2021-09-26 - Pop Goes the Weasel

There's a lady in Gray Harbor who crusades for a permanent ban on lawn gnomes. The lady in question has a profound fear of them, and while Ravn Abildgaard has not quite managed to piece the whole story together there -- he knows that it's something about a tribe of lawn gnomes coming to life and forcing her brother or cousin or whatever to be the, ah, leading man in a string of complex fertility rates. It's so very Gray Harbor that really, he's on board with Hyacinth Addington's destructive urges towards lawn gnomes because he really doesn't want to even ask how that worked. Sometimes, it's easier to just nod, smile, and hand the lady something to throw or fire at any plastic ornaments sneaking on to her lawn in the dead of night.

Who's he to talk anyway? The Dane smirks at himself as he exits his car on the edge of the woods and plods towards the shelter of the forest with a duffel bag over one shoulder. It contains sandwiches, certainly. A sixpack of import beer (because yes, he's even going to admit if you ask him, he's a European snob who thinks all things worth drinking origins from the other side of the Atlantic). His own 9mm Glock in its box. And weasels. Plush weasels, some twenty different plush weasels, each a different colour and design because bloody hell, does he want to blow away some weasels.

It's not really the weasels' fault, he muses as he makes his way towards that quiet spot in the woods that tend to get used as an unofficial firing range. Those otherworldly weasels just scampered into his life at a time things were already complicated. They tried to turn his hurricane shelter into an emotional buffet of despair kibble, and he''s still pissed about that. Blowing weasels away with the Beretta he stole off Mrs Jankowski was surprisingly therapeutic. Weasels gonna die today, man. Even if he had to hand the Beretta over to de la Vega after.

Vic sits perched on a tree stump, cleaning her highly illegal AR-15 300 Blackout. She treats it with loving attention, like it's a cherished child rather than a rifle. She may even be talking to it softly. Or maybe she's talking to Seth. Either way, the enforcer is there, dressed in camo-green BDUs and a thick black turtleneck sweater to ward off the late September chill. Late September. That is still messing with her head. Her hair is in a loose, messy braid as her head cocks slightly to the sound of Ravn's approach. She doesn't say anything, she knows someone is coming, and a hand slides down to her side, where her Glock is set beside her. Just in case.

No, Vic is most definitely talking to her gun because Seth is 'downrange' setting up some paper targets in the trees as he didn't know this was weasel shooting day. Instead of the boring old silhouette of a man that most targets at a range use, he has set up some random weirdness. A Xenomorph, a peacock, a werewolf, a robber with a gun trained on a person, and an assortment of others.

He is wearing something similar to Vic. Black turtleneck with some black cargo pants, ending in some laced up combat boots. The holster on his side holding what appears to be a .45 automatic of some make.

As Ravn approaches, the enforcer's eyes flit over in his direction, but he makes no overt move towards his gun. Maybe he knows Vic has it so it would just be overkill at this point.

With a bit of bad luck two guys in black turtlenecks and ditto pants are interchangeable enough that Vic might just have to shoot them both. Redheads, both of them, too -- though the taller one is skinnier, so there's that.

Cheerfully unaware of the potential danger, black turtleneck number three joins the other two and plops down his duffel (if not the coffees) with a casual air. He glances up the improvised shooting range -- is that Darkwing Duck? -- and then shakes his head, chuckling. "And here's me bringing a metric buttload of plush weasels. Remind me to tell you about the weasels. And how I apparently got away with stealing someone else's gun and firing it indoors in a crowded room. At this rate, I'll graduate to lookout for the teenagers nicking cars before I realise how far into the underworld I've stepped."

"Ravn, when approaching a known shooting range where skittish people with gun fetishes are known to be often,, it's wise to announce yourself as 'coming up' before you're in lead-poisoning range," Vic notes to the Dane while finishing assembling her beloved rifle. She looks over at him with a smirk. "If I hadn't smelled the offering of blessed caffeine, I might have shot you first and asked questions later." She puts the rifle down gently on her bag and gets up to go get that promised coffee. "Weasels? Really? You have a weird form of therapy. Weren't there garden gnomes once?" She looks over at Seth in amusement.

"Coffee has arrived, babe."

"Did someone say coffee?" Seth perks as the mention of black liquid gold reach his ears. He tacks the last of the targets up (this one a Velociraptor) and starts to make his way back towards the others. "Coffee forgives quite a lot. How you doin', Darth? Weather getting more tolerant for you?"

Seth reaches out and grabs one of the coffee cups, lifting it to his lips to take a sip, "And did I hear someone say something about weasels? I mean, we can toss a few of them out there if you want....or we could just them as clay pigeons."

"Maybe I trust that you'd never fire on a fellow black turtleneck scout." Without much further ado Ravn picks up the duffel and turns it over. Plush weasels fall out. So. Many. Plush weasels. Big ones, small ones, cartoony ones, life-like ones, smiling ones, sleeping ones, all the ones. "I like the idea of clay weasels," he replies, grinning rather widely before he hands out coffee. "These little shits came in my hurricane shelter and started eating people's bloody emotions. Bloody well nearly killed that night radio guy everyone's on about. There was some kind of otherworldly jackass playing pied piper too, but, eh."

He pauses. Then shrugs, because as far as Ravn is concerned, the other guy started it. "De la Vega blew his head off, so whatever his game was, it got cut pretty short."

"So they were...literally....brain weasels?" Vic asks, blinking. "Fuck the Veil. Really. Its sense of humor is like a terrible dad joke." She crouches down to pick up a weasel in her non coffee hand, the other bringing the cup to her lips to deliver the all important life fuel to her system. "Any memories come back for you? I'm still blank as a slate and pissed off about it. My dad seems to think nothing weird happened though, so I guess I didn't get into too much trouble." She straightens and kisses Seth's cheek. "Not counting 'good trouble'." I mean, she did wake up in Seth's bed so at least they didn't do something dumb and break up or anything.

Seth groans as he reaches down and picks up one of the literal brain weasels. "Well, I guess the bright side is they weren't ear worms. Ever since seeing Star Trek 2, the thought of something burrowing into my ear just gives me the heebee jeebees." Seth visibly shudders at the thought.

Seth stares the plush weasel in the eye for a moment before tossing it back hard over his shoulder to go land somewhere in the field of fire. He grins at the peck on the cheek, leaning over to return it. "Or if we did we forgot about it and got back together. Who knows what the fuck happened. de la Vega and I could have been drinking buddies for all I know...and at least I don't remember kissing him, so there is that."

"Oh, you had to," Ravn murmurs and quite unceremoniously flings a pink plush weasel at Seth's head.

Vic shudders at the very mention of the earwig scene in Star Trek 2. "Poor Chekov. Yeah I had nightmares from that for years," she mutters, throwing another weasel at Seth. Hey, he earned it! She eyes Ravn. "Had to what? Mention Star Trek or kissing de la Vega." She can't comment too much on that one. She and him go back a looooong way.

Seth doesn't bother to try and duck the flying weasels, as one beans him in the head and chest respectively. He is too busy laughing at the Dane's reaction. "Well.....duh..." is his only reply as he grins at Ravn.

"Yeah that scene scared me. That, and one with the worms in the eyes. Some really bad vampire one...what was it? Started with an 'S'. Stand? No that was a King novel. The Strain! That was it. I don't know, things burrowing into my head just...big ole nope from me."

"He means," Ravn grouses and picks up a bright acid green weasel in case he needs more ammunition, "that I ended up in a dream a couple of days back in which I was made prom queen. And yes, I got snogged solidly by de la Vega, and yes, I'm sure he enjoyed it even less than I did."

He throws the weasel, because why not, Seth is just that tempting for a target. "Apart from that, though? Those twelve weeks -- gone. Apparently I just got on with my life pretty much according to schedule. Grade papers, tutor, buy a house, move into house with Aidan Kinney. I did forget to pick up my boat -- and my cat, who apparently went on a Veil adventure of her own with her Veil twin. They both turned up at Kailey Holt's, demanding tuna and looking all right, though."

Vic barks out a laugh. "Now I'd have paid to see that. But seriously, there are worse people to kiss. I mean, ask Seth about his pregnant frog," she quips with a grin. She arches a brow at the cat business though, and looks over at Seth. "If we get a pet, it is not a cat, agreed? Those things are way too Veil-friendly."

"Hey! I never kissed the frog!" Seth says folding his arms over his chest as he is hit with another stuffed weasel. "The thing hit on me, sure, and then laid eggs in the damned apron I was wearing, but my lips never touched that thing."

He grins at the thought of a pet, "Agreed. I'm more of a dog kind of guy anyway. You can pick the breed, as long as it is bigger than a lunchbox. None of this toy breed shit."

"Definitely a cat person, myself." Ravn picks up a blue weasel and passes it from hand to hand in a truly intimidating posture of potential mustelid assassination. "And, honestly? I'm sure the man is a great kisser. But, kissing guys is not my thing, and sure as hell not on a podium with three hundred teenagers watching. I'll give him credit for having a cooler head than I did, I just froze up on the spot. I'm still waiting for Rosencrantz to hear about it -- he'll be giving me endless amounts of shit about it."

He ponders. "What else happened? There was naked poker of course, but I'm sure Seth already told you all about that, seeing as that he was the naked part. Oh, and I have some Addington adjacent lawyer auditing HOPE's finances to make sure no one's using us to launder money."

"I don't think it qualifies as a dog if it can't knock you down when it says hello," Vic agrees with Seth. "But I'd think a mutt would be better suited to us, don't you? I'll keep an eye on the local rescue's page for something suiting." What? Like a hellhound?

She squints over at Ravn at that last bit. "What qualifies as Addington-adjacent? I wouldn't trust anything they do."

Seth nods and slips behind Vic, slipping his arms comfortably around her waist and giving her a light hug. "Yeah, a mutt sounds about right," he says with a chuckle, kissing the back of her head.

He perks up a bit at the talk of the lawyer, narrowing his eyes slightly towards Ravn, "Do I need to call Rhys? I mean, technically I am not 'laundering' money...it's just that the money I gave wasn't exactly printed at the US Mint."

Ravn shakes his head. "Nope. She's not interested in anything but Addington donations. Covering their asses, as it were. Some French branch of the family, I didn't ask a lot of questions. I do intend to tease Hyacinth about it when I get the chance -- she could just come ask, you know? I get the feeling it's more just the way the Addington firm is handled." He nods at Vic. "Big money's like that, anywhere. Checks and double checks, and if someone sees a chance to carry out a hostile take-over, all good. That's a backstabbing in plainspeak."

He hitches a shoulder and sips his own coffee. "There's nothing to hide, though, besides the fact that Seth's money came from somewhere not quite official. Rhys knows what he's doing, and there's no Addington involvement with that money in the first place. If someone actually does come to take a look someday, I'll tip the man off myself. You're doing us a favour here, not going to forget that."

Vic chuckles and leans back against Seth. "Hey that money was probably totally printed at a US mint, just like, in 1970 or something stupid like that. I looked at it, it looked completely legit to me, and I was a cop, remember?" She grunts at Ravn. "French Addingtons? Just when you think they can't get more pretentious..." she shakes her head. "Anyway, Hyacinth seems to not be an utter shit like the rest of them."

"Ok, point. It probably is legit money, but how it came into my possession...well, that is a story most people won't believe." Seth says with a shrug. "As long as everything is good then, no need to bother Rhys about it."

Seth turns his eyes to Ravn, "Speeeaking of Addingtons..."

Seth grins and leans in to whisper to Vic, "Did you know our man over here is 'dating' Hyacinth, but hasn't had the balls to kiss her yet? I'm about ready to give the woman a call myself and let her know of our friend's cowardness. She might have to have the balls in this relationship."

The Dane sips his coffee again and winks at Vic. "I'm obviously biased. I rather like her -- and a lot of French people are plain, ordinary folks who just happen to live in France. The Addingtons aren't bad compared to some of your American 'nobility' -- insert a Kennedy somewhere, for example, and I promise you that I will be jumping off the luxury liner and swimming home."

Then the third weasel goes flying. At this rate, it's going to be clay Monaghans, rather than clay weasels. "I'm not dating Hyacinth Addington. You have to go on a fucking date before you can claim to be dating somebody, you ass."

Vic blinks at Seth's whisper and then chuckles. "Well, to be fair, he does have his reasons for not wanting to touch his lips to anything. I don't think having Hyacinth spring a lip lock on him would end well for anyone with his condition." She smirks at Ravn. "That's not true. Have you talked about going on a date? Then you're dating."

Seth takes the weasleing in stride with another laugh, bending down to pick up the discarded projectiles and traipsing off towards the range to place them in various locations. "Listen to Vic. She is a woman and has a woman's insight into these things."

"Well, by that definition, all right. By that definition we are dating. And have been for four months," Ravn murmurs, actually flushing a little. "Just haven't gotten around to -- you know. Actually dating."

Vic moves to load her Glock for the target practice. "Well then, you'd better get a move on. Did she forget the last three months too? If so, you're off the hook. If not, you better go BIG."

"Well then hop to it man," Seth laughs as he looks towards the Dane, slipping away from embracing Vic and heading over towards the firing line. "If there is anything I can tell you for certain, it is that life is short and you can never know when...well.., you get the idea. And in this town, it is even worse odds. Grab it by the horns and give it a ride while you can."

Seth looks downrange, draws, and fires...and misses the target. The enforcer looks stunned as he looks to the gun in his hand, then back down the range. "Vic? Did you mess with my sights?" Right, blame the equipment.

Somewhere in the Veil, the population of the creatures unceremoniously labelled 'whatever weasels' fourteen weeks ago by the man who just shot at a plush weasel -- gains another member; a lime green plush weasel who probably feels very relieved and rather confused about the whole suddenly being alive deal.

Ravn, meanwhile, tries very hard to not laugh. Not hard enough to succeed -- but hard enough that at least he can say he tried. He's still laughing as he roots around his duffel back for the little Glock Seth gave him, months and months ago. He's still laughing as he clips a cartridge into it. Only then does he get around to answering Vic's question, shaking his head. "She was not time lost, like the rest of us. She was in Toronto and somehow couldn't manage to get anyone to sell her a plane ticket back here. I get the feeling it was a very stressful experience. More so since none of us were apparently receiving calls or texts."

"You know I'd never touch the gun of someone I care about," Vic snorts back. "Maybe you got lazy and didn't practice those missing three months." She looks utterly amused. She steps up to the invisible 'line' and fires off three rounds, plinking into one of the targets, the Xenomorph, saving the weasels for later. She hits a lovely grouping before stepping back and arching a brow at Ravn.

"This fucking place. I swear. So we were in some kind of...bubble during that time."

"Not unless you were trying to prank them, no..." Seth smirks, eyeing Vic with a bit of a glint to his eye. He checks the sights anyway and mumbles something to himself about how they seem fine.

Sighing, he raises the pistol again and fires off another few rounds. These find their mark right in the center of the velociraptor's forehead. "Better," he mutters as he turns to look to Ravn, "Oh, so she missed out on all the fun and has her memories? Did she talk to anyone here during that time, like you and you just don't recall?"

"From what I gathered, she was unable to get in touch. Ended up going into the Veil from a thin spot in Toronto, just to get back here. I've been meaning to ask her about it but, you know. There's a lot to talk about -- what people remember, what people don't remember, what the hell we all think happened." Ravn unclips the safety on his Glock. "My theory? We carried on like normal. No, really. Except no one remembers, and somehow, we were cut off from the world -- so something happened here that no one needs to know about, and at some point we'll find out what. Probably going to be telepathic, platinum haired kids everywhere."

He aims, and fires. A cardboard hippie with a blunt goes down. Painfully, presumably, since he hit its leg, rather than somewhere vital, but at least he hit it.

Vic grunts at Ravn's explanation of how the place appeared to someone outside of it. "Things have felt a little...different, with the mojo. But I can't really put my finger on how." She puts a trio of neat holes, two in the head, one in the heart, of the werewolf silhouette. "I haven't checked what the Veil looks like either. I'm not sure I really want to right now."

"Normal for one person may be fine not to remember the day to day. Normal for others like you, you just have to worry about the day to day and at worst you may have had a bad day and likely something small.." Seth says as he fiddles with something on the firearm. "I have no idea what I did in those three months, and that could seriously come back to bite me in the ass, you know? I'd really like to just know one way or the other if I need to be concerned about something instead of having this damn cloud looming overhead. I'm sure Vic feels the same."

"I haven't noticed any changes but then -- I mean, it's me. Let's just be honest, I wouldn't notice a change in the Veil if it bit me on the arse." Ravn hitches a shoulder; it's a fact, the Dane is not exactly Mr High Power or Mr Sensitive when it comes to all things Veil related. Mr Party Tricks is more like it.

He nods at Seth. "I do get it. Just get the feeling that this time, the Veil is covering for us. No one has noticed a thing who isn't one of us. No one. People right here in town, as far as they all tell us, we went on just like normal. I'm not going to tell you to not worry about it. Just, maybe this time, the Veil is playing for our team on this. If Hyacinth couldn't get back into town, it likely means something here could absolutely not be disturbed. And that likely also means that if someone like Reyes was trying to make a move, or whatever other shit might happen -- it'd likely get turned around on the freeway and sent right back home too."

Vic snorts. "Yeah, not knowing what I might have done, or what might have been done TO me in the course of three months? That is scary as shit. Especially considering who we are." She eyes Ravn a moment then nods. "That does make sense. Still, the Veil isn't usually the one in our corner, so what actually went down?"

"Well, we are both still here and in one piece so I don't think anything to horrid happened to us," Seth says with a shrug as he fiddles with something on the gun. "I'm not missing any limbs or other body parts, so we didn't get captured and tortured by the Yakuza or anything like that, and we never made it to Spokane. That's a trip I don't want to go on....fuckin' Spokane."

"Silver lining is we didn't have to do laundry for 3 months. I hate laundry."

Ravn tries to decide on a target; the angry guy with a crowbar, or Bugs Bunny? "I think something happened. And I agree with you -- the Veil, or at least the dolorphages, aren't on our team. We're probably not going to like it, whatever it is. But I also think it was crucial that this be kept quiet. And that, at least, works for us. Because if you guys had fought a bloody vendetta, leaving a trail of bodies from here to Miami, then we'd be buried in bodies, cops, and inquiries. And we're not. Things have happened, and some of them have been dramatic, but all of them have been low key from the point of public interest. I'll bet you ten bucks someone like Cassidy Bennett didn't experience anything out of the ordinary at all."

Then Seth's line about laundry has him chortling -- which is probably why neither angry guy nor Bugs gets hurt (but that poor maple tree, won't somebody think of the maple trees!). "You hate laundry? I just found out I share a walk-in closet with a guy who can literally not get his clothes full of enough bright colours, sequins, and funny prints. I told him there will be no fraternisation, and any accidental turtlenecks born black but with pink collars he gets to raise, as a single parent."

"Or dishes. Not having to do dishes for three months? Priceless," Vic adds with a wistful look. Then she looks over at Ravn with an arched brow. "What the fuck is a dolor-whateveryousaid?" she asks with a grunt that turns into a laugh at the Dane's closet dilemma. "He'll get you into rainbow clothes eventually."

"He might die." Seth says to Vic as he looks over at her. "The introduction of color into his wardrobe might be more than his heart can handle, let alone his mind. Unspeakable things from beyond he can handle, but add a spot of blue or god forbid red to his clothes and he will crumble like a cracker. That is his Samson hair."

"Dolorphages," Ravn huffs, with the air of a university professor who's just been interrupted by two very annoying pupils who probably didn't wipe their feet before entering his classroom either. Then he lets the pretend huffiness bleed from his features and chuckles. "It's a word Clayton coined. Pain eaters. Some people call them dark men, other people call them -- whatever they want. You know the kind -- the monsters in the Veil who feed on human suffering. The smart ones."

Then, without much further ado, he gives Seth the finger. "I'll have you know, my fiancee liked to dress me up in whatever passed for high fashion. And I hated every fucking minute of it. Black is practical. Useful when you live in a duffelbag. Now? I like it."

"Dark Men, right. Those assholes, got it." Vic goes about reloading her Glock's magazine. She grins though, at Ravn's consternation. "Is that how that sheep picture came about?" Oh yes, she saw that on the internets.

"Oh god, that sheep picture. I forgot all about that!" laughs Seth with a grin on his face. "I need to find that again and make some targets out of it."

Seth gets another scowl. Then Ravn can't help laugh, because really, the sheep picture is quite ridiculous, and so is the horse picture, and honestly, he should just have told Benedikte no. Besides, that sheep photo shoot was fun -- he's laughing in the picture for a reason. Not everything about that relationship was god-awful, and certainly not the beginnings. "Let me show you a few others sometime," he says with good nature and readies his own Glock for another shot. "My fiancee was into fashion photography. Artsy stuff. And she had way too much time and money on her hands."

"Honestly, it was kind of adorable, in a,'why the hell do you have a sheep in your arms?' kinda way," Vic admits with a chuckle. She, herself, avoids getting her photo snapped at all costs. There is still an entire cartel of very angry Mexican drug lords who want her dead, after all. And we're not talking Reyes. "Did you get a prom pic with Javier?" she asks with a mischievous grin.

"He was to busy getting snogged," retorts Seth with a grin towards Vic before he turns his head over to Ravn, "Artsy stuff huh? Like black and white nudes, and all that jazz? Cool. I've never been that much of an artsy kind of guy. I don't have the talent for that."

"Black and white, certainly. Nude? Not with me." Too prudish, maybe; possibly other reasons. Ravn shakes his head. "I don't like having my picture taken but you want to keep your girl happy, right?"

He aims, and fires. Grazed, a cardboard cutout Wile E. Coyote crawls off to die a lonely death in the tall grass. "I don't like attention. I don't have anything to hide the way you two do -- but I can't afford it for other reasons. Honestly, being a celebrity chef was bad enough, and that, at least, was Veil bullshit."

"Quit lying, Monaghan. You have more art on the walls of your house than the local museum," Vic reminds him with a smirk. "What's that artist? Krasnyansky?" she asks. "As for photos, I have tits. I'm not posing nude for anyone, because they'll wind up forever on the internet and as long as my dad is alive, I won't let him be horrified like that."

Seth gasps and looks at Vic, "You do!? I never noticed?! How in the hell could I never have noticed that you have tits. My eyesight must be going." The enforcer winks to the other, and raises his gun again to squeeze off another round....which hits nothing and zips off into the woods. Seth looks as dumbfounded as he did the first time, looking down at his weapon before he holsters it. "Ok. Maybe my eyesight really is going."

"And yeah, I admit I do have a soft spot for Krasnyansky, but only because his art looks like he painted the members of KISS while on LSD. He has vibrant colors and shit. Sue me."

"... So was he on LSD or was Gene Simmons on LSD." Ravn doesn't look like he actually expects an answer; maybe he's just giving Seth shit in order to keep himself from laughing out loud. It's a rare day he bags more targets than the guy who, yanno, shoots stuff for a living. Or breaks its kneecaps, or whatever else needs to be done to it. "I'm not really into art much. I know a fair bit about it, because you can't really be a historian and not look at pictures, and my family's got a collection of 19th century Danish Golden Age art they're insanely proud of, but it never interested me. Kinney's probably going to turn our place into one big very colourful art gallery, and I'm actually rather cool with that."

Vic chuckles at Seth and pats his shoulder. "I'll schedule you for an eye doc appointment when we get home tonight. Seriously. Can't have you misfiring in Spokane." She levels her Glock and crowbar guy gets some new holes in his skull. "I like art. I don't always understand it? But I like it. Some of it. I'm not big on the stuff that looks like a coked up chimpanzee threw paint at a canvas, though." She grins over at Ravn. "Ready to add your weasels to the range?"

"I've never had issues with my eyes before..." mumbles Seth as he rubs at the offending anatomy. "Seriously, now I actually am a bit concerned."

The enforcer sighs and goes to sit down on one of the fallen logs, removing his sidearm from the holster and starting to strip it down to check it for dirt or something else that could be causing his issues. "Do we have cybernetics yet? I want a bionic eye with a targeting sight hooked to a smart gun. Why don't we have that yet?"

"No Pollock poster prints for you, gotcha." Ravn grins at Vic and then looks at his pile of plush weasels in all shapes and sizes. "Want me to throw a few? Clay pigeons except neither clay nor pigeons?"

He picks out another lime green weasel, and a bright yellow one. "Honestly, Seth, might just be you didn't practise a day in three months. Take a shot at these suckers, see what happens." And up they go, one by one, in a high and lazy arc that even he might be able to hit -- if he wasn't the one throwing the furry bastards.

Pop! Pop! The green weasel and the yellow weasel meet their untimely ends, knocked out of the sky by hot lead. Vic grins. "That was way more fun than it had any right to be," she comments. "And you can at least get your vision fixed with Lasik or whatever these days. You won't have to wear glasses. Though you'd look all handsome and academic in them," she teases Seth.

"Fuck you," Seth grumbles to Vic good-naturedly. "The last thing I want to have to do is deal with contacts or glasses. What if one pops out in the middle of a fight. If I have to do lasik, so be it."

The enforcer quickly reassembles the gun and sighs, standing back up after holstering his weapon. "Ok, toss one."

As another stuffed weasel arcs through the air, Seth draws and fires. Stuffing and felt explode from the stuffed Mustela. "I better not have to get Lasik."

"As if there's anything wrong with looking like an academic. Please observe, yours truly." Ravn's target of choice is an albino weasel with embroidered blue stars; truly a monster -- and one that escapes too, because he doesn't even come close to hitting it. "Look like an academic," he amends. "Don't shoot like one."

"Relax, Seth. You probably just didn't have a chance to practice. If whatever went down, happened in the woods, well, we probably weren't out here for the duration," Vic points out. "And I use the regular range in town a lot more than you, so I probably still got my practice in." She settles down on a stump, seemingly satisfied with her performance for now and letting the men continue shooting. "You have to lead the shot, Ravn. Shoot where it's going to be, not where it is."

Seth grumbles some more and sighs, holstering the gun. "Even without practice, I should be shooting better than the Dane over here. " He looks up to the sky and yells, "Hey! I'm not at the gym! Stop fucking with me!"

"Stupid ghosts or whatever has it out for me. Bad enough every time I step foot in the gym I get sucker-punched by a lucky shot. I can't have that happen out here."

"No ghosts that I'm seeing," Ravn grins at the Irishman; and while that's obviously not a guarantee that none such are present, it does mean it's not likely. "Probably just good old bad luck. Besides, while I'm sure as hell no crack shot, it's not like I never got dragged hunting as a boy. Getting wasted in the woods with guns is a rich and proud tradition with a certain demographic back home. Usually only roe deer and pheasants get shot at but no guarantees if someone's been banging someone else's wife, always a way to end up with an arse full of buck shot."

"Are you saying my punching you in the face was a lucky shot, tiger? Care to go toe to toe with me again in the ring?" Vic asks Seth with an amused look and an arched brow. She nose wrinkles at Ravn. "I'm so happy you aren't rich anymore. Or accessing your rich, or whatever."

"You? Not so much, but even you have to admit that was a one in a million shot where you one-punched me there, darlin'. But Ravn? Fuck yes. Seems anytime I get into the ring there I end up on the mat no matter who I am in there with. I'm cursed in there I tell you. Cursed."

"... Oi. Let me have my damn victory." Ravn mock-pouts at Seth, before grinning quietly at Vic. "Not going to pretend I miss it. I like things just the way they are here, in all their crazy, glorious, slightly murderous insanity. Which reminds me, actually." He looks at the Glock and its little box, and the duffelbag that he carried it here in. "I'm really not a fan of the American take on guns. I don't want to walk around armed at all times. But Gray Harbor has enough incursions of murderous things from the other side that doing so actually is starting to make sense to me. That scares the crap out of me, not going to lie -- but it also makes me want to know what the rules are. Open carry -- not going to happen, I don't want people to see me and think 'that's the kind of guy who lugs a gun around when he goes to buy milk and eggs'."

The Dane looks from one to the other -- though most at the former police officer. "So what do I need to do in order to get a concealed carry license? De la Vega didn't give me a hard time about the Beretta I pocketed off a lady at the shelter, probably because he also figures some random paranoid housewife shooting up a high school sounds like a really bad idea. But that doesn't mean I want to try to get away with breaking the law on a more permanent basis."

"It's Washington. You don't have to do anything other than put in a request for a permit to concealed carry. No training required. Anyone can open carry. You're not required to even register the handgun, only the seller is," Vic points out with a frown. "And rifles don't require jack shit. Idiotic, I know. Even I think the laws need to be stricter here." Well she was a former cop.

"Still, that being said I try not to get caught with one on me if I can help it," Seth says with a shrug. "Just because it might be legal doesn't mean you won't get a ration of shit for it, or worse depending on who finds it and the mood they are in."

Ravn nods; this makes sense. "I'm guessing you might actually have to worry about that more than me? People expect to connect the name Monaghan with trouble. I'm a skinny academic who runs a charity. I should get that license. Before next time I find myself shooting at weasels that aren't made of plush and cotton balls."

He picks out a candyfloss pink weasel and throws it. Clay pigeon services, reporting in.

"I'd recommend more formal training anyway, especially safety training. You're far more likely to have your gun used against you than to use it yourself," Vic adds. The Glock comes up from where she's seated, and that candy floss pink weasel isn't even recognizable as anything by the time it hits the ground. Some days, Vic just has it.

"She's right. I can give you pointers and such as I have been, but you should probably go and get some 'real' training. I'd be the first one to admit what I do isn't exactly 'safe' gun practices."

Seth watches Vic blow the hell out of the airborne stuffy, and grins. "Nice. That particular dog toy is not going to menace anyone anymore. I'm not even sure it rates enough material to be used for stuffing now."

A shower of pink fluff gently falls, like candyfloss Christmas in October. Ravn chuckles at the sight; it reminds him of a snowglobe, the kind he used to have in his room as a kid. "I'm not really planning to fight anyone normal," he points out. "A mugger, a drunk at a bar? I don't solve that kind of problems by drawing a gun of them. Guns -- to me -- are for Veil creatures, monsters. I don't know. I'll think about it. It goes against my whole upbringing, the idea of walking around in the streets prepared for a firefight. It's wrong."

Somebody has a very Scandinavian take on gun control. "Unfortunately, we live in a town where things sometimes do try to kill us, and -- " the Dane hesitates a moment. "Well. At the shelter? Those weasels, that pied piper guy, they went for kids and sleeping people. If de la Vega had not been there, and the lady whose gun I nicked? I'm not sure what we would have done. Sometimes, blowing things away is the answer, even when I don't like it."

"Then be doubly careful. Especially over There. Mechanical things from our side don't always work as intended over there. Over here, fire away, my friend. Over there, the simpler your weapon, the more likely it will do what you think it should," Vic cautions.

"Shit, am I going to have to start carrying a revolver?" Seth sighs, kicking a rock with his foot. "That and a knife of some sort. Hey, Darth, got any spare meat cleavers laying around?"

"No, the only one I've had got a little bit stuck in my arm," Ravn murmurs dryly; Seth was there, after all, at the 'flesh factory', when the Dane ended up with a meat cleaver lodged in one arm, one step from becoming part of the, ah, exhibition. He shakes his head. "I don't really want to carry weapons at all. But that got to me -- the weasels. That sometimes, we're just bloody helpless. I can't do the magic mojo, I don't fry people with lightning or set them on fire, I don't even heal them. When something like that happens I'm a liability -- not as much as I used to be, thanks to you guys and Joey Kelly, but, still a liability. And it bugs the hell out of me, not going to lie."

The next weasel to go flying is a deep shade of purple, and wears plastic shades over its cheeky plush grin.

Vic leaves this plushie for Seth to blast as she grunts. "A revolver is ok, but like, a slingshot or crossbow would be more reliable." Says the woman who can carry an entire arsenal in a gym bag with no nod to weight or space.

As the weasel goes arching through the air, Seth pulls his pistol and fires a single shot that sends a wad of lead through the bodymass of the stuffy. "A crossbow? Fuck, I can't carry one of those around. Maybe a slingshot. Maybe. You'll just have to be my backpack, Vic and never leave my side again."

"I'm not carrying a sword or a crossbow around Main Street. That's where I bloody well draw the line." Ravn nods firmly. "I might get one of those small, Scottish belt knives -- you know the ones, they're thumb sized and not really meant for fighting, but I figure you can gut a weasel with one if you have to."

Lime green with pink polka dots goes up next. Seriously, where the hell did he find all these monstrosities?

"Do I look like Kevin Hart to you?" Vic quips at Seth, in a lame Jumanji reference. "But yeah, as long as I'm there with you, that works. What if you're solo, though?" she points out. She nods to Ravn, but passes on shooting any more, beginning to dismantle and clean her gun. "Blades are the simplest weapon there is, as long as it's not a switchblade which still relies on some mechanical bits. Clubs work too."

Seth laughs, "No. No you don't," he answers to Vic with a grin, "And I know I'm on my own if you are not around...which if I recall seems to be never. I don't think you and I have ever been in a dream together, have we? I always seem to get stuck with this yahoo," he says as he motions with his thumb over towards Ravn. "I'll just have to start carrying a blade on me."

"I'd prefer it if you started wearing pants," Ravn says with all the innocence he can muster -- and maybe because he's busy keeping a straight face rather than actually aiming, blows the lime weasel right out of the sky.

No one looks more surprised at that than, well, him.

"Pants in bed? Ugh. Well when it gets colder maybe," Vic quips, as if that was aimed at her, grinning as she cleans the Glock thoroughly. "Seriously though, I've started wearing sweatpants and tees in bed just in case."

"I think he meant me," says Seth with a chuckle. "I don't think he would care as much if you showed up in a dream sans clothing, other than it being a distraction. He was just jealous of my duckie boxers. He is lucky I had those on. Not that they stayed on..."

"Yes, well, I developed a habit of sleeping in sweat pants after that one night I woke up as somebody else's designated body pillow." Ravn winks at Vic. And then looks at Seth, grinning. "She did, remember? And it wasn't a dream, it was definitely not a dream."

"Ravn totally cared when I showed up cuddling him in lingerie in what used to be my trailer," Vic notes with a grin. "I think I scarred him for life. How is the poor girl who was in that Dream with the infamous duckie boxers?"

"Don't know. I haven't seen her since. She certainly kept going for a glance though, so it must not have been too much trauma for her." Seth Jokes with a chuckle. "And yes, I recall the infamous cuddle session, but at least you were still wearing something. Not much of something, but something. Me...well, I didn't know it wasn't strip poker and I had nothing else to bet." The enforcer shrugs, "It's just a body."

Ravn dips into a pocket for a cigarette and his battered old zippo. He lights the cigarette with a click and then shrugs. "It is. Seth wants to prance around a poker table as God made him? Fine by me. I think Isi was mostly laughing her arse off -- she strikes me as that type. Pretty sure she'll rib you about it forever. And that's okay? I mean, bloody hell, if we can't laugh at ourselves and these messes, what are we supposed to do -- cry? Veil threw me into a dream once in thigh high boots, dancer's leggings and some kind of open livery jacket, bloody well induced puberty in one kid right there on the spot. What am I going to do? Laugh at it, obviously. As does the kid, I hope."

Vic snorts. "Just a body. It's one HELL of a body," she chuckles and throws him a wink. Then Ravn gets a look. "Since when do you smoke? Do you really need to add emphysema to the list of shit trying to kill you in Gray Harbor?"

Seth chuckles, and jokingly flexes. "That's right. I am all that is man."

The enforcer rolls his eyes and starts to strip down his own pistol, grabbing a cleaning kit from his bag. "He's always smoked. Maybe just never around you before."

"Since I was thirteen and realised it pissed my father off," Ravn returns, grinning, and waves the cigarette. "I don't smoke a lot. Just now and then, enough to have had the text of the law read to me by, you guessed it, de la Vega, when I didn't realise that smoking in a bar is illegal in the state of Washington."

He thirds the unspoken agreement to start cleaning up, settling on a tree trunk and rootling in his duffel for his own kit -- also courtesy of Seth.

"Illegal in bars in most states these days, and restaurants. If any bar serves food, I think? It's a no no. But seriously, chew some gum or something instead. We need you around and healthy." Vic gets up and packs her gear away. "I need to go get ready for the day job. Seth, stop by later for some tots and we can talk about prepping for Spokane. Again. As if we didn't already do that once already."

"Yeah. Who knows what may have changed in 12 weeks. Jesus. We are going to have to go over everything again."

Seth sighs, and leans over to give Vic a kiss, patting her on the ass as she gets up to head out. "I'll see you later."

Turning to Ravn, Seth shrugs a shoulder. "She is going to hound you all the time now you know."

"Can't complain I don't get female attention then, can I?" Ravn winks at the Irishman, with the unflappable indifference of somebody who's been told that asthmatics should not smoke for twenty years, and has been going whatever for just many years. Then he stretches and nods. "Should head back once we've cleaned these pieces, I suppose. You know this town? Never a quiet moment. I still have people at the shelter after freaking twelve weeks, because the Chehalis apparently pulled a number of properties out to sea, and they don't all have families and friends they can stay with."

He chuckles. "A year ago I blew into this town with nothing. Thought I'd stay a few days, maybe rip somebody off for bus fare, get on my way. Look at me now. House owner, more or less somebody's boyfriend, guy who organises stuff. I'm not sure whether my parents would be proud of me, or they're turning in their graves at the thought. Either way, this town, man."

"Tell me about it," chuckles Seth as he starts to reassemble the pistol and pack away the cleaning kit. "I mean, I knew what I was getting into when I came here to work for Felix, but did I really know what I was getting into? Not a chance in hell."