. In that regard, none of the usual rules apply here because money doesn't mean shit."

Ignacio looks to Perdita and listens in that way he hears, processes this, consumes it and lets that settle. In the end he takes a centering breath focusing on her. "She was a bitch. That part is not excusable. We all have our inner Barbie to work on but it's also on ourselves to have a Snickers and work from that side too. I'm sorry you had to deal with that. If it means anything from a guy who leans to one side, I mean thank you for handling it with grace. I think that says a lot. Maybe in time we can educate and learn to communicate better. That's my hope anyways." He pauses and looks to Ravn adding, "You know I also have long conversations with chickens so I may be a bit delusional on this front."

"Money might not carry the same weight here, but when you grow up without any? Money's everything. Money equals power, and I've spent a good chunk of my life without much of either. It's not about being special, I'm already a damn unicorn. It's about being able to survive in a world where there are people who don't even blink about dropping seventy five thousand dollars on a car they're going to leave to dry rot in a garage or a ten grand on a pair of shoes." Her tightly controlled irritation mostly spent in scrubbing the trim, Perdita hops down from the chair easily and unlocks the door before swinging the chair out of the way.

Leaning against the wall, she smiles at Ignacio and Ravn, self deprecating, "Oh, my inner Barbie is perfect. She's what most of the world gets to see." She winks at both men, playfully, "Thank you for letting me get that off my chest. So. What do chickens even talk about?"

"He has long conversations with chickens and talks Veil monsters into please forming a nice queue and jumping into the nice portal to go back to the nice Veil where they won't hurt anybody," Ravn notes with an amused glance at the other man.

The smile fades as he looks at Perdita, though, and nods. "You're not wrong. But dropping seventy five thousand dollars on a car to let rot in your garage won't make one inch of a difference when some elder god out of a Lovecraftian nightmare decides to eat your face. That's what I'm saying. Of course not having to worry about money makes a difference -- this whole centre we're building here is about helping people who can't hide behind their privilege. But when you find yourself in a bad dream? You're not going to be writing Cthulhu a check to let you go. You're going to be hoping the guy next to you doesn't have reason to hate you."

Ignacio lifts a finger and points it to Perdita. "Yeah the trick is for people to use it responsibly. Really though,, thanks for being comfortable enough to share. It's all good, amiga." Looking back to Ravn he pauses frowning and considering something, "I want an inner Barbie. Maybe then my limbs will be easier to reattach. Snap and go." Grim, but truthful.

Setting his messenger bag down he starts to unload it to get his laptop out to pull up the drafts and their checklist to-do. "Heh what do chickens talk about? Food. Mostly. Also the one is really pissy about the parrot and thinks she's an insufferable showoff. I was like well, ya know, I can't help ya there. I did make a rope-lettuce ka-bob though. You droll out the middle. Put veggies on the rope. the chase it around and peck at it. Keeps em busy as hell lemme tell ya." Looking back to them he says "If they're gonna let a car like that rot they can give it to me. Shiiiiit, brother I'll make some money back with that thing. Which reminds me I need to talk to Cavanaugh later this afternoon. We were talking aaaaand I might be hiring him as a coach. For me."

"It might... if you drive the car into the elder god's face. Probably not. But at that point it's a vast cosmic horror beyond mortal ken anyway. Also, Lovecraft was really racist, so I object to Lovecraftian nightmares on that basis alone." Perdita's keeping it light, though she's clearly taken Ravn's meaning.

"Sadly, most Barbies do not have snap and go limbs, as I learned with my sister's as a child." Sheesh, she was so poor she didn't even get her own dolls? "Rule number one about rich people, once they hit a certain amount of wealth they literally have no concept of what something costs, whether we're talking a fancy stand-in-for-a-penis car or, you know... someone's life... What sort of coaching does he do?"

Ravn offers a small, wry smile at Perdita's statement about rule number one but decides against arguing the point. Instead he says, "Lovecraft was a xenophobic asshole, and most of his texts are horrible parables on his fear of anything foreign."

He glances at Ignacio. "What kind of coaching are you talking about? Not planning to invest in a rocket ship and taking off to orbit, are you?"

Ignacio snickers at the tear down of Lovecraft, "Yeaaaah I have 0 plans to go to space. Beeefore my accident -the first one- I was trying to get out of the restaurant business and be a race car driver. And..." He pauses with a focused look and a slight frown saying simply, "Pretty damn good as Itzhak'll tell it, but I had to stop when I almost lost my leg and...I became an asshole for a while. There's a small nod of just...not being proud of it but owning it all the same. "Cavanaugh is a really good pilot and said if I want to try o get on the track again, to...for competition but for myself? He'll coach me. I had to be his wheelman once getting him to the hospital. We had a really lovely talk after that. He's doing a lot better now. But yeah. Driving. No space. Crazy people head into space."

"Explains why Ohio has the most astronauts out of any state." Perdita murmurs, a slight tilt to her head as she considers that fact... "So... I just realized I'm actually going to have to head back to the motel for a bit if I'm going to be meeting anyone anywhere later." She smiles apologetically, "I need to make a call to a friend, then take a shower and get ready, and that... is a process." She winks at both men, "But, I can come back and help tomorrow if you'll be here, or another day... goodness knows my calendar is open at the moment."

"You do that," Ravn agrees with a smile. "I'll very likely be here. Got a lot of cleaning to do before we can get you started on planning the opening bash, after all. Try to not have any awful dreams until next."

He glances at Ignacio and nods. "Don't know about Ohio and astronauts, but Cavanaugh's a good guy. Got some baggage but who here doesn't? It's literally a prerequisite to be one of us. He reminds me of a tiger sometimes. Big, handsome animal, all grace as it's lying there doing nothing -- and dangerous as all hell if you piss it off."

Ignacio looks to Perdita and nods, "Yeah if I'm able to go and that youse are all welcome at my table. Also, really thank you again." Looking to Ravn there's a wry grin and his hand holds in the air, amused, and wering only, "It's Gray Harbor. If you don't have baggage already you'll be custom issued some. Don't worry."

Perdita smiles, draping the rag over the side of the bucket, wiping off her hands on her leggings and pulling back on the puffy vest. It's still cold out, after all. "My baggage is designer." and then she's heading out the door, taking off at a jog, ponytail swinging as she runs.