2021-10-07 - Welcome To the Hotel California, Reprise Number Whatever

The Platinum Cabaret. Not exactly the hub of the hipster writer crowd of Gray Harbor (those spawn naturally around Espresso Yourself downtown). The Platinum isn't a haven for criminals, thugs, and prostitutes -- but it is on the outskirts of town, and things do happen on the down low that maybe no one needs to tell the GHPD about, and on the whole, no one around here wants to answer a lot of questions.

Maybe that's why the bloke exiting an obviously rented white sedan draws a bit of attention by whoever's hanging around out front at the time he arrives. He's a tall guy -- white, hair unable to decide if it's brown or reddish, slender. Got the Seattle hipster or art director look down pat; black all the way -- jeans, turtleneck, jacket, boots, and for that matter, kidskin gloves though it's not nearly cold enough for those. Nervous guy, too -- looking around himself as he walks up to the entrance, out of place like a cygnet in a chicken coop.

Trouble? Possibly. Lost and looking for directions? Far more likely.

Vittoria usually steers clear of the patrons that frequent the Platinum Cabaret, opting instead to skim the edges of the room so she can watch for any brewing trouble. Most of them steer clear of her, anyway, considering her tall, intimidating frame. She's an even six feet tall, with a lean, muscular build that is apparent under the black leather jacket and loose light-wash jeans she wears. Her lips are curled upward in an easy, pleasant smile, though, as she looks over the floor of the club.

The tall (and obviously out of place) guy that enters in does catch Vittoria's eye. Did he come to the wrong place? She glances around, seeing if anyone else is paying attention to the newcomer, before stepping up to him with a ready smile. "Hello," she says, the syllables melodic and measured, "can I help you? You sure you're supposed to be here, friend?" Her accent is pleasant and distinctly European - there's a rhythm to the words, each one pronounced carefully and evenly.

"I'm sure I should have insisted on meeting somewhere else," Ravn replies with a somewhat sheepish expression. His accent is decidedly European too -- the kind of perfect BBC British inflection that only reveals that wherever he's from, it's not England but his English teacher really wishes it was. No actually British person ever spoke like that (excepting, possibly, David Attenborough).

He runs a gloved hand through his hair in a probably not conscious gesture of awkwardness. "I was supposed to meet a bloke about a motorcycle, and he insisted we meet here. I was going to suggest someplace else but then I figured it was as good an excuse as any to check on the place."

A moment of hesitation before the newcomer adds, "Do you work here, miss?" He probably did just run through the whole mental process of how to ask this without asking if she's a stripper, maybe she is a stripper, actually sex work is legit, don't kinkshame, or she might be a waitress, and maybe this is where I just jump into the deep end and deal with whatever answer I get.

Vittoria laughs, a charming, musical sound like the tinkling of wind chimes. "I do work here. As security," she adds with a smirk. "I only undress for the right people." A wink.

"You won't be any trouble, will you?" she asks, looking him over. "You don't want to see what I do to trouble." Her knuckles crack as she gazes over him with faux menace. "I'm just kidding. My name is Vittoria. It's a pleasure to meet you." She extends a hand, her jacket sleeve pulling back a bit to reveal the edge of a tattoo snaking down her arm.

"Oh, I'm the kind of trouble that will scream and hide under a table if things go down around me," Ravn replies quite earnestly. His handshake is firm enough; long, slender fingers and why the hell he wears gloves in October is anyone's guess. He can't help another lopsided smile as he adds, "I've been here once before, about a year ago? Nearly got stabbed. Makes a man a little wary of the place -- we don't actually have clubs like this to any great extent back home."

It occurs to him that this lady probably can't read his nationality off the tattoo that isn't on his forehead. "Home meaning Denmark," he adds. "Though I've lived here for about a year now. You're new in town?"

Something slightly off in the way he asks; almost as if he figures he knows or should know everybody. Gray Harbor might only count some eighteen thousand souls, granted, but it's not very likely that anyone knows everybody.

"I love your honesty," Vittoria responds with a smile, though her gaze gains a slight edge when Ravn mentions stabbing. "It's understandable that you would be wary. Why did someone try to stab you?"

She blinks as he correctly guesses her recent arrival. Weird. Is this one of those places she always hears about where everyone knows everyone? "Ah, yes - I am from Italy originally, but I arrived here from New York just last week. My first time in western America."

"It was my own fault," Ravn admits with a small chuckle. "I was looking to find out more about a man who was murdered -- curiosity, I was there when they found the body. He had a card from this place in his pocket -- so I thought, well, why don't you go play amateur sleuth. Turns out the ladies who work the poles here actually don't appreciate some stranger walking up and asking questions about the patrons a whole lot. Girl thought I was an undercover cop and accusing her of something."

Still outdoors? Still outdoors. No risk of certain police officers turning up to rib a man about smoking -- or at least not about smoking indoors. He dips into a pocket for a cigarette and a battered old zippo with which to light it. "So I'll not make that mistake a second time. Hello, my name is Ravn Abildgaard, and I am by no means affiliated with the police. Did anyone give you the official Gray Harbor 'get back on that next bus out of town while you still can' speech yet?"

"You should be careful - make sure not to accuse me of something," Vittoria says, grinning mischievously. "People here are dangerous."

She spots the cigarette being lit and dips into her own pocket for one as well. "Nice to meet you, Ravn. I haven't had the speech yet so I guess I'm not official. Maybe you can light a girl's smoke while you give it to me?" She puts the cigarette to her lips and glances at him expectantly.

The zippo is old and battered and embossed with some European style coat-of-arms or other. Ravn flicks it on and once Vittoria's cigarette is lit, returns it to a blazer pocket. He chuckles softly as he does so, and shakes his head. "Unless you can convince me your name is Ray and you want to sell me a motorcycle -- I mean, I'm not judging, but you don't look like a Ray."

He blows a smoke ring and then loses the chuckle. "Speech is short, really. Makes me sound like the town loon, though. Pretty much goes, this town draws in people with certain talents. Life here can be -- interesting. Dangerous, even. The safe choice is to get out of town as fast as you got in. No one ever does. Bit like the Hotel California -- folks kept telling me to pick up and leave again when I got here. When I'd stuck around for a month or two they started telling me I was a fool to not get out while I could. And that no one ever does."

The Dane glances at Vittoria, in a fashion that might almost be considered appraising (which is perhaps not the best idea he's ever had, given their present location). "I guess I sound like I sniffed glue in the car. A lot of people in Gray Harbor have -- a little extra. Some have a lot of extra. I'm on the very little extra end of the scale myself, pretty much only doing parlor tricks."

Vittoria puffs on the cigarette, letting the smoke curl out around her curved lips. "I don't know about Ray, but my motorcycle is definitely not for sale. She got me here all the way from New York."

She flashes a grin that fades slowly as she listens to the Dane's speech. "Wait," she says, raising a hand, "what do you mean when you say 'a little extra' ? You say you can do parlor tricks - do you mean magic tricks?" Her eyes are narrowed as she does her own appraising, glancing into Ravn's eyes for signs of mischief.

Ravn's eyes are a shade that his passport calls 'steel blue' but look grey most of the time. They're also quite sincere, unless the man has a good poker face. He leaves the cigarette at a corner of his mouth and dips into his blazer pocket again, for the zippo. "I can do both, if we want to get technical about it -- but I did mean magic tricks. Telekinesis, reading objects, that sort of thing. Not very good at it compared to some people in this town but there you go."

He places the lighter on his gloved palm and then -- it floats. Some few centimetres above the smooth glove.

"No strings, nothing sleight of hand about it. It's also pretty much the extent of what I can do, but I did say I'm not very good at it."

"Merda," Vittoria curses, stepping back as she watches the lighter float into the air. She glances around before leaning in close, eyes wide. "I never thought anyone else could do this, too. You say many people in this town can do this...little extra, as you said?"

Ravn snatches the zippo out of the air and lets it wander across his knuckles to the other hand before pocketing it again, in a very obvious display of actual sleight of hand ability. "I know. Blows your mind, doesn't it? Girl gave me the same speech when I came into town. I didn't believe her either. So she showed me -- by somehow gluing my clothes to my chair. I could have gotten up and left but I'd have been leaving my jeans behind. It was -- convincing."

He smiles a little -- commiserating, perhaps. "Most people in this town who can do things -- can do a lot more than that. Have you ever had this feeling that some people are somehow different? A sensation, or they seem to kind of glow when you're not looking at them directly, or they just sound different? There's a lot of words for it. Shine, heat, glimmer, sparkle, Art, the song -- all depends on who you ask. To me, it's a feeling of warmth, almost like a pull. I walked up to you and I was fairly certain you're one of us because you feel warm. There's not hundreds of us -- so we do tend to kind of all have at least some awareness of who the others are."

That, at least, might explain the whole know everybody thing.

Vittoria nods, seeming to relax a bit as Ravn continues to speak. "I felt this when I spotted you. As if you were...different. I felt that I had no choice but to speak to you." She blinks, trying to internalize all the words that have come pouring out from her new acquaintance. "Madonna santa, this is so crazy. Will I feel this for every person who is...extra?"

The Dane finishes his cigarette and tucks the butt into a pocket; a habit that might seem a bit prissy in a parking lot behind a strip club, but there you go. "Probably will. Some more than others."

He glances at the club's door a moment. "There's a couple of us who work here. Rekani, he's a deejay. Nova, his sister -- that's the girl who threatened to stab me. Couple of others. In town? Both bars -- Pourhouse, the Two if By Sea -- are good for meeting people like us. So's the coffee shop, and the Patisserie, and Kelly's gym." Ravn chuckles. "I guess we're kind of everywhere."

Another glance towards the strip club, and then back at Vittoria; an eyebrow shoots up, curious. "I didn't even ask your name before I barraged you with a speech. Sorry about that. People tell me I talk too much."

Vittoria tries to follow the long list of names as best she can, though she only retains a few of them. "Rekani...Nova...I haven't met them yet. I will watch out for them and try to go to some of those places you suggested." She sighs, running her fingers through ombré hair that is loose around her shoulders. "My name is Vittoria - and do not worry. My English is still improving so it's especially good practice for my listening." She grins and playfully punches him in the shoulder.

The expression that flits across Ravn's face is almost comical; he freezes, and then, visibly makes himself unclench his jaw, and put on a strained smile. Deeeep breath through the nose. "You definitely should," he replies, and rubs his shoulder. "Sorry, I -- you couldn't know. I have neuropathy. Unexpected touch is a bit like sticking your fingers into an electrical socket."

He looks at his hands. "Hence, the gloves. Anyhow, you should. Town's surprisingly friendly. Kind of has to be -- we're all in this together, and all we have is one another. That's the other half of it -- the not so fun half. Gray Harbor pulls us in because there's a kind of ... well, we call it a thin spot, it's where realities meet. And there are things in those other realities that feed on people. Usually not literally, but they tap into our emotions, and most of them like a diet of misery and fear, so it's usually not a very pleasant experience. That's the reason for telling people they should get right back out of town."

Vittoria winces, hard, as Ravn flinches from her touch. "Shit. Sorry. I should not have done that." She takes a step back, making sure to give him some space. "That's...a lot. You're saying whatever things you're talking about will...feed on me? If I stay?" Her eyes are wide and panicked at this - she seems to believe everything he's said so far.

The Dane shakes his head and offers a wry little smile. "How would you know? It's not as if I carry a sign. Don't worry about it."

He rubs his arm and then straightens up with a small wince; a year ago, that was him, standing right there -- well, technically on the sidewalk in front of the Espresso Yourself, but close enough -- asking that very question. And he probably sounded about as thrilled, too.

"They will," Ravn says, carefully. "And I am not going to lie to you -- it's pretty damn terrible that these things exist, and that they try to farm our emotions like some kind of perverted crop. But there are also good things in those other realities. The very most is just -- indifferent, alien. Gray Harbor is -- dangerous. It is. But as long as you make friends and remember that we're all playing for the same team here, it's also a fantastic opportunity. Have you ever wondered what you can do with your power? How much you can learn? The longer you stay, the stronger it gets -- for anyone but me, apparently, I seem to be a pretty lost case."

The Italian still looks troubled, though some of her tension eases away as the man continues to speak. "I haven't been able to do very much with my...power, as you say. I can only lift or throw things like you did." She shakes her head, dark eyes stormy. "Is it worth it, do you think? Staying here? Even if things feed on your bad emotions?"

"I think it is. But I'll remain open to the possibility that I've lost a few screws along the way," Ravn replies earnestly. "To me, Gray Harbor is a haven. I came here on the run, the town took me in. I've made friends here, put down roots. I'm a folklorist -- I study stories and narratives for a living. To me, this is a fantastic opportunity -- even if it's dangerous. If you're looking for a quiet, peaceful life, though, you've definitely come to the wrong place."

He glances at Vittoria; nothing about her appearance says timid little broken bird. "Lots of folks around here will be happy to help you try to explore that power more. The two absolutely most powerful movers? Itzhak Rosencrantz, Rekani Nazario -- they can do bloody amazing things. Insane things. Like, opening doors to alternate realities, walk in and out, move things that should not be humanly possible, fold space. Definitely worth talking to for pointers."

Vittoria nods at this, her lips starting to twist upward slightly. "I came here because I was bored of everywhere else. I don't work at a strip club because I want a quiet, peaceful life." She snorts, gaze wandering over Ravn curiously. "You were on the run? You don't seem the type, to me."

His mention of 'power' and those names gets her attention. "Rekani, you said? I've heard his name - I think he works here." She looks at the Dane wide-eyed. "He can...go to other worlds?"

"He dee jays here, yeah." Ravn glances at the building and then back at Vittoria. Then his face lights up in a small, lopsided grin, peeling a few years off him and making him look positively boyish for a moment. "Well, it's a complicated story. I was on the run from a ghost, and I made my way by grifting and picking pockets. I suppose that the best type for something like that is somebody who doesn't look the part."

He chuckles. "A lot of us -- hell, all of us -- sort of have three things in common. We're all kind of artistic in some way or other -- painters, writers, musicians, dancers, something. We're all survivors in some fashion -- soldiers, veterans, victims of abuse, you name it, people who have had to fight. Acriminal history, or something else along those lines. And of course, we've all got some kind of power. It's a bit of a working theory, you have to score relatively high on those three to be interesting for the Veil."

"Wait. A ghost?" Vittoria looks like she's caught between amusement and suspicion, not sure if he's joking. "Are you serious?"

That last part earns a nod from her. "I was a soldier. Maybe your theory is right."

Ravn hitches a shoulder and fishes out another cigarette which he proceeds to light; and why not? He's standing in a parking lot, clearly stood up by the guy he was supposed to be meeting, and having a conversation with someone else instead. "It's a long story. Someone died, blamed me for it. Haunted the hell out of me. So I left and kept running, until I eventually came into town here. Hitched a ride from Seattle, got into an argument with the driver, and there I was, on my arse in Main Street, Gray Harbor. Not exactly the Portland I was aiming for, but I decided to stick around for a few days. That was a year ago. Hotel California, and all that."

He offers the lighter over in case it's needed again there as well. "Do I want to ask where you served? I tutor Danish vets who came back from Afghanistan not doing so great."

That look on Vittoria's face turns half-amused half-horrified now. "That's...horrible. I didn't know ghosts were real." She blinks and pulls out another cigarette, putting it to her lips and putting it out to Ravn. "What do you tutor them in? I served in Afghanistan as well. A few tours." A woman of few words, it seems. Her face is blank, unreadable.

"Academic writing. It's not so much whatever their field is, as it's researching and putting their research together." Smoke curls from the Dane's lips. "It's a government program -- helping veterans get a bachelor's or masters, get them back out in life. I teach history, technically, but some of them are in fields at all related to the humanities. It doesn't really matter -- what matters is that someone's helping them navigate university procedures, write things in the approved academic fashion, and helping them get shit done. PTSD does that to a lot of them -- they struggle with focus or fatigue, or a feeling that they're too much trouble to be worth dealing with. It's ... honestly pretty awful."

The look on Vittoria's face seems to show that she's all too familiar with the issues Ravn is talking about. "I know what you mean. Too many friends ended up like that." Her face softens and she smiles easily at the Dane. "That's good work you're doing. It must mean so much to them."

"It's a way to make a living." Ravn pulls on the cigarette, perhaps not quite comfortable with being accused of notions of altruism. "I enjoy my job, but it's a job -- not a calling. Got make rent somehow, yeah? Not a good idea to work as a thief and a grifter if you plan to actually stick around somewhere for a while."

He dips into a blazer pocket again and this time, procures a calling card -- a piece of white cardboard with the name and number of an electrician's shop printed on. A fountain pen appears from the same pocket and he turns the card over to write on the back. "Here's my name, and my number. Something strange happens to you, don't be shy of asking for help getting it sorted out -- that's how this town works. We try to have one another's backs. I'm usually at the community centre on Spruce Street most days, and if I'm not there, I've got a boat on the marina that I live on most of the year. You're going to be meeting a lot of people like us. Get names, numbers, stay in touch. Best way to stay in sane in this town." The card is offered; the man has a neat cursive hand writing.

Vittoria gratefully accepts the card, looking over it curiously. "I appreciate it. Really. I learned...a lot in the past 30 minutes." She snorts, brushing hair over her shoulder. "I will stay in touch," she says, pulling out her phone and sending a quick text to Ravn. "Hopefully I will stay sane."

"You won't. Not by any definition of 'sane' that's generally acknowledged outside of this town." The Dane hitches a shoulder and feels his cell phone's buzzing in a pocket, much as expected. "But for a local value? I think you will. You don't strike me as the type to fold easy under pressure. Just need to get used to living somewhere people talk about ghosts and parallel worlds and what have you, without someone else calling the local asylum to ask if they're missing a few patients."

He flashes the woman a bright, lopsided smile. "It's not you. It's Gray Harbor. And if a guy named Ray drops past here later on with a motorcycle, tell him to stuff it up where the sun doesn't shine, front wheel first, yeah?"

"Hopefully I won't be the asylum's newest patient by the end of this all," Vittoria responds dryly, grinning. "I appreciate that. Enough that I will do this favor for you. Ray won't know what's coming."