2021-03-28 - Vaya Con Dios

The Pourhouse. The Poorhouse. Which is it?

This is an argument that has being going on off and on for months because Gray Harbor is one of those small towns where there's not really a lot to do besides argue for the sake of arguing. The kind of bluecollar mill workers and other salt of the earth that like to go have a cold one and maybe watch the game at the Po/ourhouse are the kind of folks who'd rather ague about this than about so many other things. Politics, for example -- politics leads to broken noses and resentment the day after, and resenting the guy who runs the electrical saw is an unnecessary distraction. Sports are a little safer to argue about because sports don't influence life directly the way the suits at town hall can. But an argument about whether the dive bar's name is spelled one way or the other? That's a perfect way to pass the time.

Things don't usually get heated at the Po/urhouse. At least, when they do, they get the kind of heated that you actually want. No one's shot the place up lately, or set it on fire. By Gray Harbor's standards this is positively tranquil -- particularly if you ask people who have the shine, the gift, the power -- whatever you like it. People who don't buy into the illusion that nothing ever happens in Gray Harbor because things happen all the time, and they usually happen right in your face. People who are accustomed to greeting their friends of the same caliber not with an 'oh my God, what happened to you?!' but with a resigned 'Oh, how bad did it get this time?'

People like Leon and Maggi Gyre.

It's just another Friday evening in Gray Harbor, and the only thing that's unusual about it is the thick fog that has covered the town for a couple of days now. The fog smells; of low key pollution from chimneys not quite as tall as they ought to be; from car exhaust and from cooking oils. There are people who claim to have seen things out there in it -- but then, there will always be somebody with a high strung imagination. Homeless guys talking about sirens with sharp teeth, trying to lure them into the water by the boardwalk.

It's just another evening to turn up for the evening shift at the Po/urhouse -- to chat with the regulars, maybe pick up some gossip from other people with the shine coming in for a beer or a whiskey, put on some music, and expect no trouble at all. Or, well, because this is Gray Harbor -- expect no more trouble than usual.

Leon had decided on a little bit of time off, given the circumstances, the kind of consideration that made him think of expanding, hiring someone on, becoming more than a one-man show. The mix of the two businesses under the Gyreworks banner certainly made it a possibility, and he'd talked an apprentice from Hoquaim into a week or two moonlighting for him, taking care of simple things, lockouts, the stuff that couldn't be rescheduled. Unfortunately, this didn't mean a man like Leon would lounge around. He couldn't languish, that wasn't him. Even going to the hospital had been out of the question. He'd cleaned and butterflied and wrapped. He'd checked and rewrapped. He'd slung the shoulder to let it heal. He'd toughed it out on a regimen of ibuprofin and sleep. And he'd shown up to the bar. You could still pour drinks one handed, afterall.

He'd finally taken the sling off, but he was still moving gingerly, getting a few questions from the regulars which he shrugged off with niceties and excuses. Pulled something working, little run down in the wet weather, anything to explain it away. He was on his feet more often than not, but still leaned hard here and there. He was being his usual amiable self, chatting up the millworkers, talking trash to the other tradesman, pouring beers, pouring shots or whiskeys, but leaving the true drink mixing to his wife. Shaking was out of the question. He seemed to be explaining for the second time tonight the name was because of the humble beginnings, the first true clientele of the bar.

Maggi had done her best to patch her husband up when he had come home. She had heard from other harborites that there was once a time where that sort of thing had been instantaneous, now the mend still took time. It did not make her hate the veil any less to have her husband once again tortured for existing. This was not the time nor the place for resentment however, this was work and some she was darn good at. That is why they had take over the Pourhouse after all. Yes she mentally screamed it Pourhouse, she had signed the paperwork and she wasn't the addled sort.

Maggi was not going to directly correct her husband in front of a patron, but the words do not lessen the gritting of her teeth. The debate did not stay on the other side of the bar and often followed them home like a feral animal who smelled a meal. There was plenty to feed on there. She knew the name wasn't right, that something changed. Leon assumed it was all apart of his skeptical wife's conspiracy theories. She moves to the other end of the bar bitterly. With the look a regular set of her features it would be difficult for anyone to know something was wrong. Another beer poured another patron served, another separation agreement avoided.

In a long sleeve sccop neck black dress with with drawstrings at the thighs with thigh high leggings, socks, and furry boots, stands Maggi. The sleeves and socks have a patchwork attribute about them in a puce tone. The rest of course, is black. A pendant of a moon hangs low from her neck. Straw mess only Courtney Love could truly appreciate is flowing down and primarily tangle free. The odd strand moves in a diverging direction here and there.

Isolde has been keeping her head down for the most part. Work, make sure no one from she and Alexander's old cult were following her, take care of school work, sleep. Repeat. Food was somewhere in that mixture as well. She enjoyed working at the Pourhouse (yes, she's on that team too), liked Maggie and Leon, even got along alright with her non-boss coworkers. She was friendly and had caught on quick but hadn't tried to make much of an effort to get to know people off the clock. For example, she always had a well timed and plausible excuse as to why she couldn't join Chelsea for study groups or even grab a cup of coffee.

Today, Isolde wasn't technically on the schedule to work. She was feeling restless and couldn't focus on homework. Didn't want to aimlessly wander because that was never a good thing in this town. It always led to bad stuff. So, instead she decided to drop in and see how busy it was. Maybe she could swing an hour or two of just running drinks or cleaning tables or something. She walks in to the building and does a quick look around before heading up to the bar. "Hey Maggie, Leon." She offers them a bit of a smile. Her attire is simple - a pair of dark jeans with a dark green t-shirt and a pair of beat up sneakers. Her hair pulled back into a neat ponytail.

Sometimes, the things or beings that make things happen in Gray Harbor are subtle. You don't realise you've walked or fallen into a dream until you realise that something is off -- whether it'sthat the guy chasing you through the woods on a black horse has no head, or that the woman you're talking to is smoking like a chimney and some of that smoke is coming out through her slashed throat. For Gray Harbor, that's pretty subtle.

The first hint that there's something off about tonight is subtle by local standards. It begins as as an awareness -- a brief flash of presence, as if somebody else's thoughts force themselves into minds where they should not be, think thoughts that do not belong in these skulls.

So this is what the place looks like from the inside. Well, that's not very exciting. I'm not sorry I wasn't even old enough to drink here because man, yawnsville. Those people are so old and everything looks so run down.

I wonder what it was like when it was new.

And just like that, reality changes. Not very subtle at all.

Rufus -- no, Malcolm Macintosh, Malcolm is a better name. Let's rewrite this shit.

Malcolm is wiping down the counter of his bar on a quiet Friday night. It's not all that to look at; a watering hole for the mill workers, thrown together in one of those brick buildings that were built to house those very same mill workers only now they're kind of run down and the ones along Spruce are gradually being turned into shops and bars like this one. The jukebox plays the current billboard number one, some of the mill workers are talking about the tornado in Waco, Texas, that killed a hundred and fourteen people, and Connie Ramos is sitting on a bar stool because the evening is young and quiet and the two have yet to get around to tell each other that they wouldn't mind -- you know, getting a little more friendly.

Now the dawn is breaking through a gray tomorrow
But the memories we share are there to borrow
Vaya con Dios, my darling:
May God be with you my love

The sign over the door says The Pourhouse. Malcolm wants to get one in neon but neon is expensive and there are other things he wants to buy first. Everything is new and a little too shiny for a place like this, but it'll grow into its patina soon enough. It has no choice; a place like the Pourhouse and a man like Malcolm can't afford to keep things steel and laminate and gorgeous. He's happy with the booths and the oak counter, and he hasn't decided how to decorate the walls yet. Photographs of the regulars, maybe?

He doesn't want trouble. He just wants to own a bar and maybe bring Connie Ramos into it some day. A perfectly normal place, even in this crazy town where people keep talking about ghosts and apparitions and things going wrong at the lumber mill. He's never seen anything unusual.

But Connie Ramos has seen strange and monstrous things before, and maybe that's why the young woman looks startled. She's the only person in the bar who does; no one else pays any attention to the people that were not there a moment ago. She sits still and watches the three new arrivals with frightened, dark eyes; she's never seen people dressed in such a strange fashion before, and the big guy looks like he's been through the wringer. Ghosts? Apparitions? Creatures from the Other Side come to torment her again? Gray Harbor, you do you.

It would be hard to tell under the act Leon was portraying, but there was a look of relief when Isolde walks in, the big man's smile a bit tired, raising an arm to wave. It might be noticed the way his jaw clenches when he does, the act of the move maybe still a bit painful, but being welcoming was thought one, and the rest just sort of plays out from there. One more beer is set in front of someone, a few droplets mopped up with a barcloth, the towel thrown over his shoulder. He props his arms on the bar in that typical beefy bartender lean.

"Hey, Iz. How's your night?"

He was saying, when the world goes elseways, rotating like a teacup ride. He had frozen, but his eyes moved. He was wary, but he was controlled. He was staring at Maggi, somehow seated in front of her, his slow blink the indication of his surprise, but still keeping himself in check. He begins to move again, looking around, processing, brows from high amiable fatigue to a serious, considering line. There was a new... person? On their side of the bar, and it was clear something was off.

One can only hope the Pourhouse of tomorrowland isn't run a muck in a state worthy of Jumanji when they all return. Maggi wasn't entirely certain how the veil played with time. It is what it was? She guessed. In the moment of telling Isolde about how she could use some help running food after Maggi had eyed Leon's state, they were doing the Time Warp.

Behind the bar, next to Malcolm she processes things at the rate of several expensive RAM sticks. First their location. Second, she had no idea if she should be paying Isolde for her hours here? Third, the sign.

The blonde is nearly jumping up and down, pointing at the name of the establishment. "HA!" She says to her husband, arm stretched taut. "Pourhouse!" This must have all seemed rather strange to the people there considering Maggi was behind the bar. Collecting herself from academic success she turns to look at those who belong here? "Hey. We uh- come in peace?" The pointing arm motions to the three sore thumbs sticking out. This is what aliens were supposed to say right? They were alien here indeed.

Isolde blinks, going tense as the surroundings change. It happened in a blink. One moment she's greeting her employers and the next she's standing in a place that looks...wrong? No. Familiar, but different. Newer. Her eyes setting on Connie first. The only one whose seemed to also realize something is wrong. Besides herself and her bosses. At least they're in this together instead of alone? She looks towards Leon, who is now more or less next to her.

Then back up to Maggie and to the people she doesn't recognize. Her voice is lowered so only the pair of them can hear. "...You're seeing this too right?" There's a touch of an anxious energy around her. She's been so good about not getting roped in to the stupid Veil stuff. Why'd it have to go and start now?

At least it didn't seem like it would be a dangerous dream? Then again...She stifles a giggle as Maggie points out the Pourhouse sign but, for now remains quiet. Waiting to see how people, specifically Connie, react.

If any of the mill workers in the booth back there notice Connie Ramos making the sign of the cross in front of herself real quick none of them comment upon it. No one else seems to be paying any attention to these new arrivals. One might get the impression that even the man standing right next to Maggi behind the bar doesn't see her -- at least Malcolm does not at all acknowledge the fact that a blonde in some very out of town clothing is on the wrong side of the counter.

A counter that looks a lot newer than it usually does. No one's even cut their name in the wood yet while Malcolm wasn't looking.

You'd think that with Maggi doing her Snoopy dance of victory, somebody would notice them. But the only one who actually seems to register the -- time travellers? alternate universe visitors? Martians? -- at all is Connie Ramos whose face is sheet white.

And that, in turn, Malcolm does notice. "You all right there, sweetheart?" the bar owner asks. He's got one of those warm, friendly voices that makes you think of cabins in the woods with hunting trophies and smokey whiskey consumed around the fireplace.

"I'm seeing things again," Connie mumbles. Her voice has a very faint accent -- not of someone not born in the state, but someone whose parents were not. She stares straight at Maggi because out of the three, the one doing the victory dance is by far the most attention grabbing.

In the booth over there, one mill worker tosses his newspaper on the table; he's read the racing results and now he leaves it in case somebody else needs to see if their horse came in.

And camera pans to...

June 9, 1953.

Leon turns slowly in his seat, that same jaw clench seen as it stretches his chest to do so. He blinks and it's like the other two women can see the 'veil' lifted off his eyes as he reads the sign. They track to read, they stare to understand, then they blank as memories shift, meld, right and rewrite. When those stormy blues look back to Maggi, he seems in shock, then his face falls, "Magpie, I..." His hand lifts, rubbing at his temple with a wince, "I don't know what just happened, but you're getting an apology. Later."

He'd then change his posture, his body half turning toward Isolde beside him, jaw set. He seemed tense, wary, watching the area, his feet falling to be steady on the foot rails and stool footrests, one hand placed on the bar, the other hanging free but near the freckled woman. He was ready to move, defensive, the chauvinist mannerism that betrayed he thought he'd need to protect the two women if this turned into a fight for some inexplicable reason, regardless of the fact he was the wounded one. He lets his wife do the talking for now, since that's what she opted for.

The only person looking at them thinks they are evil or something. This is both good news and bad news, mostly good news for team future. Maggi had a theory here, one she would need to thank Aidan later for if it worked. "Hey, so we need to get home. To the right home rather. If you want us to leave you be we could probably use your help. I'm going to test something and I need you to be cool." The woman from 1953 was not likely to understand all that and for all Maggi knew she sounded like a single sentence audio file stuck on repeat.

Looking for an object that wasn't breakable and finding a pen from the shiny counter, Maggi focuses all her being into channeling house cat energy. With indifference she swipes, trying to knock the pen to the floor in a true game of 'not my bar'. She didn't need no strong man protection she had science...kind of...

"Careful, Leon." Isolde said softly, knowing full well he was probably just going to hurt himself further if he tried to play hero. She was staying cautious, but quiet for now. Letting Maggie do the talking was definitely the best option right now. Though she may or may not have pulled one of those 'wave hand in front of person' things at Malcolm to see if he registered it.

The teeth of Connie Ramos worry at her lip as she looks at Maggi. She is listening, with that very familiar expression -- the one that special people in Gray Harbor tends to learn early on. The one that says I want to still be alive when this reality hiccup ends, so I am paying very close attention to every clue it gives me. Just gotta get through this and out on the other side. Advice that is paraphrased by every old hand in town to every new rookie turning up with a bit of shine and a blank expression.

Malcolm's new fancy French pen goes flying off the counter. He's so proud of it too -- a real BIC, cutting edge of writing technology. Connie's dark eyes follow it to the floor where it rolls a bit and then comes to rest against the leg of a bar stool. It smokes; a small wisp curls upwards from it, along with a whiff of burned plastic.

"Hey, baby, be careful," says Malcolm who thinks Connie did that in a display of clumsiness. He has yet to discover that the pen was not just dropped but burned.

Connie reaches down and picks it up, and then returns it to the counter. What do you need? she mouths silently at Maggi. Not because she is brave or she wants anything to do with three very strangely -- apparitions. But because that's how it works -- just gotta get through this and out on the other side. At some point Malcolm is going to realise that he needs to buy himself a new fancy French ballpoint pen but that time is not now.

In the booth the man who dropped the newspaper signals Malcolm for another beer. His voice is slurry in the fashion of someone who's had more than a few already, and his mates are not too sober either. "Some day," he exclaims, "some day my horse's gonna come in, Aberdeen, and I'm gonna buy you a fucking proper neon sign. You're my goddamn best friend, Aberdeen. I love you so much, Aberdeen. Don't you go hitching up with a girl that ain't one of ours, Aberdeen."

Well, there's a familiar sight to all three ghosts. Drunk racist uncle.

Leon was looking confusedly at Maggi when she experimented, his eyes widening as her hand passes through the pen, then her mind rips into it. He starts looking around near him, reaching for a glass, behind the bar with a tight grimace on his face, trying to pick it up and passing right through it. He looks briefly frustrated. Not being able to affect a dream was generally outside his scope of experience. Isolde gets a brief sweep of that frustrated gaze as well, the protective warning a reminder his want to protect was weak gesture.

"Ok, so no greaser dance off, then..." he mutters to himself as his eyes slide to the booth from the conversation then over to Ramos. Still frustration. Even as a white-as-they-come Irish descendant and townie, watching that sort of reaction was hard. He winces as he moves to get off the stool carefully, seeing if there was anything he could investigate, which would definitely be the newspaper, lumbering gingerly over to look at it, but still wary to threats to the other two.

Oops, where there is smoke, there is Maggi. She grimaces at the melted pen with a mouthed sorry. Then she remembers Connie is the only one who can hear them so mouthing was not a necessity on their parts. "Okay so I think we are effectively ghosts here." Maggi says to Leon and Isolde. She could say it loudly because, ghost. "We," She points to Leon and herself, "own this bar in the future and got sent here without dying which makes the ghost bit complicated." This is said to Connie.

"We also have no clue how to get back so if you have expertise miss ummm...?" Maggi trails off in the way only the socially aloof and repugnant can hoping that her odd assessment was enough to give their compass a north. If not they could always ride the sea turtles she supposed. "I wonder if this is historically accurate." She says looking at Leon. Research would need to be done. Either way it was pretty kick ass to be a spooky bitch.

Isolde was plenty happy to let Maggi do the talking. She was a little amazed at this whole ghost business. She was a ghost! Which was very unsettling, and it got her mind wandering in a direction that wasn't so great. She cleared her throat to try and pull herself back in. "Yes any assistance to help us get back home would be welcome." She echos. Though she has no idea how this woman is going to help them. And it's the 1950s! Part of Isolde is tempted to just like, leave the bar and check out the town.

"Maybe we should go out back or something? If she'll come with us. So she can talk without seeming like a crazy person? Or, uh." Isolde looks to Connie. "I might be able to reach your mind...and you can maybe communicate that way? We shine - like you do." Well, at least she and Maggi did. She wasn't totally sure about Leon but he was here right? So he probably did.

"My name is Macintosh and I'm from Edinburgh," Malcolm says good-naturedly to the drunk patron. "Call me Aberdeen once again and I will put you on luke-warm tap water."

Drunk racist uncle grunts. His friends laugh. Leon steals a glance at their newspaper.

Worcester County tornado (94 killed, 1310 injured, 10,000 homeless). The headline is easy to read. Massachusetts is not a fun place today.

Connie Ramos slides off her bar stool. "I'm just going to go powder my nose," she says to Malcolm's back before heading for the back door. It leads to a small area out back where deliveries of booze are made and a couple of dumpsters make it up for lack of more exciting scenery. In more recent times the area has been cleaned up a little, and a few things have been rearranged, but it is certainly recognisable as the yard behind the building.

The fog that has permeated the Gray Harbor of 2021 for a week or more does not seem to exist in 1953. It's a clear summer evening. If it was not already obvious that something has changed dramatically, the sky is proof: With so much less light pollution, the stars shine brightly, clearly overhead.

Connie steps out and leaves the door open behind her to swing very slowly shut. There's plenty opportunity for three 'ghosts' to slip out along with her before it closes; whether they'd be able to open the door again on their own is a good question. Once outside she dips into her bra for a packet of cigarettes and lights one with a match. Her hands are visibly shaking but barring that, the young woman seems surprisingly composed. "I know how this works," she says quietly. "There's some kind of story. I have to get through it, and then you let me go. Please don't hurt me. I've never done nothing to anyone."

Leon reaches to tap Isolde's shoulder, merely shaking his head to her question. It was caution to her suggestion. They weren't in danger yet, after all. "They want you to." He says, his voice not all collected, but there. The Weird was always a struggle where Leon was concerned. He would move to follow Ramos, first to look out the door and make sure it was safe, then waving the other two through, even if it seemed to pain him. Getting him to give up his protective manner was pretty much a lost cause.

"Usually, that's how it works for us to." He would say as they got outside, thoughtful looks given to Maggi and Isolde. "But if you're not from our time... I dunno, that's outside my depth." He, at least, seemed amazed to look up, admire. The last time he'd seen stars this clearly... His eyes drop to the woman again before he can disassociate again, coming back to the present...past? This was all too much. He moves to the edge of the yard, scoping the perimeter as best he can.

Well if they want you to, Maggi was quickly becoming an all you can eat buffet. Moving outside, the grunge gal inhales the cigarette scent with revelry, she was dying for one in the stress. Dead for one? Being a ghost complicated colloquialisms. "Isolde works the bar." Maggi adds belatedly. "We don't want to hurt anybody, we just want to get back before people start taking liquor off the shelf for free." While they couldn't interact very well with objects, she questioned if they could touch each other. A pale hand with chipped black polish reaches to squeeze that of her husband. Even if it goes through him, she is trying.

"Alright game plan here. We have to figure out the story. This is not outside of what any of us can do, we just have to figure out what we are working with. Connie right? How often do you see things like us that other people can't? It's important for a friend if we can get back. I also need a bit about what has been happening with the bar here recently." Maggi's head is cocked and she does her best to be authoritative, but not bossy. This is still her bar? "Iz, I need you to tell me if you know what you can do with your abilities, just *in case." She knew Leon was on team 'ask rather than use glimmer' when possible. "Babe, can you help me come up with spitballs here for what could have been important at our bar in 1953? Details in the paper? Anything you remember from financial records on the bar for this year? We need to figure out if historical event is the major thread."

Sometimes people were not all that aware that Maggi had spent a significant portion of her life in school. While her degree was on the lesser of academic support, most of her coursework was universally valid and applicable. If she could keep them focused rather than afraid, they may get somewhere.

Isolde nodded to Leon, he was probably right but, even so. Sometimes powers were necessary to use even if it wasn't ideal. She follows outside, taking in the scene, the sky. It was so pretty, bright. But had they really...time traveled? What if this was just a random dream and Connie was the fake one. She frowned a touch at the thought and refocused on what was being said. She didn't know anything about the Pourhouse's history unfortunately. So she wasn't any help with that.

"I can do electricity things. And mental communication and empathy...sometimes I can pick up emotional readings off of objects too. And create illusions in people's heads." Isolde offered to Maggi. She looked at Connie a moment. "We're sorry...we know this is a lot to take in. What, uhm, what sort of things can you do?"

Different people handle stress and pressure in different ways. Maggi Gyre is obviously a doer -- someone who responds to stress by doing something about it. Unfortunately it seems that most of her high speed instructions go over the head of Connie Ramos who is probably still mentally at there are three ghosts no one else can see and they just lured me out back to eat me.

She glances at Leon, watching the perimeter. Because that's not ominous at all, from her point of view.

Then she tries to hard to focus on what the blond woman is saying; that one is clearly the boss ghost. A very weirdly dressed boss ghost -- but they both are. The man at least looks -- less strange.

"...I see things," Connie murmurs unhappily in response to the inquiries launched her way. Her shine is indeed nothing to gush over -- a faint sparkle, a bit of glimmer, just enough to see a side of Gray Harbor that everyone else around her doesn't. Just enough to keep her mouth shut about it a lot because no girl wants to get known as that weirdo Latina. "Sometimes there are people in the shadows. Like, Bela Lugosi or the Wolf Man. They talk to me and tell me terrible things. Sometimes they scratch me." She looks down at her arms. There are white gashes in her skin -- the kind that a teenage girl might create with a knife, or a monster might create, trying to pull a child in under the bed with it.

Leon, momentarily distracted by the beauty of the clear night sky, snaps back to this reality, possibly prompted by the sound of booted feet. As the little group of -- time displaced ghosts? -- departed through the back door, somebody else must have gone out the front. They are coming around this way now -- talking, laughing. Men's voices, a bit loud in that fashion of guys who may have had one or two too many and who are now riling each other up a little.

"We're the same." is about as much as Leon is elaborating on the subject, eyes on Isolde long enough to say it and be understood before he's looking around the corner at the approaching men. Maggi could explain as much or as little as she wanted about her own powers. He was acting very cautiously, head held at an angle so his face was only half exposed, until he seems to remember... They can't see him.

"Company." he announces to the group, not sure the intent of the men, but drunkards weren't something Connie probably wanted to deal with for the moment. Leon does nothing currently, but steps more into view so he could watch the yard and the approaching men clearly. He wasn't about to immediately make himself a hypocrite, but he was ready to convince these men the yard was empty if they seemed hostile to the Ghosty Gray Harborites' only seeming lifeline. Was that the only reason? For some reason Leon couldn't put his finger on, he was just as ready to defend Connie as he was Maggi or Isolde. The thought seems to strike the locksmith strange, eying Ramos. But it was a lot to unpack, so he remains quiet about it for now.

In the bar had been blatant racism. To be expected in 1950’s America, but it still made Maggi’s skin crawl. Dangerously that means they saw Connie as less than. Even more dangerously, they were drunk. “Connie, hide. Now.” Maggi looks darkly from the scarred woman to the men. “We seriously are not going to hurt you, but they might.” The dark clad blonde was behaving ONLY because her husband was present. Her initial instinct was to just light the men up. She was giving things a chance, one chance to make this not the sort of thing she watched out for at the Pourhouse on the daily. Both guys and gals.

“Okay Iz, important to know. Thank you. I really should start asking harder hitting questions on shift. What are your other strengths as a person?” Icy eyes still hover between the men and Connie. 1953...Come on Maggs history...

Leon has yet to say much which is odd...ominous almost. This was one of the more terrible situations to be a breaker in. “First, we make sure she’s safe. Second. I need more ideas. I can pyrokenesis and I can research so other ideas are welcome.”

"Better yet, go back inside and maybe tell Malcolm he's got some trouble." Isolde offered. Primarily just to get Connie back in the bar. She does a quick count of the men. Four. "So, weird theory." She looks towards Maggi and Leon, ignoring the question about her strengths for a moment. "If we're technically ghosts. Can we possess them? Like try to take control of three of them and. I dunno. Beat up the fourth and then turn them on each other? Since we can't physically touch them." She looks back towards the on coming group. Body poised in such a way that she's ready to electrocute these assholes to a crisp.

"As for my strengths? Patience of a Saint and no qualms about kicking ass when it's necessary?" Isolde half asked. Not entirely sure if the latter counted as a 'Strength' but hey. It was good to know your bartender wouldn't hesitate to play bouncer once in a while. Right?

Nineteen fifty three. Not one of those years that burn brightly in the collective memory of the country. 1963, on the other hand, that's easy -- the Kennedy Assassination. But 1953? Nothing remarkable happened in 1953 -- at least nothing so remarkable that one would remember it offhand nearly seventy years later. Is this good news or bad news? It's good insofar that Maggi would probably recalled if one of those tornados from Worcester County had come this way later -- that's the sort of thing a town remembers, hundreds of dead people and so on. It's bad news insofar that there is no immediate explanation as to why 1953.

Because it's a nice number, ok.

And there's that strange sensation again, of somebody else's thoughts pushing into heads where they don't belong. This time it is accompanied by the kind of indifference one might associate with a teenager shrugging and stomping off to their room because adults are stupid; a certain immature sullenness, a bit defensive, as if it really was a very rude question to ask. Not that anyone actually asked it, but eh, rude.

But maybe that's not quite as much of an immediate concern as those four sozzled gentlemen heading around towards the back. One of them is definitely the fellow who called Malcolm 'Aberdeen' in spite of him being from Edinburgh; maybe he's the kind of American to whom all of Scotland is one place and everyone wears kilts.

Leon's gut instinct isn't wrong. They look like trouble. Anyone who's tended bar for a while recognises that overconfident, let's go kick somebody around for shit and giggles kind of expression. It's typically found on the face of men who feel a little too superior, have had a little too much to drunk, and think they can get away with it. Goes well with a natural propensity for being an asshole, too.

Connie stares at Maggi and Isolde in turns. She opens her mouth and then Isolde's words are processed in her mind -- but like a deer in headlights the girl freezes just that one second too long.

Something in her expression must confuse the men -- because they too stop and stare for a second, at her, and then around as if they half expect something or someone to be hiding out here. "Hey, she's not alone," one of them says.

"Probably just a cat," another says.

"Look, Jerry, maybe we should just go have another beer," the third says.

"Fuck that," says Jerry the racist uncle. "Not gonna do anything to her. Just gonna run her off, tell her we don't want her kind around here."

All four of them blissfully unaware of the three people standing between them and Connie, invisible and intangible -- but in true Gray Harbor style, definitely not harmless.

Leon steps between the men and Connie, his brows dropping to a serious glare. Sure, they couldn't see it, and in his incorporeal form, it wasn't like he was going to block them from coming closer, but it was hard to come to terms with that sort of thing when you knew things should work a certain way. Either way, Leon has to think, and fast. Then a thought occurs to him.

"I'm not sure if this will work... I've got Jerry." he says, but he puts a palm out, ready for his ghostly hand to touch Jerry on the forehead as he approaches. Leon closes his eyes and absolutely paints himself as a hypocrite to Isolde. Leon unlocks the boundaries of his mind and reaching out for the sentient mind before him, focusing in.

It was a nice conversation you had, Jerry. You sat down next to her at the bar, ready to be course and crude and she disarmed you. Connie is actually just the type of woman you respect. She's hard on the outside, but affable. You may have even thought she was attractive. You talked about the town, how long you've lived here, how long you went to this little hole in the wall bar, how many friends you've made here. It was a charming conversation, and you noticed the way she looked at Malcolm. You thought they would make a cute couple if either of them got off their asses and were honest with eachother. You hadn't said so, yet. You knew the dance was exciting, just like you had with your own wife years and years past. You might though, because a little push never hurt anyone...

Leon lifts his other hand, rubs at his forehead, takes a step back and out of the way of the man, more reflexive as a normal person would expect to be bumped into in any normal circumstance...

Frustration wasn't Maggi's best color, it clashed with black and disinterest. Connie? Wasn't listening. These guys? They were trouble. Icy eyes look all about the place, trying to come up with a complex machination to diffuse the situation. There was not a world of options. Time for her to channel her inner Mac then, dumpster fire it was. Maggi concentrates, eyes going a little bit too blue in intensity. The very nearby trash receptacle has smoke slither upwards in warning, snaking a putrid scent by the nostrils of the proximate. As quickly as it starts, the entirety of the contents are engulfed in an unholy azure flames. They lick upward at the sky, and the men could swear that they reached for them. In their minds the concept of cleansing fire for the heathens clicks. A reckoning was upon them and it's name was Magdalena.

Maggi crosses her arms before her, pleased. In a calm tone she says to Connie. "Could you please move now?" Her words are kind, her smile as close to sweet as she can manage with a air of smug to it. The goal was not to burn the bar down and she was running out of tinder out here. "Thank you Iz, I do value those things." Maggi adds, taking a few steps toward the bar in leadership. Leon was going to play nice? That was great, real progress even. Maggi had her own issues to work out.

While Leon handles Jerry and Maggi handles fire? Isolde strolls up - making a point of walking in such a way that she can pass her hand through Minion 1 (or across him at least if she doesn't phase through) and positioning herself behind Minions 2 and 3. She places one hand at each of their backs - starting up at the base of the neck and summoning her powers to cause electrical pulses to trail down their spines. Nothing serious - just something light - that causes real shudders.

The kind that gives you a spooky, hair-raising feeling. Maybe Isolde should take up moonlighting as a ghost!

Things suddenly happen very fast in that little yard behind the Pourhouse. Or, more precisely, a lot of things happen at once.

Somebody's racist uncle -- whose name apparently is Jerry -- stops flat. The expression on his face goes through an almost cartoon-worthy series of changes, from surprise to nostalgia, and then onwards through sentimentality before landing at determination. The look he sends Connie Ramos is fond, warm, protective.

Connie Ramos looks no less confused at this.

The Latina girl opens her mouth and tenses in the fashion of somebody who is about to start to walk -- when the dumpster explodes. Out of nowhere, a fountain of fire shoots up from it, sending the lid flying and covering the backyard in a shower of small sparks and flying shrapnel consisting mostly of old newspapers, cardboard, and paper wrappings -- another reminder that this is a time where everything was not yet wrapped in plastic and styrofoam.

The four men jump backwards. Of course they do, a dumpster just literally exploded for no reason anyone can discern. Connie Ramos jumps in the other direction, equally shocked. It really doesn't help that the flames turn azure from sheer heat, nor that they seem to reach -- and then, as if some vengeful god had decided to really make these guys miserable, suddenly there is that strange sensation as if something invisible just brushed past. The four guys look at each other and at the dumpster as their hair suddenly stands on ends and their teeth clatter in their faces.

Who's surprised that three of four manly men break and run?

Jake, Bob and Mike all became a little infamous in town for telling that story about God in the burning dumpster every time they got drunk from that day and on. Mike's wife divorced him over it. Not because she didn't believe him -- the Gazette even wrote about it the day after -- but because he'd promised her he'd stop drinking and there he was, at the Poorhouse, drinking.

The strange sensation of somebody else's thoughts lingers.

Jerry, though -- Jerry was made of tougher cloth. Or maybe it was just that he was going to rescue little Connie Ramos if it was the last thing he did in this life. Because Connie Ramos was going to marry Malcolm Macintosh and together, they were going to run his favourite bar. He wasn't sure why he felt that way. He vaguely remembered feeling differently about her -- but it didn't matter. He had a knife in his coat and he had been fantasising a little about how it would feel, scaring the Latina girl with it, maybe make her beg a little -- but it didn't matter now. All that mattered was Malcolm Macintosh plus Connie Ramos equals happiness.

Hey, this story is turning out pretty neat.

And then there is Connie Ramos herself. Faced with two women trying to tell her to go back inside, with exploding dumpsters and men breaking into shivers and bolting, with Jerry still staring at her, and Leon moving about like the big stranger he is -- it's too much. She bolts. Fortunately, one might argue, she bolts towards the door and safety inside. "Malcolm! Help!"

Leon's hand still on his forehead, he seems to shake his head, as if jostling free from the low-grade headache he'd given himself using one of the most intense parts of his mental repertoire. His mind settles back into its bounds, and he opens his eyes. To flames. He blinks, knowing the feeling, the heat, had rolled from his wife his gaze sweeping from the dumpster where his brows were lifted in surprise, to Maggi, where his brows were dropped into a more serious look. He holds it, but his words are suitably tame given it.

"One problem solved." he intones, implying there may well be another if the fire gets out of control. He checks to make sure it shouldn't spread, then shakes his head, letting out a chuckle half-amused, half-confused.

"Goddamn, Magpie." Leon was turning toward the bar, lifting his arms to the two lady ghosts, hands making gentle sweeping motions to imply he was corralling and they should move back into the bar. He looks to Isolde, a slight smirk on his face. "Subtle, on the other hand." It seemed an approving statement.

Maggi was not the subtle sort, never really had been. It came free with tinfoil hat purchases, loud sweeping gestures, and accusations. A brow is raised at Leon in challenge which she takes the time to turn back and make him see. "I tried being a diplomat and we were not getting much of anywhere. Stage two was set it on fire, which I may add is effective." Maggi looks about, a grin crossing her when she sees the flames. "Great job team Pourhouse. Downside is that we are...still here." The blonde takes several strides back toward the bar. Once she reaches the threshold she sees if she is able to cross the closed door.

In true parapsyc fashion she just convinces herself that the laws of being a ghost say she will be fine. As to whether Leon and Iz have a problem watching a less than corporeal bar owner waft through solid wood is another fish entirely. It was decided. Maggi would always have to leave at least one task unfinished for the rest of her days. Being a specter was too fascinating to give up doing when she actually died. When she is most of the way passed through, she holds a thumbs up to the others. This morbidly is just a disembodied arm and hand cut in vision by objects. No big deal.

Isolde flashes a grin to Leon at his compliment. She loved spooking people way too much. "The fire was pretty good." She agrees with Maggi and is also pleased that Connie has finally ran inside to Malcolm. When Maggi walks through the door, eyes wide. "I guess we really are ghosts." Which...well, it sounds cool but also they're entirely in the wrong decade and century and all that. She looks to Leo and then gives a touch of a shrug, moving towards the door to try it for herself. Maggi had done it, why couldn't she?

This door is totally walk-through-able.

Isolde musters up some confidence and walks right through after Maggi's thumbs up and all! Though she does pause once on the other side and looked to Maggi. "Have you been feeling at all like...someone or something else is here too? Or like...watching?"

The dumpster fire burns itself out in short time. This is fortunate -- and also not very surprising; that kind of heat literally sucks the oxygen out of the air around itself, and once the fuel is consumed, there is nothing left to sustain it. Which is probably a good thing because it definitely burned briefly with enough combustion to start a wildfire.

Could have made 1953 a year to remember ...

Nah.

Outside, Jerry stares at the dumpster, and at the door Connie Ramos just sprinted through. It's probably healthy for the man's sanity that he at least does not get to experience Maggi's disembodied thumbs up through the door. He wavers -- to follow or not to follow? -- and then seems to decide to be a responsible adult and make sure that nothing else has caught fire. From the look on his face he really wants to shout at somebody to bring some water, or a camera, or just another beer. His expression is still a little dreamy, still a little determined.

Jerry pictures the girl running inside; seeking refuge in Malcolm Macintosh's strong embrace. He looks at the image his imagination conjures up; Connie Ramos, finally in the embrace in which she belongs. He's going to put this fire out. He'll break the news that the yard was on fire to Malcolm later. And maybe have another beer. Speaking of, shit, Mike's going to be in so much trouble.

Inside, Connie Ramos does exactly that. In one leap she's across -- or rather, over -- the counter and into the arms of the Scottish bar owner who looks simultaneously confused, happy, and worried. She whispers to him -- and the expression on his face grows no less confused, but his ears do burn.

For a moment Leon too is frozen; for just a split second two paths open up in time, as if the locksmith was standing at some kind of crossroads. In one such future, a sad memory of Connie Ramos lingers, sometimes detected as a presence, a memory in the wood of the counter, a shadow in the yard, the sound of old floorboards creaking. In another, there are feelings of happiness; a pitter-patter of little feet, the scents of spicy cooking, the occasional echo of a husband telling his wife to not swear at him in Spanish when he forgets to take out the trash. A figurative crossroad -- a choice to make, between the familiar sad memory, and a more cheerful one that might overwrite it.

One moment Isolde is asking him a question and his wife is only halfway through a door, Leon soon to grudgingly attempt to follow. The next moment he is stuck, the world split on its face into two prisms of reality, he stares, his eyes not lining up, refusing, finding no frame of reference. He closes his eyes, banishes the sensory, reaches for the extrasensory. His head tilts, cocks aside, feeling the paths. His face, like Jerry’s just before, was a cycling picture of emotion. He let both in, let them run over.

Then he lifts his hand, fingers slightly curled. He summons the power he knew, the one that cleansed, that took memories from objects and scrubbed them away, sending them onward to the ether. He takes hold of the sadness, and he rips it away, his arm continuing on a path like he would throw it to the blue cinders behind him.

He rejoins time, letting the feelings wash away again. He breaths... And tries to walk into the door.

And bounces. Because sometimes Leon was just too literal for his own good.

Would Maggi have been both impressed and pleased with Leon were she to know all of what he had done? Very much so. Unfortunately communication is not one of the Locksmith's strengths. She did not know that something terrible would have occurred there. She did not know the sadness that had seeped into the grains and fibers of the bar had been scrubbed and altered by combined efforts of changed history and cleansing fire. What she did know was that she and Isolde were inside and Leon was not. Nothing had seemed overly threatening to them yet, so she wasn't too worried. The man often got lost in himself.

Pivoting to face Iz, Maggi nods, now tangled hair whipping about. "Yes. I don't think they want us to though. Dangerous toss-up." A grin breaks out on her face when she sees the happy couple. Her and Leon's own love story having started in the same place. It warmed her cold undead soul. "I think we just keep going in the story. I'm open to your opinion though."

Isolde looks towards Connie and Malcolm, a few mixed emotions rising on her face but she quells them and manages a touch of a smile before looking back to Maggi. "Uhm, well. Let me try something first." she closes her eyes, trying to concentrate - get a feel for this other being that was...with them? Watching them? It reminded her of trying to connect with the being trapped in the City. Wanting to understand it, and perhaps communicate on some level. She can feel it. She latches on to that connection, follows it until she feels confident enough that it will hear her.

What are you doing? It's posed as a curious question. Not a trace of hostility. And can you please put us back where we belong?

Vocally she says for Maggi's sake (and Leon's if he manages to get in here!) "There is something else. I've established a link..I'm trying to talk to it."

I guess? This is not how the story was supposed to go.

The presence, the otherness comes through loud and clear, riding Isolde's link right back to the minds of the three ghosts. It's a girl's voice -- not a woman's. Not a child's either -- but definitely not an adult's. American. Sounds like somebody who should be chewing pink bubble gum.

Connie died, you know? She tried to run away from Jerry but she fell and hurt her head, and she died a couple of years later from a brain hemorrhage. And Malcolm -- well, I kinda made him up. But he's cool. We'll keep him.

That's not terrifying at all. Particularly the part where the presence sounds kind of proud of itself. Nothing more confidence inspiring than teenage girls playing God.

Oh, like -- suddenly the door opens. Which is really useful for poor Leon who was left outside and probably hurt his nose walking into the door. It was just a draft, but it was enough for a ghost to shuffle through real quick.

Still rubbing his nose, Leon's eyes open a little wider as the door swings open, and he wastes little time sliding through it quickly. He glances around as soon as he's in, wary, approaching Maggi and Isolde, then his expression softening as he sees Connie in Malcolm's arms. His own arm slips out, touching Maggi's lower back, a sympathetic affection at the sight. His brief distraction then slides to Isolde, quirking a brow. Outside the door, he'd missed most of the exchange.

"What'd I miss?" He was peering at Isolde, able to tell she was Open, but not sure what was going on.

Shrugging, Maggi decides Is has as good an idea as any. The door even opens near the back. "If it's cool I will follow your lead on that." She says to Is. Concentrating once there was...Nothing. Maggi makes a very unflattering face and lets some swearing fly before trying again. Thanks to Is doing the leg work she joins what is now a three way call. <<Yes Uh, Hello? We aren't really sure what to do here. When I don't know what to do I just set things on fire and I like having a bar in the future. Mac says I can get hints in video games.>>

Her tactic is probably less effective than her counterparts, but at the very least they could maybe figure out what was going on here. Or figure out what was going on adjacent. The veil was never really clear like that. "Babe, it's accepted a meeting with us. 1-800-Use-your-glimmer to join." The blonde calls out. They may as well all be on the same page here, which is more ironic than she currently realizes. Icy eyes stare at the sky, partially due to the fact one doesn't actually know where to look when waiting for a disembodied god voice to respond.

Isolde just nods to Maggi's words, keeping her eyes closed so she can focus. Wait a second. You made Malcolm up? If this was a Dream - and it had to be a Dream right? That made perfect sense. What was mostly unsettling was the fact this could be some kind of child's Dream. Like what if there was some super Glimmer charged girl out in town somewhere playing dolls with history??

You know, I've learned a lot of things never go as you plan them to. This doesn't seem much different than that. Isn't it a good thing that Connie lived? And now she and Malcolm can live happily ever after or something, yeah?

Yeah, I didn't plan to get lost in the woods in 2015 for one. But it's cool.

Behind the counter, Malcolm Macintosh (a man who was apparently never real until suddenly he was?) and Connie Ramos (who should be bleeding in the yard by now?) look deeply in each other's eyes as if they see something there that neither realised before. There ought to be violins. There are no violins, but maybe no violins are necessary -- the music plays in their hearts.

"You know, I could use some help here," Malcolm says softly.

"I'm not doing anything else in the evenings," Connie replies, just as softly.

"About damn time!" Jerry says, banging the door open just in time to see his two favourite people ever finally get around to kissing each other, just like he's been quietly rooting for, for at least three months. The fact that until two minutes ago he was ready to run that uppity Latina chica out of town at knife point if necessary is not just forgotten -- it never existed. Reality is clearly as fluid as hitting backspace on a keyboard or cellphone, and writing something new to replace the existing.

Does it matter?

Not if you ask Malcolm Macintosh and Connie Ramos.

They'll marry, and they will have kids. Jerry's going to buy Malcolm a proper neon sign for a wedding gift, and one of their kids will some day want to retire and move to Florida. So he sells his bar to some young person named Gyre and retires to Fort Lauderdale where he -- meets a lady named Leslie who adopts old thoroughbred racing horses and argues a lot on Facebook about proper horse care.

That's not exactly how the Gyres remember this deal going down -- but maybe now it is how it went down. After all, there was a time when Leon and half of Gray Harbor was convinced that the place was named the Poorhouse, and no one could convince them otherwise. Maybe that doesn't matter, either.

You should change that carpet though. It's really messy.

And just like that, reality shifts.

There are a couple of patrons in the bar, arguing about whether the place is named the Poorhouse or the Pourhouse. It's a strange argument to be having, considering that the old neon sign outside clearly spells out -- The Pourhouse. The other neon sign says OP N -- but the E has been broken for some time. Arguing about a name is safer than politics or sports, and the regulars of the Pourhouse are just ordinary mill workers and foresters who want a quiet beer with the boys before heading home. If you want a deep, philosophical argument about the fluidity of life, the universe, and dolphins saying thank you for the fish, head down to Espresso Yourself and try to catch some of the writer fellows.

If anyone notices that a few people have switched places -- Maggi is no longer behind the counter, Leon is in the other end of the room, and Isolde seems to have teleported a bit too -- no one comments. It's Gray Harbor; sometimes it's better to not ask.

It's just another night in a not so ordinary town, and the radio plays,

Now the dawn is breaking through a gray tomorrow
But the memories we share are there to borrow
Vaya con Dios, my darling:
May God be with you my love