2021-12-18 - Dead Dames and Wolf Gangs

It's an appointment at a reasonable time of day; although like many days in Gray Harbor, there's a grey, freezing, sleeting rain that makes walking into the building a positive relief. The bottom three floors are empty, and still clearly in repair, although the elevator works well. Alexander's office has boldly stenciled letters: Clayton Investigations on the frosted glass door....which is remarkably intact considering the state of the rest of the floor. The office itself is small, a two-room suite with a bathroom attached, and it's eerie how well preserved that it is. A few plants have been set up near the one window, blooming despite being out of season. Alexander himself has Made An Effort. He's actually in a button down shirt in a lovely, dark blue, with ironed black slacks, and polished leather shoes. His hair is still too long, but the clothing makes him look a bit more like 'overworked wage slave' and less like 'strung out hobo'.

Benedict is wearing a black suit, white shirt, plain tie. His badge and gun are on his hip. He arrives a little early, both to look around the office and to make sure he's there when their guest of honour arrives. Wouldn't do to invite someone to a meeting and then show up late, after all.

Ravn Abildgaard has been curious to see this new office pretty much since Perdita rented it out; mostly because she described it to him as a beautiful art nouveau kind of affair and he is as much of an art critic as anyone -- and because she said it was probably haunted, which makes him wants to go find out if it is. Common sense says to run in the opposite direction but then, common sense also says, don't live in bloody Gray Harbor, and it's not like he's in the habit of paying attention to it anyhow.

He looks like -- well, it's kind of up for debate. All black as usual -- blazer, turtleneck, jeans. Motorcycle helmet, black, with a deeper black corvid feather design. Black leather jacket, the sleeve of one arm of which looks like it's been dragged across asphalt. 1990s grunge art designer? Steve Jobs impersonator? Early-onset midlife crisis? Cool not-quite-20-year-old-anymore guy? Take your pick.

He strolls up exactly five minutes early because that is the Danish way; too early means you're nosy and insecure, too late means you don't give a shit, and right on time means you're neurotic. An eyebrow is arched as he realises that Alexander is not alone, and a gloved hand is raised in a lazy salute. "Hope I'm not interrupting anything important? I do realise plans change with thirty seconds' notice in this town."

Alexander has procured the most important part of office decor: a coffee maker. So he can offer both men a cup, some coffee, and cream and sugar if they want. He's actually put a fair amount of sugar in his, and is standing near the back so as not to crowd or be crowded as they come in. "Ravn, Benedict. Hi. See? It's a very nice office." His smile flashes out, bright and proud, even if the overhead light looks like it's about to drip down some nameless goo on their heads, and the frogman holding up the sidelamp looks like he might, at any moment, turn and stare at them.

"No interruptions. Sorry. Ravn Abildgaard," and Alexander works very hard to pronounce the name correctly, "this is Benedict Addington. I--he--we are sort of working the McNeely case together. Trying to figure out what happened to Addison. Noticed there was a Friendbook community that suggested that, uh, people had...contact? With her? Maybe?" A pause. "Benedict doesn't stand out. But he's started remembering things as they actually happen."

"Pleasure to meet you, again. The coffee shop...you were with Tanasha." Benedict smiles one of those beaming smiles he seems to specialize in. He'll happily take a cup and some coffee, with cream and sugar. "It's just as Alexander says...all of a sudden lately it's like a curtain has been pulled back on this place. So many things I didn't really notice, or remember, growing up here." There's a pause. "We thought maybe learning about your interaction with Addison might help us get our bearings."

"Yeah, I remember. Tanasha was showing me the last bits of her design for the app she's writing for us at HOPE. And as usual I ended up having to steal somebody else's coffee to get any." Ravn is happy to accept a cup of coffee -- black, virginal, and pleasantly unpolluted; he may start favouring this place over the coffee shop at this rate. He finds himself some horisontal surface to rest a hip against and nods -- then places his cup on said surface and dips into a pocket for a battered old cell phone in a battered old, sparkly pink Hello Kitty casing. He taps a bit on it, calling up the Friendzone app. "You're talking about this group, right? The people who think they have seen or spoken to the dead girl."

He nods. "I'm sure Clayton's mentioned I see ghosts, sometimes, if they want to be seen. I'm not really into the whole . . . investigate murders by mediums and clairvoyants idea. Still thought I'd toss my name in the pot in case somebody else actually got haunted." The Dane glances at Alexander. "Alexander's the investigator. I'm just -- a guy who sometimes doesn't realise that I've been talking to someone no one else can see for the last twenty minutes."

Alexander doles out coffee in plain mugs; no cheeky sayings or fun designs for this guy. "What sort of app?" he asks, curiosity momentarily caught. He immediately grimaces. "Sorry. Not important right now." He takes a sip of his drink, and leans forward to look at Ravn's phone, then nods. "Yes. We're not investigating by mediums," he says, with an offended sort of frown. "We're investigating with evidence. But in Gray Harbor, sometimes the evidence is weird. I thought you might have had some contact with the girl. Most people who posted to this group did. Were you just offering to help if other people had?"

"Neither are we." Benedict agrees with Alexander. "If for no other reason than you can't use it in court. But we felt like this could maybe generate some fresh leads for us or point us in a new direction. Get us unstuck, as it were, and then move forward the old fashioned way." He waits, then, for the response to Alexander's question about whether Ravn ineracted with the ghost or not.

"I meant that I am not one of those people who will offer to come help your Aunt Petunia cross over if you'll only donate to my Patron account," Ravn clarifies with a chuckle; he's probably been accused of something like that on a couple of occasions, and even more likely given his self-professed past as a grifter. "I tossed my name in there because I saw her, and I spoke to her. Others may have as well. In this town, you never know if something seemingly no big deal is suddenly going to turn out to be actually be a very big deal."

He pockets the app again and picks up his coffee. "I'm guessing you want to know what happened. It's not a lot but maybe there's something there I've overlooked, I don't know. I met her at the Pourhouse, during the storm. I was physically at the hurricane shelter so when I found myself suddenly having a drink with an unfamiliar and underage bartender -- well, to be honest, I just thought, great, another dream and what great timing. And then I enjoyed the drink."

The Dane shakes his head. "She was odd, not going to say otherwise. There'd just been a story about her in the Gazette so I recognised her -- tried to find out what she wanted. But all she really did seem to want was to talk about me. I got the feeling she somehow -- fed on it. That somehow, it strengthened her connection to the living world, talking about the issues of the living."

Alexander furrows his brow at Ravn. "I know you're not like that," he says, quietly. His shoe scuffs the tiles of the floor a little, then he falls quiet to listen to the man's account. "Did it feel like a dream, or a Dream? Or like a ghost? I don't...know very well what ghosts feel like. If they feel different." He's pulled out a notepad from his desk drawer, and scribbles an account of the encounter. "Interesting. It seems like a lot of the people who feel they had contact with her are out of towners. She doesn't seem to be reaching out as much to...friends, or family, or people who were important in her life. Wonder if that's relevant, somehow, to this feeding? She already knows their stories, or something."

Benedict sips at his coffee thoughtfully, trying to hide how out of his depth he feels. "I'm surprised. I always heard, you know, that ghosts had unfinished business. That they'd be looking for justice. I figured she'd be only too happy to tell you what she knew. Of course, that's all the myths and legends from people who don't really believe in ghosts. Not, you know, from real ghosts." It's clear it feels very strange to him saying 'real ghosts'.

"I knew it was a Dream, capital D -- because it sent me somewhere I was not supposed to be, with a bartender who doesn't exist." Ravn nods. "As for ghosts -- sometimes you're in no doubt. Sometimes -- a lot of the times -- I don't even realise that someone is a ghost until they show me, somehow. And that's counting that most ghosts are not aware entities as such. The very most are just memories -- an image or an emotion that somehow has stuck around, playing itself over and over until it fades away. Out of the ones that are genuinely aware -- you often have no idea unless they're in period costume or walk through walls."

He mirrors Benjamin's gesture and then chuckles. "The ones who have unfinished business are the aware ones. They are usually very eager to tell you what they need you to do, yes. I thought Addison was one of those -- but she only wanted to hear about my life. I did manage to deduce a few things. She's not -- crossed over, ascended, whatever actually happens. She's not alone, wherever she is -- there's some dark shadow that follows her, limits her interactions with us. She sent me away when it found her. And she is afraid -- of it, of something else, I don't know. But the kind of sadness she displayed when she felt I might reject her questions was fear based."

Alexander offers Benedict a quick, sympathetic sort of smile. "Until Easton, I didn't believe in ghosts, either. I still don't believe in Bigfoot. Bigfoot doesn't exist," he claims, with a deep scowl. Then he falls silent again, listening and writing. "Dark shadow. Her murderer, maybe? Maybe she has been trapped over there the whole time," he murmurs, pausing to rub at his chin with the end of the pencil. "Did you see this darkness or sense anything about it?"

Benedict frowns at that. "I hope her murderer isn't over there...I'm not sure I can arrest a dark shadow, much less convince Bennet to file charges on one." His tone implies he's totally game to try, though. "If you're right, and the information is giving her something...maybe the reason she's afraid if she ever runs out of that something completely, the shadow or whatever it is consumes her?"

"She said one thing that might be significant. 'You can't be afraid when it gets dark.' Whenever she was happy, the room was lighter. When she feared I'd not answer her questions or I tried to dodge them, the room got darker." Ravn shakes his head; this isn't nearly physical enough to be of much use. "I tried leading her with questions, hoping she might touch on a location or a name, anything that I could perhaps use to find out what happened to her. She didn't."

He frowns and thinks back. "The shadow was -- I got the feeling that it was masculine, but, I didn't actually see the person so that might just be my preconceptions. It was very tall and very large -- and when it arrived, Addison looked at me as if she was content, but also sad. And then she sent me away, back to reality."

"Welcome to the challenge of law enforcement in Gray Harbor," Alexander says, with a crooked sort of smile to Benedict. "I wonder if it's some sort of...Scheherazade thing. Her spirit is kept alive by collecting stories to feed to this shadow?" He shakes his head, then. "But that's just speculation. Insufficient data. If Cavanaugh says something similar, though, it's at least an interesting trend." He taps the pencil on the pad. "And she seems resigned to her fate. If she's not trying to get someone to find her killer, or try to identify that shadow. Odd. Was there anything else that stood out, at all?"

Behind him, the light in the window flickers and fades, like clouds sliding over the sun, although the shade blocks any ability to see outside.

Benedict doesn't notice the light behind Alexander, intent on pacing and sipping coffee and trying to figure this mess out. "I wonder how she picks her people. I know you said they mostly appear to be outsiders...but I wonder if there's any way to get in contact with her. I can't believe I'm saying that. But there it is."

"It's possible that she feels she is where she deserves to be. How long has she been dead again? Twenty years is a long time to gaslight someone, more so if they're dead and hear no other voices." Ravn glances at the window behind Alexander and frowns slightly. "It's speculation, though. Hard facts: She's still around as a ghost, she wanted to talk about me rather than herself, and she fears the dark."

His gaze slides to Benjamin; bad weather is nothing new in Gray Harbor, and his motorcycle can be wiped off. "The usual way is going where the ghost is. Where the body was interred or buried. And then -- hope. I don't really give much for ouija boards and mediums. It's too easy to fake."

"Body's still in the morgue, I think. Ongoing investigation...plus, her brother's dead. Don't know if anyone else from the family has tried to claim it. Although there was a tremendous amount of money put in the search." Alexander's frown is thoughtful. "But morgues...not great places to try and contact ghosts. Who knows what you might get. If Minerva was still in town..." he trails off, shaking his head.

There's an odd, coppery scent in the air, and if either of the men should glance back at the door to the bathroom, there are red streaks on the floor, spilling out into the tiles of the office proper. They definitely weren't there when they came in. Alexander doesn't notice, yet; he's closest to the plants and their soft scent, and his head is bent over his pad, going through his notes.

Benedict, however, has stopped listening to either of the men. Instead his eyes have been drawn to those red streaks after picking up on the odd scent in the air. "Uh, gentlemen...." He cuts in, dropping one hand to the grip of his pistol. "I think we may have a problem."

"I'll go to the morgue if you want me to. Just don't be too surprised if I end up talking to twenty-odd invisible entities who need to know what happened to them, what year it is, and whether little Sharon made it home all right." Ravn doesn't look like it's an experience he craves -- but it's also not one that terrifies him. He's spent a week at Addison Memorial's ICU unit, and he's still able to pass for sane.

Then Benedict moves and the Dane blinks. "Oh. I thought that was just me. I mean, Leontes did say this place is haunted."

"I'd worry about getting some angry ghost more angry, but if we could get Addison--" Alexander takes a moment longer than the other two to catch on, his expression lost in thought. And just as Benedict and Ravn speak up about the change in circumstances (and possibly dimension), there's the sound of heavy banging on the frosted glass door; several indistinct shapes on the outside. Tall, angry shapes.

One calls out, "Give him up! Give him up, and nobody has to get hurt!" The snickers suggest that this is a lie - and that there are at least four lying liars who lie out there. Alexander reaches for the small of his back, and the knife there. Also, the guy who talks has a strong Chicago accent. WHY does he have a Chicago accent when it's Gray Harbor? Maybe it has something to do with how the clothing Alexander, Ravn, and Benedict are wearing has shifted. They'd be well-suited for a period crime drama. Alexander's button down and slacks has mostly just added suspenders and a dark vest instead of a belt or a jacket, although there's a fedora on his desk that definitely wasn't there before, and a suit jacket hanging over the back of his desk chair.

"This...sounds like what happened before. But after I got shot," he murmurs. "There's a dying man in the bathroom, if that's true. That's who they want."

Benedict draws his pistol, which much to his confusion is currently a Smith and Wesson Model 19 revolver. And then squints at it. "What the...." Oh well, no time to ask questions. Instead he levels it at the door. "Identify yourselves!" He calls to the men on the other side. "I wouldn't suggest making threats. That's a crime under Washington Revised Code 9A.46.020." Out of the side of his mouth, he hisses urgently "Is this real?"

Ravn glances down at himself and then rolls his eyes. Yes, he likes to wear black. Yes, he feels absolutely ridiculous wearing a Catholic priest's white collar with the black slacks, shirt, and blazer to match. Thank you, Veil, for suggesting that the folklorist gets preachy at times. "Bloody hell," he murmurs -- not quite managing to stay in character.

"It's real enough that if someone puts a slug in you, the slug is real," he hisses back. "We slipped over somehow. There's a story, and the only way is through."

He glances at Alexander and then at the door to the bathroom -- or what he presumes to be the door to the bathroom. "Which side are we on here? Sam Spade against the crooks, or are we another gang?"

Alexander points at Ravn with the knife. "What he said," he hisses to Benedict. "It's not real, but it will hurt or kill you like it's real. Treat it like that." And suiting word to action, he jumps behind the desk and pushes it out to form a makeshift barricade. Ravn's question, though, gets a shake of the head. "Didn't have time last time to figure that out. Guy just came in, already shot, dropped on the floor. Got him into the bathtub, then those assholes showed up."

Speaking of those assholes, the shapes fall silent at Benedict's response. "...the fuck?" one says, and there's a hasty whisper where the word fuzz features prominently. Then, they step back from the door, the shapes fading.

There's only a moment of silence, of hope, before the roar of guns blowing several large holes in the door. Apparently, they don't like cops.

Benedict dives for cover when the bullets start flying, firing off a return shot. Once he's down safely, he grabs his badge to hold it out. "Cease fire! You're all under arrest, dammit. Dis..." And then he actually notices the badge he's holding out. "Treasury Department!?" He manages to sound authoritative, but also extremely confused.

Ravn doesn't stand around waiting for someone to decide to chat it all out. He's already diving for cover when the first bullets pierce glass -- but as has been established on a couple of previous occasions, the asthmatic academic is no martial artist; blood sprays from an arm grazed by a slug even as he hits the deck and slides over behind the desk, too. "For helvede," is the quiet murmur, and no dictionary is really required to convey the sentiment.

He presses a hand to the wound and satisfies himself that it's not spurting -- so far, so good. "Don't suppose anyone's carrying a tommy gun I can borrow for a moment?"

"Ravn! Shit!" Alexander ducks behind the desk just in time to be missed by two bullets, one of which shatters the glass of the window behind him. The door's front panel has fallen into shards and spikes of frosted glass, which at least improves visibility. There's a glimpse of two gunners on the other side, unloading with revolvers; luckily, they don't seem to have tommy guns, either.

Their eyes widen as Benedict identifies himself. "A G-man? Where the fuck did Carl get a fucking G-man?" one of the other men, taking cover to either side of the door, asks his crew. Their answer is more gunfire...but they're also starting to retreat down the hall while the two gunners cover the retreat with a flurry of shots. Because feds are like roaches; there's NEVER just one.

Benedict, perhaps foolishly (ok, definitely foolishly), decides to press his advantage, Unfortunately this means getting out from behind cover. "Drop your weapons! Drop your weapons!" He pushes forward, cranking off two more shots in quick succession.

One of the shots meant to cover their retreat wings him in the arm, and his revolver guys flying across the room. Coming to a stop out of reach. "Fuck!" There's an influx of light into the room, most of it centred on him, for those that have the means to see it.

And then something happens that catches both men involved by surprise. Focused as he is on the retreating shooters, and trying to get them to drop their weapons, and his sudden need for a gun, everything just seems to come together. And one of the revolvers the retreating gangsters are firing suddenly wrenches out of its owners hand, flying towards Benedict's outstretched and waiting fingers. He looks like he may drop this one too from the sheer shock of what just happened.

"He doesn't stand out," Ravn murmurs, echoing Alexander's words from earlier. "Think he missed the memo?"

Then he's scrabbling to his feet, one hand still pressed against the injury on his own arm, because snarking is all good and well, but Benedict just took a bullet of his own, and sometimes, seconds really do matter. A field medic he's not, but sometimes, you have to make do with the next best, i.e. any random guy capable of putting pressure on a wound.

Spoiler: Nobody drops their weapons. At least, not until one of the gangsters lets out a yelp and snatches at a gun that is suddenly flying from his hand to Benedict's. The gangsters hesitate...and then they change.

Mouths bristle with long, pointed teeth as faces suddenly lengthen into snub muzzles. Their eyes go from regular human shades to the pale, feral gold of wolves. Nothing else except their heads change, and the change is just enough to make them manifestly inhuman.

Also, very angry. As Alexander cries out, "Ravn! There's a first aid kit in the bathroom!" the investigator is moving around the desk to try and back up Benedict as he presses his advantage. There is, indeed, a very well-appointed kit in the bathroom. And a dead guy. He's sprawled in the bathtub, staring sightlessly at the ceiling, a bloody towel clutched to his chest in a literal death grip.

But the wolf who has had his gun stolen is very angry. He lunges forward, all those teeth bared to try and eat Benedict's face.

Benedict definitely didn't see this coming. He has a gun, which he manages not to drop, that he totally stole from someone else. Through the air. One hand is pressed to his wound, trying to steady his shooting arm. And then there's a wolf charging at him, that used to be a gangster. He definitely wasn't expecting that.

The result isn't exactly graceful, nor does it look like he's in any way in control of the situation. But Benedict does manage to scramble backwards and avoid the slavering wolf man that's trying to grab him. And somewhere in the chaos the revolver goes off...presumably he meant to do that....right into the wolf's face.

Ravn changes course in mid-leap, away from Benedict and towards the bathroom. Under normal circumstances he would have stopped to take a second look at the very dead person in the bathtub -- maybe even checked to make certain that he is in fact dead. Now, though? He can feel the bullet in his own arm, and he saw another hit Benedict -- this is not the time.

He grabs the kit and heads back just in time to see a wolf gangster's brain turning into what could be a genuine Jason Pollock painting. It does the Dane some credit that by now he's lived in Gray Harbor long enough to not curl into a ball of anxiety under the desk.

Get control of the situation. First rule. Some emergency responder said that.

Let's disarm the other guys too, and preferably before either of us bleeds out, is the thought that goes through the folklorist's mind as he attempts to reach out with that little spark of power he possesses, hopes to slam the nearest door open right into a face, provide a distraction.

The second thought is, That was a lot easier than it's supposed to be, because as far as Ravn is concerned, moving a teaspoon takes effort.

Benedict learns that these are definitely not werewolves in the traditional sense; it doesn't take silver bullets to blow half that gangster's head off, sending a spray of liquids and semi-solids best unmentioned out in a fan behind him. The wolf-gangster lets out a snarl even as he drops into a suited heap.

Down the hall is a LOT nicer than it was when they came in; instead of abandoned offices, there's a carpeted expanse with nice wood doors for professional sort of businesses. Most of these are very firmly shut as no one wants a piece of whatever is happening in this hallway. But Ravn notices one door that isn't quite closed, and - for a wonder - opens out instead of in. He's able to grab it with his mind and wrench it open, flinging it into one of the gangster's faces. CLONK. The wolfman staggers--

And that seems to be enough to make them turn and flee in earnest, snarling gutteral curses behind them even as they hit the door to the stairs and retreat.

Benedict decides not to chase them, because at this point he's injured and just trying not to lose his mind. Instead he focuses on how to get the hell out of this mess. "You said we have to play through the story, right?" He calls out to Ravn. "What's the next part of the story? Because we've both been hit....Alexander, you alright?"

"How the -- "

Ravn manages to get a grip on himself. He's got the first aid kit. The whatever they ares are running. He and Benedict are both bleeding. "Next part is us not bleeding out on the carpet," he murmurs and tries to guesstimate how bad Benedict's injury is.

He's not a field medic. 'Not spurting' is the verdict here, too.

"Calling for backup? What does Sam Spade do when his office gets hit?" The Dane glances at Alexander because this story is definitely not his forte. Neither's first aid. He tosses a roll of bandages to Benedict and tells him, "Apply pressure, we need to get to -- some point we can dial 911, I think."

"I'm fine," Alexander murmurs. He takes a step towards the bathroom, then pedals backwards as Ravn comes out with the kit. "Just bind the wounds," he suggests. "Before, when I got shot, the Dream ended when I came into the bathroom. It was just before they shot the place up. So it stuck us right in that spot." He moves again towards the bathroom, steps inside.

The Dream does not end. There's still a dead body in the bathtub, and another just outside the main door of the office. The thug outside is in a cheap suit. The guy in the tub is dressed like a laborer. Alexander says, "I never got the chance to search this guy. Check the thug? Maybe we'll find a clue." And then he starts feeling up the tub-corpse; it has no identification on him, certainly nothing modern, but not even a wallet. All Alexander finds is a torn piece of paper with half of a symbol on it.

He emerges. "It's from the Storm Shelter," he says, flashing it at them. "Used to be a speakeasy here in town. Burned down in the mid-thirties."

Benedict catches the roll of bandadges awkwardly and gets to work binding his wound. His medical knowledge is entirely in first aid, so it works out pretty well. Then he goes over to search the dead thug as Alexander suggested, as well as reclaim his gun. He has /two/ revolvers now! This can't possibly end badly later on. "So I guess maybe we're supposed to go there next?"

"Willing to bet who burns it down. That is, if we're going through the motions of something that actually happened here." Ravn prods the fallen, furry body with a foot while attempting to somehow secure a cotton pad to his arm with a bandage in a manner that will at some point cause some actual EMT to cry.

"It's as good as anything I've got," he tells Benedict. "There is always some kind of narrative. Some kind of story that wants to play out, whether it's long or short, it can be anything. So if we're still here -- then yeah, we're not done. I don't suppose you can spare one of those pieces if we are going to head into a shoot-out? I don't think bible thumping and sternly worded sermons will suffice."

"I don't want to burn down a speakeasy," Alexander mutters. "I sort of want to see it, though. It's not far from here; hidden in a bookshop. Usually you need a passphrase or something to get inside those places. And to not look, uh," he glances at Benedict, "like a wounded Treasure Department agent. The priest thing is cool, though," he adds, with a glance back at Ravn.

"Yeah, I probably should give you one, huh?" It's only reasonable, even if Benedict is a little sad about not having two. The dead man's revolver is handed over, then he goes back to his search. "Well, no ID. But we do have fifty dollars. A motel key...room 305, over at the Ocean View. And this note that says to get a briefcase and take it to Io at the club." There's a thoughtful pause. "Dead guy back in the bathroom have a briefcase, Ravn?"

"That scrap of paper probably is the passphrase. Worth a try at least." Ravn glances at himself and winces. "I'm not even Catholic. And no. No briefcases."

He frowns. "Ocean View? That's the Murder Motel, isn't it? Sea View now, officially. Fifty dollars is a lot of money for this time. Sounds like someone paid these assholes to come take that guy out. Maybe we should check out either place. And if it's thug hotel, maybe we should borrow a couple of jackets without holes in, make you look less FBI and me less Rome."

Alexander shrugs to Ravn. "I don't know if Sea View was still open, even under a different name, in the 30s. We could probably ask around, if there are...people. And they don't all try to eat us." He does give a nod to the idea of changing clothes, and moves to stick his head out the door into the hallway.

As he does, all three men feel a shift. It's like the ground heaves just a little under their feet, then resettles. When it does, the world has reasserted itself; the office is immaculate once more. No shattered glass. No bullet holes. Weirdly, even the men's coffee mugs are not where they were set down, but instead are clean, empty, and placed by the coffee machine.

Ravn and Benedict are still bleeding, though.

"Sure. Maybe they happen to have clothes in our sizes." Benedict agrees, because wearing someone else's clothes is far from the weirdest thing that has happened today. And the office shifts, and everything is back the way it was before. Other than the wounds. "Does that....does that mean we're out of the story, now? Or is it just cleaning up behind us?"

Ravn blinks. And then pretty unceremoniously collapses on Alexander's desk chair. "Looks like making the decision to go to the next chapter gets us a break. Don't think you get a choice, Alexander, you're going to get run through this story. Rest of us, maybe we get to go along for the ride."

He doesn't sound thrilled about that. Nor does he sound like it's the end of the world. Maybe if you stick around here for a while it all becomes, well, a day ending in -y.

"I think a trip to the ER is in order, though. You know. All things considered. Not sure what to tell them -- by now I tend to just let the EMT make up something. The Veil makes people rationalise things anyhow. Might as well let it do the work."

"I think Ravn's right. I don't...think it's done. It's just giving us bite sized pieces for some reason." Alexander frowns at the office as he notices that it's cleaned up after them. "My office is weird. But I'll look up the exact address of where the Storm Shelter was, and any info I can about who owned it." He smiles, slightly. "Don't think I'll hear anything about wolf-gangs, but a little knowledge might help."

A quiet nod for the suggestion to just let the EMT decide what happened. "It's easier that way," he admits. "Sorry. That my office tried to kill you."

"Well, if you two are sure..." Benedict agrees at the talk of letting the EMT decide. "It would certainly be better not to have to explain gunshot wounds, especially in my profession." There's a very awkward pause, finally followed by "Sooo....."

"Worth looking into local slang or nicknames, maybe. The Veil can be very literal. If someone was known as Rufus and the Wolfmen or something silly like that, it might very well go with the literal." Ravn picks at the very amateur bandage. "I'll see if I can find anything. Urban legends are kind of in my field, I might strike gold more or less by chance. Tempted to go ask Granny Leigh if she remembers any stories from her childhood -- these guys could be her parents."

"Homo homini lupus est," Alexander murmurs, quietly. He nods to Ravn, although his lips twitch with amusement. "Don't tell her that part. I don't think she'll be happy you suggest her parents were criminals. She'll give you a look." He clears his throat, and lets that awkward pause settle with Benedict's word. Then he grins. "So. You stand out now. All you had to do was get shot by a wolf guy."

"Yeah, I, uh...you saw that, right? You both saw that?" Benedict is coming down off the adrenaline now, and everything is starting to sink in. "I...there was pain and blood and it was like the world shifted and then all of a sudden I had his gun in my hand." He's turning a little pale.

"We both saw that. You're what people like us call a mover. Telekinesis. Manipulating matter." Ravn nods, and glances at his arm. In what other town do you get so used to the idea of getting shot that it's just -- eh, not an arterial bleeding, we'll deal with it in a moment when we're done with the important stuff. "I am too. I'm not very good at it, usually. No idea what happened to that door there."

Alexander nods. "Saw it. Be careful as you test it out," he adds, with a slight frown. "Sometimes there's backlash. If you start to feel dizzy or have a nosebleed, then you'll know where it's coming from. It's not--you won't have an embolism or anything, but it can get like getting a kick to the head." His expression is flicking back and forth between them, worried. "Are you both okay? I mean, other than the gunshots. Not that the gunshots aren't enough!"

"I, uh...that would be why I feel like I'm going to throw up." Benedict agrees, finding something to steady himself on as the backlash continues to wash over him. "Feels like it used to if I got a bad sack in a game. Just...that feeling like my head has been slammed into the grounds beneath hundreds of pounds of defensive lineman."

"I'm in a mood to whine that somehow, this city hates Italian leather jackets," Ravn grouses. "Which means I'm fine, and I'll probably curl up in bed with an anxiety attack and a bottle of whiskey later, but that is indeed later. When I said I see ghosts -- I mean, I thought it was just me seeing blood there, when it started. That's what I mean about me not always realising which is which -- a dream or a haunting, or both. Sometimes it is both. But if this is a haunting, then there's something that wants to tell you something, Alexander. And I guess we just have to sit back for the ride, and find out what it is."

Alexander points to the - currently NOT bloody - bathroom. "Uh, if you need it, Benedict. I can call an ambulance for you both, too. It's an old building. Sometimes things fall down. Don't sue Perdita. She's nice." He considers Ravn's words, nods slowly. "I wonder if something's triggering bits. But if so, I don't know what. I'd stop it if I could, but...the only way out is through." He runs a hand through his hair. "And we got some information about Addison. A little, anyway. Or something wearing her face."

"Thanks. I, uh..." Benedict stumbles off to the bathroom, where he's seen but not heard for a while. Yep, definitely throwing up. Finally he reappears. "Well, breakfast and lunch today were a complete waste of time." He quips, trying to make the best of it.

"My lawyer is getting used to very strange requests coming out of Gray Harbor by now, but even she'd tell me to go take a Xanax if I told her I wanted to sue for damage inflicted by ghost werewolves." Ravn hitches a shoulder, and then instantly regrets doing so.

He throws a sympathetic look Benedict's way as the other man disappears to the bathroom. And then, more quiet as certain sounds ensue from out there, "He seems to be all right. I mean, Addington. Not crazy. Seems solid."

Alexander winces as Benedict stumbles off, and quickly places the call. At least the bathroom is decorated by someone who absolutely plans to need to dig bullets out of themselves in there; it has a full array of legal painkillers, antisceptics, and a first aid kit. He nods, slowly, to Ravn. "He seems good. Nice. Not a bully." His voice is low. "I like him."

When Benedict comes out, he flashes a smile. "Just means you get to treat yourself to a really nice dinner?" He tries! "Um. I'll walk you both out. And nobody dies."

"Yeah. That's, uh, positive thinking. Honestly I'm probably going to go home after the treatment and drink, and try and move the bottles." Benedict admits with a wry, slightly twisted, grin. "Nobody dies. That should be our motto. You know, when we're investigating things together."

"That's a motto I can get behind." Ravn nods his agreement and tries to pull his jacket back on. "Generally just try to avoid getting killed, or having to kill anyone."