2021-12-14 - What Happens Now

Welp. The big Christmas tree in Addington Park is a smoking ruin. Not still smoking. But there's a lovely black explosion star in the grass, radiating outward, and yellow caution tape around it. Some clever person has decided to retain the festive spirit by hanging little paper ornaments from the caution tape. It doesn't really work, but at least someone's TRYING.

Otherwise, the Park remains determinedly upbeat and cheerful. Gray Harbor is used to...unusual occurrences. There's a Santa posing for pictures with kids, with a bored looking elf organizing it, in a covered gazebo. Brightly colored lights are wrapped around various things, and someone's put Santa hats on all the animals of the carousel. Alexander is even festive; he's wearing a bright, bright, bright red sweater with green polka dots that are supposed to be ornaments, but are really just large dots. He's brought a lunch, and is eating a sandwich on a bench while staring fixedly at a guy who is minding his own business in a brisk lunch walk.

Benedict is out and about today, rather than working from the office. He's in a suit, with his badge and his gun at his hip, and has decided to use the lunch hour to visit the scene of...well, whatever it is what happened the other night. He's currently poking around the Christmas tree and that big black explosion star, trying to make sense of what he remembers versus what common sense tells him.

Alexander's current object of interest is just walking around, clearly doing a few rounds on his lunch break. His path takes him by the tree, and Alexander's gaze follows him - only to stop and hitch on the besuited figure of Benedict. Alexander takes another bite of his sandwich, thinks it over, then picks up his lunch bag, and his half-sandwich, and wanders over to behind the other man. "Hi," he says, when he gets a little outside of arm's reach. "Find anything interesting?"

"Hi." Benedict returns. There's that usual smile, but it's a little worn. "Nope. Nothing interesting. Just...a perfectly normal explosion." There's an awkward pause. "I don't know what I was expecting, really."

"Mm. Yes." Alexander looks at the tree, or rather the blackened ruins of it. "Christmas trees and ordinary explosions." He heaves a sigh. "That was my favorite carol, too. Unfair." He gives the suit a quick up and down. "Were you hurt?" He takes another bite of his half-sandwich, chews, swallows. Then asks, "Not sitting well with you? Were you expecting something else?"

"No, I was just fine. What about you?" Benedict asks in return, making a mental note about Alexander's favourite carol. Who knows, it might be relevant someday. "I don't know what I was expecting." He murmurs. "But....something more than a perfectly normal black burn mark."

"I was fine. Couple of bruises, nothing notable," Alexander mutters, extending a foot to toe at some of the burnt grass. "Think a couple of other people got the wind knocked out of them. Javier's kid, and Cavanaugh. They'll be fine. Few people had to go to the hospital. Minor burns and things. Not too bad." The grass crumbles to ash when his sneaker prods at it. "What do you remember?"

"Well, I remember you telling me I wasn't going to remember anything." Benedict offers cautiously. Let's start with the small stuff that doesn't involve a trip to the nut house. "Why don't we start there?"

"I told you that you wouldn't remember it the way that it actually happened," Alexander says, with a quick frown. "Not that you wouldn't remember anything. Accuracy is important. And it's not your fault. If your memory is a little different. Nothing's wrong with you." He stops, thinks for a bit. "Well. I don't know you. Lots might be wrong with you. Don't know enough to say. But you're not crazy." Another long pause. "If it helps." He reaches out to take one of the little paper ornaments that's in danger of falling off, and puts it more firmly back on the tape.

"See, that's the problem Alexander." Benedict muses as he watches the other man fix the paper ornament. "I'm pretty sure I do remember everything exactly the way it happened. Which definitely makes me feel crazy." Apparently it does help, or at least it's enough to keep him talking.

"Oh. Well. Everyone feels crazy sometimes." Alexander gives Benedict a sidelong look, his eyebrows going up a bit. There's the slightest of smiles, as he adds, "If you remember things the way they actually happened, then you're not crazy. Just likely to be frustrated." A pause. "Some people will remember the things the way they happened. I do. Usually. This time, there was a dinosaur. That was new and exciting." It's very deadpan, but doesn't appear sarcastic, exactly. Just...wry.

"And some elves. And someone shooting lightning from their hands." Benedict adds, once Alexander mentions the dinosaur. They're on the same page, thank goodness. "The thing is, normally I don't. I knew this place was weird, growing up, but I don't recall anything like this. Which makes me wonder if really I just wasn't remembering it. But for some reason I remember that night as clear as day."

"Fucking elves," Alexander mutters, and kicks at a bit of burnt tree, sending it flying a foot or so over the grass. "Last year, elves ate part of the Christmas presents I was buying, and then I chased a rogue Elf on the Shelf through the attic of Addington House for about a goddamned hour. Never trust elves." He clears his throat. "Um. Stuff like this always happens here. Just, if you don't stand out, you don't remember it. Addingtons usually do stand out. Maybe you're, uh...starting to. Sorry."

"Somebody told me the other day that my family was tearing rifts in reality." Benedict admits. "You know how crazy this all sounds, right?" He looks at the burned grass. "So you're saying my entire family is in on...well, elves and dinosaurs and such? And why did you say sorry. I sense this standing out is not a good thing?"

"No. Not tearing rifts in reality. Not wanting the rift that's there repaired, though," Alexander says, kicking another piece of debris. He's making little sidelong looks at Benedict, like he expects the man to either laugh and walk away, or have some sort of breakdown. "But. Yes. Most of them. And yes. It's not great. Uh." He thinks for a moment, then says, carefully, "The elves and things aren't always real? Some things over there are real. But not all are. Some are what some people call Dreams. Meant to hurt and terrify people so that dolorphages can eat their negative emotions and force people who do stand out to, uh, do things they can do. Like the lightning. People who stand out are tastier." He ducks his head "And yeah. I know how crazy it sounds."

Benedict, fortunately, does not look like he's going to have a breakdown. Indeed, he seems almost eerily calm about the whole thing. "Dolorphages. So like....sadness eaters, right? That's what that means?" There's a long pause. "It...does sound pretty crazy. But I know what I saw. As much as I might prefer to pretend otherwise."

"Yes. They eat more than sadness. Pain, anger. Anything bad," Alexander says, with a shrug. "Some people call them Dark Men." A pause. "Do you know that Gray Harbor has very high suicide and murder rates for its size and demographics? Even taking economics in account. It's them. At least in part. Pushing people until they break, one way or the other." He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. "You're handling this well. It's usually easy to believe that it was a gas leak or something and you had hallucinations. Or were drunk. Or got hit on the head. Or someone was tricking you."

"Dark Men." Benedict turns the words over it in his mouth, considering it. "And yes, I did know that. We track those kind of statistics at the office." There's a half-shrug then. "I've had a lot of training on handling things well. But also...I don't know. Maybe it's what you said, about starting to stand out. Because it all just sort of....makes sense. Like half-remembered things from my childhood falling into place. Until recently, I definitely would have picked one of the above. Maybe all of the above."

"They're not men, so I don't like calling them that. But people do." Alexander sounds like he's judging that choice. Because he is. He continues to watch Benedict warily, but he offers a careful nod. "You've probably been around a lot of it. You might start remembering some of it. I don't know. People don't usually...uh, start standing out when they're older. And people are different. Uh. Drugs don't help? I mean. They might help you feel better in the short run, but it doesn't help make anything go away."

Benedict grins wryly at that. "Figures I'd find a way to do it that most people don't." He quips when Alexander says being at his age and undergoing this is unusual. "And don't worry, I'm not about to jeopardize either of my careers by doing drugs. Maybe drink a little more. But I'm guessing that doesn't help either." There's a pause. "So...what happens now?"

"No. Not really. Unless you enjoy hangovers and liver disease. But it won't stop the dolorphages, or the Dreams." Alexander smiles just a little bit at the wry grin. "Um. Next? Well. You might start being able to do shit. Uh, weird things. Like feeling what other people are feeling. Or being able to heal other people's wounds. Or move stuff with your mind. You'll probably end up in more Dreams. Some of them will just be really...odd? Others might try to kill you, or grab whatever traumas you have and rub your face in them to make you hurt. You won't ever be able to prove to anyone else. Even if someone who doesn't stand out gets caught in a Dream with you, they won't remember what happened correctly. You can't take any pictures or collect any evidence. You'll start to notice that some people stand out. A lot of people see it as a glow? But it doesn't have to be. Some people feel it, or hear it. Those people are safe to talk to. At least, they'll see the same things you do. But it doesn't mean they're good people."

There's a long pause as Benedict considers all of this. "I'll be honest, this sounds like the worst superhero origin story I've ever heard." He finally admits. "So basically some people have powers, and I'm probably starting to grow some powers because of my bloodline. And those powers mostly are going to get me involved in LSD trips, and I'll never be able to prove any of it. Except to other superheroes. Who might be trying to kill me. Do I have that about right?"

"Yeah. It pretty much sucks," Alexander says, and even chuckles, softly. "Oh. Uh. There's an alternate reality? We call it the Veil. It's where Dreams take you, but sometimes you can get there without dreams, or monsters and things can come over here for a little bit. They're not all bad." A pause. "There's more, but you've handled the main points admirably thus far. Don't want to, uh, make you break or anything."

"An alternate reality. Called the Veil. And maybe we can go there. But sometimes things come here." Benedict mulls it over. "Well, I'd like to believe there's not a lot that could make me break these days. But this is, uh, really trying. Definitely the craziest thing I've heard in a long time. And yet somehow it makes so much sense. Which is probably the weirdest, scariest, part. Suddenly my brain is hearing this stuff and is like 'Oh, yeah, of course."

"Welcome back to Gray Harbor," Alexander says, dryly. "Or welcome for the first time, maybe. Oh," he clears his throat, "The ADA doesn't stand out. She will absolutely think you're crazy if you talk about this stuff. Or if you track down her personal number and text her. Helpful tip." Alexander is a helper.

"Yeah, I, uh...heard about your job application techniques." Benedict admits. Awkward. "And duly noted. Not that she and I would talk about this stuff anyway. We're, you know, work focused. Working relationship. She's the boss, I'm the hunting dog. So far, anyway." Something occurs to him. "You think this stuff might have anything to do with the McNeely case?"

Alexander rolls his eyes. "I'm a very good investigator," he mutters, and kicks the grass like a sulky child. After a huff of irritation, he admits, "I don't know. Not every crime in Gray Harbor does. So far, it doesn't seem to be Veil-stuff, but...there are ways to push people into doing things, like falsifying evidence, or committing suicide. Some of them are supernatural. But more are just...money and blackmail and intimidation." He shrugs. "Insufficient data as of yet."

"Hey, nobody said you were a bad investigator. At least, not to me." Sure, they might have used words like 'unorthodox' or 'creepy' but 'bad'? Not so far. "I guess we'll find out. I've been told to re-examine the whole thing from the beginning. Go back to square one and check the work that's been done."

Alexander smiles at that. Genuine and bright, making him look several years younger and less...strung-out hobo. It's brief, though. "Really? I'm glad." He clears his throat, moves on quickly. "Yeah. If I had to construct a narrative off of what I have, I'd suggest the original crime, the McNeely girl, is the key. Whatever the fuck silly games people are playing with the evidence twenty years later is to cover up what originally happened. I don't like McNeely for it, right now. At least not alone. Killing himself when the charges have been dropped? Odd. Could be remorse. But odd."

"Really." Benedict nods, smiling at that sudden transformation that happens for a moment. "Yeah, all good points. Plus you can't put a corpse on trial, so I really hope it wasn't him." There's a slow, horrified, pause as something dawns on him. "Wait. I say that. But...does this nonsense include people coming back from the dead?"

"Not...usually," Alexander mutters, although his face does this spasm that suggests the answer is complicated. He grimaces. "There are ghosts. But they're mostly not the real person. Not the soul. They're a collection of memories that the Veil has given a semblance of life. They can be dangerous and vicious. But they're not the person. We've only had one outright murderous ghost that I know of. Uh. Lately."

"Oh, well, of course there are ghosts. I should have known." Benedict pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment. "And only one actual murderous one, lately. Oh good. Which, that reminds me...I was going to start shooting things the other night, and then I was worried it'd go through them and hit people. Do guns work on these things?"

"If it makes you feel better, I didn't believe in ghosts until a couple of years ago, and I've been like this all my life. You might never see one." The pinch of the brow gets a sympathetic grimace. "As for guns. Sometimes. It's not...it's not a hallucination. It's not gonna punch through the illusion and hit someone outside of it. You're in a different place. Some of the things will at least--act like they're affected by guns? Some won't. Some will only go away once you use abilities at them. Some will feed on your abilities and get stronger. Everything's unique over there."

"Well, that's good to know. And right now I don't have any abilities to feed on, that I know of." Benedict points out. "So they're going to go hungry if that's the case. I don't even know how to tell if other people stand out, yet. I'm basically Season One Fox Mulder from X-Files."

"You can suffer, so they can feed," Alexander mutters. "But you won't attract as much attention if you aren't actively using abilities. So you can sort of find things out. Figure out what you want to do. Gray Harbor is a thin place. There are other thin places...but there are also normal places. If you leave town, you could find somewhere that things from another dimension don't try and torture you to death." He sighs. "No one ever does, though."

Benedict shakes his head. "I'm not leaving. I'm an Addington." He says firmly. "Sure, I went away for a long time. But I always intended to come back once I retired. Gray Harbor is /ours/. We have to nurture it, protect it...I always thought that meant in a civic duty sort of sense. But I guess maybe they really were talking about these things. Whatever the case, I'm not the running type. I'm the fighting type."

"Like I said. No one ever does." The sadness in Alexander's voice becomes a sour look as Benedict talks about his family. He looks away, reaches out to tweak the caution tape. "But, um. There are people who feel the same way. The HOPE Center downtown is run by an out-of-towner. Ravn. He fights back by doing good things. Helping people. The folk you saw the other night: Javier, his kid, old Mrs. Leigh. They know. They can be depended on." Reluctantly, he adds, "The rangy guy. Joseph Cavanaugh. He stands out, too. There are more." Then he rattles off a series of numbers. "My phone. If I can help."

Benedict pulls out his own phone and puts his number in, before handing Alexander one of his cards. "Here. My number." He just lets the sour look go by without comment. Perhaps he's trying to be tactful. Or perhaps he's distracted by one of the names on the list. "Huh. I flew with a Joe Cavanaugh. I wonder what the odds are....no, couldn't be. There's only so many strange coincidences this place is going to pull on me, surely?"

"Joseph," Alexander corrects. "Joseph Cavanaugh. And that's probably him. He was a pilot. Astronaut. Writes books." Alexander's expression is, if possible even more sour than when talking about the Addington family. But he takes the card offered, looks at it, turns it around in his hand, then slips it into the pocket of his jacket. "If you wanna make sure, he lives in a houseboat down on the docks. You could probably catch him there." He turns around, realizes that his target has long since finished their walk and gone wherever they go after lunch. He curses under his breath. "I gotta go. Don't die." He walks away without another word or look back, hastily dumping his lunch bag into a bin as he passes it.

"I'll, uh, try not to die. You don't die either, ok?" Benedict calls after the retreating figure, even as he tries to process the fact that yes, in yet another coincidence, it is in fact the same guy, There's only so many pilot astronauts called Joseph Cavanaugh in the world, after all. He should go by that houseboat. But first he should go home. Maybe have a lie down. A few drinks. Not necessarily in that order.