2021-09-17 - Got An App For That?

Twelve weeks.

Actually, twelve weeks and then waking up in an unfamiliar house, and then getting dragged into a supernatural poker game -- bonus: naked Seth Monaghan -- and when you think about it, this is pretty much what passes for normal in Ravn Abildgaard's life these days. Nine months ago he thought he was the only person in the world with actual funny powers. Six months ago, getting wiser. Now? Pretty certain that 'reality' and 'real' are opt-in concepts, and a man might as well just go with the flow and take each day as it comes.

The strange part of that, maybe, is that he loves it.

The Dane walks into the run-down butcher's shop on Spruce Street that houses the HOPE community centre. He looks at the facade, and then at the interior. Gone are the raw walls and the strange smell of dead meat (dug up and buried at last). Gone is the mild feeling of panic that this place will never finish renovations. Because while renovations are indeed not finished, somebody has clearly been working on it all off and on during those missing twelve weeks. Who somebody might be, heaven only knows. Denny, maybe -- the homeless janitor with the mermaid fixation, maybe time did not skip for him.

Or maybe the narrative just went on unbothered by his absence. He bought a house somehow -- why not renovate an old shop?

One mindfuck after another.

There's no one here as of yet. Someone's tacked a calendar to the wall of the butcher's old back room, now the 'office'. Someone's dragged an old photocopier in here, too -- it looks like it may have escaped from 1982. There's a few things on the calendar. Names, phone numbers. He doesn't recognise any of them. He has no idea whether he's the one somebody has one or more appointments with -- might be Fern, or de Santos. Might be Denny. Might be -- anyone.

Five minutes and I already need a cigarette.

Ravn walks back outside and leans against the red brick wall while lighting a cigarette with a battered old zippo sporting some kind of medieval shield design. Dressed in black from top to toe -- jeans, turtleneck, wind breaker -- he looks nothing as much as some Seattle hipster gone into the wrong neighbourhood. No manbun at least, but a messy mop of brown hair with copper and gold highlights, faded in the sun. Tall. Thin. And the gloves -- black kidskin gloves though the weather is mild. Art designer or coffee shop writer.

You move to a town, and the next day you are three months into the future. There is a lot of relationships and work, and settling in that happens in that time, and none of it is in her head. Had she told anyone what she can do? Has she made friends or dated in that time? WHAT HAPPENED?

But she has a place to live, and work has been happening. Apparently past her bought a motorbike, and made plans for her future...

Exploration is good for the soul, especially when you time travel and need to settle back into the world as it is. Once all of the emails have been read, once all of her projects are clear in her head, and once the coffee has settled down, she ventures out into the world, pausing outside the community centre to consider it. She hesitates before she goes in, looking at notice boards.

"Hey." No harm in being polite. Ravn leans against the brick wall as Tanasha walks up -- he remembers her face from the high school cafeteria (twelve weeks ago? really?). He pulled her into a conversation on text as the manure hit the fan (twelve fucking weeks?) because frankly, he considers it to be his job, worrying about lost, gifted people in this town. You call it a community centre, he calls it mobilisation of the forces. Tomato, potato. "Looking for something or someone?"

Tanasha hesitates, her eyebrows drawing together, a small crease appearing. "Ravn, right?" The hesitation is born of that single meeting, and she smiles, shaking her head, a tiny gesture, "It seems that... we've had coffee in the last few weeks." The hesitation is obvious, and the grin that appears lights up her face, making the rueful amusement obvious. "Exploring. Finding my feet, even though I seem to have found it for months."

"Ravn, yeah. Danish name. Lots of things seem to have happened over the last few weeks, it seems. At this rate -- I mean, I apparently bought a house, I'm half waiting for someone to walk up and tell me by the way, we got married too, I'm having the baby shower next Wednesday." The tall man can't help a lopsided smile. "So, did you find coffee receipts? Or did we make some kind of appointment? There's a calendar inside I've never seen before, full of unfamiliar numbers -- and a fair number of them are in my own handwriting, at that."

"I bought a house too, and arranged builders, and ... all manner of things. It seems my business is doing alright. I am so glad I am obsessive about records." Her eyes twinkle, and her mouth tugs up at the corners, "But no dating in my calendar so I think I am sade there. I had made a promise to myself so I kept it!" Her smile widens into a broad grin, "It must be harder for people who had a life here already..."

The Dane reaches up to scratch his neck with the hand that's not holding a cigarette. He looks a little sheepish. "Not going to lie, I'm more than a little worried about what I apparently have been saying and doing on autopilot. Luckily I'm a pretty low key guy so I figure I mostly did what I usually do -- teach my students, read a lot, and take long walks. Which is all well and good but not exactly newspaper headline stuff, and thank God for that. I did read my calendar for the last three months pretty compulsively, but as far as I can tell -- if I went and did something shocking, at least I didn't leave a paper trail."

A small smile flicks across his face as he glances back at the woman who yesterday (twelve weeks ago) had just rolled into town along with a hurricane. "So what's your business anyhow?"

The soft sound she makes is a snort of amusement, "Paranoia as standard now? We'll be worrying about that for weeks! I'll be telling people that I am just more forgetful because of all the things I am juggling with the move and the new house..." She glances around, hesitating before she replies, "I write software for companies. Usually small ones but some charities and things like that."

Ravn can't help a small laugh. "You're telling me that we made an appointment during those twelve weeks that neither of us actually remember, aren't you?" He shakes his head and puts his cigarette out. "Well, if we did, then we should maybe take a look at it. Do we have any idea what we talked about? I don't suppose either of us happened to leave proper notes or instructions? Of course we didn't, we were there."

He opens the door to what was obviously a derelict shop until fairly recently; it's still a work in progress in the way of volunteer work anywhere -- a bit chaotic, the furniture picked up or donated from several places and in several styles, any horisontal surface can be used to discard a pile of paper, a lunch pack or a shoe on. "We're technically a charity," the Dane explains as she steps in. "Off the record? More of an attempt to connect people like us, help each other out. Fight back a little. Also, we do pay our bills."

"Well, I would never put a person on the spot like that, not after all this..." She pulls put a laptop though, shooting him a grin that is just the tiniest bit smug, "I do happen to have notes though. I keep records of every work contact..." She glances around as she enters the room, tilting her head a little before she adds lightly, "People like us. No point in denying it, is there." The laptop is flipped open and she glances around for a place to put it on, for somewhere for them to sit and talk.

"In here," Ravn says and opens the door to what was once a butcher shop's back room; it is now an office -- the very kind you'd expect in a place like this, furniture raided and donated from secondhand stores and attics, clear evidence of the chaos that is volunteer work, novelty coffee mugs and somebody's Bruce the Shark plushie. With a slightly sheepish look the tall Dane adds, "Last time I was here this was an empty back room with a hole in the wall but apparently we had time to fix 'er up some while we were -- doing whatever we were doing. I'm not sure what bothers me most -- losing three months, or the fact that apparently, life just went right on and now it's up to us to guess what kind of crazy stuff we got up to while our minds were out for lunch. Think I'm waiting for somebody to call me to ask when I'm picking up the Maserati, something."

He shoves a few binders and papers aside on a table to make room for laptops. What's in them? No idea. One is labelled 'Kitchen' but the label is brown and faded, and the binder may have been repurposed a few times since it was applied. The next step is locating the electric kettle and the instant coffee. "There's not much point in denying it, no. That's why I -- well, confront people. Like I did with you, in the cafeteria. Things are going to happen and when they do, there are some things you need to know."

Her gaze takes it in, a brief glance before she turns back to him. "I like that some of the hard stuff is done before we got back." The wry comment comes with the faintest of smiles, one that doesn't reach her eyes. She puts her bag on the table, carefully unzipping it, her movements slow, careful and precise. "I came here to find a way to either control it or get rid of it." Her voice is quiet, controlled, and her expression very neutral as she looks at him, her head slightly tilted, "You'll understand why I denied it." She opens the laptop, pushing a chair into place, "It looks like you wanted a piece of software that lets you book rooms, have staff, link to a few other systems..."

Water goes into kettle. Instant coffee goes into novelty mugs -- one with Snoopy as the WWI Fighting Ace, one with World's Best Mum. The Dane leans against the table and folds his arms across his chest as he waits, nodding. "I get it. I do realise how crazy I sound when I hit someone up like that. Town loon, short one tinfoil hat, talking about people like us, doing magic tricks with lighters. But the thing is -- if you don't know what you're doing, this town is dangerous. Hell, it's dangerous sometimes even when you do know. In most of the world? Powers like ours are a rarity, a bizarre genetic oddity, whatever it is. But here? We're as close to the source as we can get. We call it the Veil -- the barrier that separates our reality from those other realities where all of this is bleeding in from. The Veil in here is thin, and in some places, it's torn wide open. If you stick around you're going to find yourself wandering in and out between realities at times. It is... disturbing. And there really is no way to not sound insane when you try to describe it."

He glances over at the laptop monitor and tries to focus. "That sounds like something I'd actually ask for. Good on you, Gray Harbor, at least you made one decision on my behalf that makes sense. We definitely need some kind of way to coordinate things here that is both private and not private. A level for actual regular volunteers in an administrative function, and a level for Mrs Jones to sign on to the bake sale, if that makes sense?"

"Dangerous." She repeats the word, considering him before she asks more quietly, "Dangerous how?" That laptop buzzes into action, and she rises to her feet, crossing to the kettle. Her gaze on him, she puts her hand on the kettle and then it steams. It bubbles. It begins to glow just before she removes her hand. "There. This, but a million times hotter and harder if I'm angry." There is an emotion there, a soft one, but she keeps it contained, clocked behind her dark eyes. "The Veil. Right." Back to the laptop, and she turns it to show him, "A draft." And it is a good draft, just what a community company might need...

Ravn glances at the kettle, then pours water into the cups (it's hot now, why waste that?) "First off? Aidan Kinney, Kailey Holt. They both do this, you should talk to them, swap tips and tricks. Not sure where we have creamer or sugar if we even have it. We can go on a treasure hunt if you like."

Then he looks up and passes one mug over with a slightly more serious expression. "Dangerous in two ways, really. One is pretty obvious -- our reality here overlaps with other realities. Sometimes, you'll find yourself in some kind of parallel dimension or world where the rules may not be what you expect. Anything is dangerous when you can't even trust that gravity works as intended -- a kind of accidental dangerous where it's your own unfamiliarity with the rules that's the real threat. The other..."

A pause, and a small sigh, and then on with it. "The other is what we're about here at HOPE. There are creatures out there that feed on misery, suffering -- negative emotions. They farm us -- and obviously, being their crop is anything but fun. Altruism, kindness -- those things are anathema to them. Which is why our little resistance movement takes the form of a charity, a community centre, a public team building effort. There's a couple of basic survival tips -- if you have them down, you'll probably be all right. But I should probably tell you one last time for good measure, get back on that bus and get out of Hotel California while the getting is good."

She takes the cup, wrapping her fingers around it, her gaze steady. "That sounds like I chose entirely the right and wrong place." A dry comment, with emotions reserved, her gaxe moving to the laptop, making a few clicks of her mouse, a movement to buy time to think. "Basic survival. Go on." She takes a sip, the heat not bothering her, the sober expression on her face thoughtful. "Well, community movements, you know... always a force for good and it looks like I set the budget for the project at zero so..."

Ravn glances at the monitor a second time. "I wouldn't ask you to work pro bono, though -- or hold you responsible for what the Veil did while we were sleeping. We're obviously not a gold mine, but we do have the funds to pay our bills."

He settles on a folding chair -- bright red plastic, truly an escapee from 1974 -- and curls long, gloved fingers around the Snoopy mug. "Survival tip number one: Stick with the team. There's usually somebody else in there with you -- find them, have their back, they'll have yours. Two: There's always some kind of story or narrative. Sometimes you're required to take an active role. Sometimes it just plays out. But it does play out, and the only way out is through."

"You are paying but not for my time. You need equipment... there is a list, and apparently you needed more time." The murmur is thoughtful, her eyebrows drawing together in a wrinkle. "Team, story... got it." She lifts her gaze to him, studying him frankly, her expression thoughtful. "Any good builders out there? From my notes I think I need one." An obsessive documentation of her own life, every step. A quirk perhaps.

"By builders, do you mean literal builders, as in guys with power tools?" Ravn quirks an eyebrow. "One of the blokes volunteering here is a janitor. He's pretty handy himself, but I figure he'll also know everyone in town who's good with these things. Local folks in this town all know each other, and don't be surprised when they're all each other's cousins too."

He draws the chair over. "What kind of equipment do I need? Might as well start taking notes. Kind of winging it here, not going to lie -- 'renovating a house and opening a charity' was not part of my PhD in the humanities."

"Well, literal people with power tools. I need electric, windows, ... all of it really." She leans back, turning the laptop to him, "Here, I have a list. I'll email it over." She clicks a button and it wings its way away to him. "You need a computer at minimum, we designed it to grow as your budget did it looks like..." She shows him a list, a timeline even, matching to the needs of the charity...

"This makes sense," the Dane agrees, studying numbers. "And I'll get on it. Might even keep my head from spinning about those missing twelve weeks. I swear to God, if I ever considered getting a therapist, now it is. I'm going to need to find my cat for one -- and that may sound like a sad little story about oh no, what if the cat doesn't want to come home or somebody else adopted it, but ... This is Gray Harbor, the last time somebody annoyed that cat they literally ended up dead in a dumpster."

"The cat did or the person? I mean, it seems like zombie cats are a possibility now." The comment is light, wry, and comes with a smile, one that warms her eyes. "From my notes, I put in an order for the computer a month ago. Delivery is... this week. It looks like we set this up to check the plan. I install when it arrives, are you happy." More than software, but small businesses, they do what they need to.

"Well, if I install it, it'd probably run on Windows XP while spitting out complaints about faculty at Copenhagen U," Ravn admits. Academics and IT, right? "I'm very happy to just hand over the reins on that to someone who actually knows what they're doing. I'm not computer illiterate but..."

He sips his coffee, black and hot and without pollutants. "The person did. We're not sure what happened exactly, but they turned up folded into a dumpster, the cause of death apparently being... kitten bites. She gave birth to kittens with her family, family dumped her and kittens. The Veil made a -- copy? A kind of ghost of my cat, except my cat is obviously not dead. And several sets of copies of the kittens. Started acting out these little narratives about mistreatment of animals that in some cases got quite nasty. Meanwhile, my cat became a stray and claimed my boat. It's a long and complicated story and the baseline is, there's a number of cats in Gray Harbor that have way too many teeth and do telekinesis, but most of them are pretty friendly."

She laughs, a soft sound, before she closes the laptop lid, and takes the final swig of her drink. "That is... unique. Special." Her eyebrows arch and she tucks the laptop back into its home, stroking her fingers across it. "I'll watch out for cats then. I'm more of a dog person myself." She hesitates before she adds lightly, "Thank you. For your welcome the other day that was twelve weeks ago." Those words come rushing from her lips, a swift comment that does have emotion behind it, clumsily addressed.

A small lopsided smile goes out towards the software engineer. "No worries. It's kind of what I do, or try to do. Find the new faces before the Veil does. This place draws in people like us, and it's always awkward -- because you never know whether they know they're special in the first place, and you never know if they're going to think you're just practising the world's most bizarre pickup line at them."

"I thought it was a little of both." She admits, her eyes twinkling, before she rises from her seat, giving him that smile that is quicker, with warmth that is not as genuine as the clumsy emotion. "Time to go. Apparently I have stuff on my calendar."

"Don't be a stranger -- and I don't mean that just in a 'please finish my computer stuff' way." Ravn gets up too, and collects the abandoned coffee cup. "I also mean it in a slightly intrusive fashion. If you're staying in town you're part of this bizarre little tribe now. Welcome to the family. Don't hesitate to just come down for -- well, nothing, just feeling like company or asking questions, or whatever might come up."