2022-02-06 - The Trials and Tribulations of Tommy

They call it the murder motel. The designation is somewhat unfair; murder is in fact not a regular occurrence here. The appearance of the Seaview is just right for a certain kind of movie set. It's the kind of place that appears in a thousand bad flicks -- the cheap motel where you definitely don't want to scan the room with an ultraviolet light source, and it's probably best to not think too hard about the stains in the shower. It's the kind of place that inserted itself firmly into movie culture with the Bates Motel of Psycho and which has owned its position ever since.

The Seaview is not old enough to have starred in a hit movie from 1960. Whether it was built in the early 2000s or renovated in them, it's got that late 1990s look that makes you expect polo shirts with upturned collars, cell phones the size of bricks, and coke sniffing salesmen in pastel coloured shirts and cheap suits. Too late for Miami Vice -- and just a year or two too early for No Country for Old Men.

It is a good place.

The motel sits at the far end of the boardwalk, where tourists not quite ready to fork over the money for rooms at the Casino hotel might stumble in and rent a bed for a night (or for an hour, management does not judge). It's got a jacuzzi that sometimes functions. There are all sorts of reasons someone might end up here at the right (or wrong) time. Maybe it's just walking past at the wrong time (or right time, were you to ask a movie-goer who will now expect to see a body floating face down in the pool, or a drug dealer to flee from a room, competitor dealers in sharp pursuit).

The eating here is excellent.

What's maybe not so normal is the strange sensation of this particular afternoon. It begins as a dawning awareness of a presence; like somebody is thinking aloud, and some of those thoughts are somehow drifting into minds that they did not originate in. They're not bad or frightening thoughts; just little observations from a calm and rational mind going about -- whatever its business is.

It's an awareness of exploring a closed space and looking for something. And whatever this space is, and whatever this something is, both are within the motel, and both are important. For some reason, the thoughts of this mind are spilling out and travelling to the minds of others. There's someone or somebody at the Seaview Motel who is a little concerned but also quite curious. Who cannot contain their own thoughts.

Or maybe this is just some kind of waking dream or coincidence. Maybe the fish in last night's sashimi wasn't as fresh as it says on the label, or it's the season and the droll weather -- fog, snow, drizzle -- that inspires day dreams and fantasies. Maybe it's so boring that one's own mind comes up with interesting little stories, just to whittle away the time until the light returns.

Whatever the cause may be, the Seaview Motel is right there, at the end of the boardwalk. Home to Ariadne Scullin, for the time being. A potential place to ask for a job, maybe, or just somewhere to walk past, to Una Irving. Whichever the cause for a pause --

There has to be a way out, somewhere.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman, largely without ambition or direction, will take her time to find a job (particularly when there's an inheritance that will keep the heat on at least a little while longer). But January has come to an end, and February is well underway, and, well, this can't be put off forever, can it?

The Sea View Suites are a disappointment in that regard: there's not even so much as a maid's job going, and although the woman working reception dutifully accepts the resume the redhead offers, it's pretty clear it is more likely to go in the trash than in some mythical file of people to call on when something comes up.

Una huffs out a desultory breath, and opens her mouth to thank the woman.

She doesn't get that far. Instead of reaching for the appropriately polite-and-professional words, her brain is tricked down a different path - and while the thoughts, the ones manifestly not her own (probably? maybe?), aren't terrifying on their own, their presence... kind of is. She blinks, grabbing hold of the ledge of the reception desk, her fingers grasping for purchase.

(The woman on reception stares.)

It's about the third time she reads over the paragraph about the orca sightings in the Bay in the local online news that Ariadne realizes she's no longer taking in the information. She blinks and scrubs at one eyes, muttering to herself about low blood sugar. A glance at the cheap side-table clock -- the red piecemeal-digital numbers proclaim afternoon, so she'd missed lunch after all. "That explains it," she says to the room as a whole. Well, to Samwise, really, who's sprawled somehow across nearly half of the bed despite his negligible weight. It's mostly legs and nose taking up the space, the barista decides, as she reaches out to smush his Sighthound ear up gently. The dog stretches and then devotes himself to continuing his cat-nap, species notwithstanding.

Setting aside the laptop, the woman pads in her rainbow-argyle fuzzy socks (warm if absolute eyesores) to the bathroom to see about at least brushing her hair before venturing out into the world for food she's going to find in a closet.

"No...?" she says to her reflection, realizing the disjointed logic there. No one's finding food in a closet. But what about a closet now? Somebody needs to find something. Why does she know this. Mincing to the bathroom doorway again, she rubs at one arm as she eyes the door to the hotel room. This had better be low blood sugar playing games and not...something else. She doesn't know if she can handle something else. Still, the unspoken if calm urgency has her slipping on her hard-soled slippers and pulling a hoodie over her head. Never mind a clean ponytail, apparently. "Be right back, buddy," she tells Samwise, who grunts agreement -- sure, human. Making sure she has her room key in her pocket, Ariadne then steps into the hotel hallway and pulls the door shut, looking up and down both ways.

There has to be a way out.

The sensation -- the stray thought -- is not panicky. Methodical would be a better description. There is a problem -- and to every problem there is a solution. One just has to look at it long enough, bat it around a bit, and then find it.

Problem: Enclosed space. Solution: Find exit.

The receptionist seems untroubled; she is either oblivious or indifferent -- there's a show on on the little portable TV, and she's doing her nails even as she politely thanks Una for the interest in a voice that suggests she may be wondering what the ever-loving hell someone from out of town would possibly want with a job at the murder motel. Just, professional courtesy requires her to not ask. "I'll pass your resumé on to Miss Shaw," she promises. Whether Renata Shaw will ever see it is anyone's guess.

Yes, that Renata Shaw. The heiress who for some reason is playing motel land lady in the middle of nowhere. You've read about her in the glossy magazines, no doubt. She has not been seen in town much of late, though; maybe whatever scandal caused her to bail has been sorted out and she's gone back to the glamorous life of -- wherever it was that she came from last year.

There are a lot of locked doors in a motel. The pigeonholes behind the receptionist is full of keys -- the tourist season has yet to begin, and there aren't a lot of rooms actually occupied. So many places to get locked in -- although given how the walls seem almost paper thin, it'd be remarkable to not be able to simply shout for help.

Una straightens, snapping her body back into alignment as she attempts-- tries; fails-- to break away from the thoughts crowding into her head. "Thank you," she manages, with reasonable politeness. "I'll look forward to hearing from her." That is clearly a lie: the redhead plainly has no expectation of that ever happening, but it's the right thing to say, and...

She casts a glance around, unnerved but also curious. Whatever it is that's happening, here, it's got her attention, and perhaps simply walking out the door and continuing on her way is no longer an option.

"Do you mind... er, that is, would it be ok if I used the bathroom while I was here? Please?"

Ariadne wants to call out something like, 'Hello?' or 'Do you need help?', but it likely won't be received with anything beyond weird looks from the motel staff and maybe one of her neighbors (unknown and thank god for it) poking their heads out. This, she wants none of. Nonetheless, the barista continues looking around as if something beyond her physical sight would help her locate the source of this...patient need to escape whatever confinement is...well, confining it.

Finally, she gives in and very softly says, "...hey? Um." Pausing in the middle of the hallway, she takes a moment to reach up and rub at her cheek, tug on one of the drawstrings of the hoodie with her other hand. "So...look, I, uh...folks told me this place is...weird." It takes more courage than she expected and the gut-reaction of knowing she'll probably hate herself for asking this for Ariadne to continue in that same sotto-voce. "Are you stuck?"

At best, she looks like a crazy person -- wonderful. At worst? Something might answer back.

"Down the hallway," the receptionist tells Una and doesn't look to see which way she goes; hypnotised already by her show on the little portable TV on the counter, and utterly disinterested, that one. And why not? It's not the tourist season -- most of the time she just needs to sit here for the motel's few customers to ask for a newspaper or directions to the local laundromat. It's the kind of job that works perfectly for someone who needs a lot of study time to cram undisturbed, or someone whose idea of happiness is drinking a lot of tea, and crocheting to whatever new show is making headlines on social media this week.

And that's how one redhead wanders in on another at the exact right -- or wrong -- moment. Just in time wonder, maybe, who exactly Ariadne's question was directed to. Just in time to

I wish it wasn't so chilly in here. Someone's going to need something in here and then I can slip out. Any moment now.

I suppose I could investigate the smell while I wait.

wonder at the strange chilly feeling; like walking barefoot on a cold floor. The floor is carpeted -- the kind of industrial grey carpet that gets cleaned with a machine and given that it looked dirty from day one, it doesn't matter if it gets a little dirtier. It is definitely not covered in snow or ice. And yet the feet of both women are chilly now, as if cold seeps up from the ground through the soles of their shoes.

"... 'this place', as in this motel, or 'this place' as in Gray Harbor?"

Enter Una, taking off down the corridor quite as if she really does need to pee-- except that she comes to an immediate halt as she spies Ariadne, and her eyes narrow with something akin to recognition; the acknowledgement, perhaps, of a kindred spirit in this Place of Weird.

"And either way: did, uh, you just hear that? Feel that? Tell me you did." Hi.

Ariadne gets a deer-in-the-headlights look and continues standing there in the middle of the hallway as another real, live human being not only hears her basically talking to herself, but replies as well. A blush quickly takes up residence on her cheeks as she mouths silently, attempting to come up with some knee-jerk redirecting kind of comment when it occurs to her: this other woman specifically indicated the motel and then continued to acknowledge the eerie sensation of a second sentience lurking about in Ariadne's head.

"Uh." Hi back. "The thing about being stuck somewhere?" Her feet shuffle up against one another until her own knees touch; she doesn't have to use the facilities, but man, cold toes are the pits. Ariadne seems to realize this sudden alien feeling and glances down at her slippered feet. Her hazel-brown eyes flick back up at the stranger again. "Are your feet suddenly really frickin' cold?" she then ventures, feeling light-headed in relief that someone else is involved in this freaky absurdity.

The voice, the stray thoughts, the presence -- whatever term one might prefer in referring to it -- appears to have no further comment at the moment. The sensation of cold feet remains, though -- as if the floor is cold, far too cold, and there is nothing to protect precious foot soles against the chill.

Something smells absolutely delicious. A faint, tantalising scent, the kind that makes you lick your lips and remember good times with good eating; indistinct, half-fused in reminiscence and nostalgia, indeterminable. It's the kind of scent that piques one's nostrils, intrigues the brain, and makes the taste buds form a union and write political manifestos.

Whatever it is, it smells divine.

And whatever it is, it's very obviously not originating from the drab motel hallway, with its faux-oldfashioned floral wallpaper and industrial grade carpet, and occasional framed poster print of some old Seattle theatre production or other. There is nothing here that might produce tantalising smells. At the very best, the carpet might smell like the industrial cleansing agents that's used on it regularly.

Una's expression turns sympathetic as she takes in Ariadne's response. Despite being dressed with relative formality, clutching a cheap-looking fake leather document envelope, there are hints of the offbeat even so: the purple ribbon that edges lapels and cuffs on her white shirt, and the matching heart-shaped buttons, for instance. And the black boots with their purple laces and fleece interiors that should definitely not be letting in the cold like this.

"Yeah," she agrees, with a glance down at her feet, where her toes are likely wiggling within the boots, arching against the cold. "Yeah, they are. And-- can you smell that? Ok. Something's going on, something weird. And since you can feel it, and I can feel it, my vote is that we stick together, or get the hell out. But I'm guessing you live here, so... maybe the former? Is there a freezer or something somewhere?"

This is take-charge Una. WWED Una.

"Uh, yeah, sticking together would be best," Ariadne agrees after a second. She's gone and stopped fiddling with the ties of her plain navy-blue hoodie in lieu of shoving her hands into her sleeves like a monk. It's a hoodie one size too big, more than likely for comfort than any particular fashion statement. In her grey sweatpants, she's certainly not looking to impress anyone right now. As she turns to look back at her rented room, the twist of hips pulls up the hem of the sweatpants. Observe, the fuzzy rainbow argyle. Truly, she's equipped to handle a freezer now.

As to the freezer: "I...don't know where a freezer would be around here, but maybe the kitchen? I can't be gone long, I left my dog in my room." Ah, Samwise, you convenient reason for not haring off after some eerie second intelligence for hours. She can still be seen to smell the air and make a confused moue. "Sometime does smell good though," comes the cautious admission. For her, it's homemade macaroni casserole with ground beef and so, so much garlic. Her stomach squeak-gurgles. Loudly. Giving her bellybutton one of those annoyed glances, the barista then walks down the hallway towards the other woman, apparently having decided she's real and not some figment of imagination.

"I'm Ariadne. Figure if we're going to go suss out a freezer, we might as well know each other's name," the other redhead explains, giving a weak if true smile.

Does the murder motel have a kitchen? It's probably got something along those lines -- there's a menu in Ariadne's room, something about hot pockets and burritos available on request from the reception. Probably a small assortment of junk food the kind that you nuke in a microwave -- after taking it out of, yes, a freezer. Whether the freezer is large enough to be somewhere you can walk around in -- well, maybe this place sees a lot of hungry tourists during the season.

With the realisation that the floor feels frozen comes awareness, though. A sensation of crushing the surface of whatever it is they're walking on -- it looks like grey carpet, it feels like crisp snow. An urge to shake each foot in disdain, as if the cold is truly offensive. And the desire to find the thing that smells so good.

The food here is good at all times, but this? This is delish.

"Una," says-- you guessed it!-- Una, whose grin is cheerful enough despite the situation they've found themselves in. "You're the new barista at Espresso Yourself, aren't you? I've seen you." The younger redhead is not always the most communicative when she comes in for her fix (not daily, but often enough, and always for the same: plain black coffee), but she evidently does notice faces.

She drops her gaze to her feet again, frowning as she tentatively lifts one foot, then the other. "Ok," she adds. "That's-- a weird sensation. Let's check out this kitchen, I guess. At worst, given this place, if that's not where we need to look, something will happen to point us in the right direction."

Her stomach? It gives a growl of its own.

Ariadne nods confirmation as to the job title. "Yeah, closing shift," she says, then following Una's look to toes. An identical inclination is swiftly followed by this check-in and the barista puts a hand over her mouth to stopper up a nervous titter. "Holy shit," she whispers mostly to herself. Wiggling toes inside the fuzzy slipper socks inside the boot-slippers gives both the sensation of reality and then that bizarre overlay of...snow between her toes. It's cold. Ugh. The grey carpet gets a scuffing from Ariadne, as if she were trying to wipe off the bottom of her slippers and feet in the process.

"I'm all for checking it out, but this whole business about something pointing us in the right direction? I...didn't really sign up for this when I rented a room here," she replies to Una, keeping her voice down in case that front desk receptionist decides to return from Daytime Drivel TV Landia. Her face continues to openly confess that she's fighting the slowly-dawning realization that weird is going to be a thing here. In Grey Harbor. Where she feels she needs to be. Not cool. Her stomach?

It agrees with Una's stomach. Where's the chow?

So good, oh man, this is so good.

Whoever is thinking these thoughts have found the thing that smelled good. They are stuffing their face with it. The sensation of glee is unmistakeable. Best. Snack. Ever.

Wherever the motel kitchen is, it almost has to be through the door behind the receptionist. It's possible that there is a way around on the outside of the building, too -- most houses and offices have some kind of backyard and access to it, after all, no one wants the dumpster sitting on the front lawn.

Windows and doors are probably closed and/or locked. Receptionists are in the way. Choices are hard.

Una casts a sympathetic glance in Ariadne's direction. "Yeah, well," she says. "Welcome to Gray Harbor. This kind of thing... I don't want to say normal, because that implies things I don't particularly care for, but it's definitely not abnormal. And I've only been here two months, but they call this place the 'murder motel', so..." Draw from that what you will.

"Ok," she says. "Do you know where this kitchen is? You have a dog to get back to, and I have more resumes to hand out, and also my feet are cold, not to mention I'm starving, so... let's keep moving."

She's trying not to look too dubious. Trying.

Ariadne too tries not to appear dubious. Maybe with their powers combined, they will look Entirely Not Dubious. Regardless: "If I had to guess where the kitchen was, it'd be probably towards that half of things," and the barista points in the vague direction of the receptionist and front desk. "There's kind of a larger building space that way which I don't think is rooms. But I'm just guessing. I have no idea otherwise. I also had no idea this place was called the 'murder motel', because I'd sure as hell have found somewhere else to stay if I'd known this," she grumps, voice going temporarily flat. "A guy at the coffee shop told me about it. Ravn?"

Still not a perfect pronunciation. If the Dane were here, he might add it to his list of Ways to Mispronounce My Name.

"The guy who wears black all of the time, tall, something to do with academics," Ariadne further expounds. "He also told me about Gray Pond and..." Not ghost lobsters. "The...cray...fish which live there. Annnnd also the body they found there recently. You know what? I'm just going to start calling things 'murder place'. Like, 'murder X'. Today, I'm going to the murder grocery store to get murder pasta, thank you very much. Would you like your coffee murderous today? Oh, well, it's Gray Harbor, everything is murderous here. Hah-hah, inside joke, I know, hilaaaarious."

Ariadne might babble when she's nervous.

The Seaview is a flat two-storey affair, the kind of building with external staircases that grew so popular in the seventies and onward. Resembling nothing as much as a couple of large shoe boxes with the occasional steel staircase and railing, the motel does not offer much in terms of a challenge when it comes to working out which bits are where. There's the rooms, and there's the service area, and behind that, there's presumably some kind of kitchen, however small, some kind of laundry facility, and -- presumably at least? -- some kind of staff area. Unless the receptionist eats at the front desk and the maid wherever she is when she feels like it, anyhow.

Maybe the latter would explain some weird carpet stains and rings on tables and nightstands.

It's not difficult to simply stroll around the building to the fenced-in backyard. A few cars are parked there -- patrons, some of them, most of them probably staff. A couple of doors offer access -- there's even helpful little signs on them, reading Kitchen, Staff Only, and Delivery.

Una's slow nod is evidently in answer to Ariadne's insider knowledge (such as it is) to the layout of the motel. Her snort of laughter, however? That's definitely all about Ravn. "Did he give you the whole Hotel California speech, too?"she wonders, proving pretty conclusively that yes, she knows exactly which black-attired academic who talks about crayfish and lobsters is being referenced.

"It's a bit much sometimes, isn't it?" Una's tone and expression express apparently genuine sympathy. "I personally prefer baking murder cookies, but I'm trying to keep the murder to a minimum, since there's such an overflow already. Don't-- I mean, ok, yes. This town is crazy. Weird and sometimes awful shit happens. But it kind of has a way of working its way into your affections, too." She offers Ariadne a smile. "And we tend to stick together, and that helps too."

She taps a finger to her lips, continuing as if she hadn't just attempted to deliver a pep-talk. "Ok, so. We could try and get past the receptionist-- that's option one. Option two is the service entrances that are presumably around the back, which may be locked-- option two. I don't suppose you know how to pick locks? Ravn's going to teach me, but..." Alas, he has not done so yet.

"No Hotel California speech, but I look forward to it if simply because it's called that, apparently," Ariadne replies, managing a little smirk. She then falls silent, listening while they deliberate how to deal with this weirdness and where to go to deal with it.

She ends up making her hands appear again from inside the sleeves to aid in her shrug. "I have no idea how to pick a lock, cool as that sounds. We can always try the back doors anyways? Maybe somebody's a slob and left one of them unlocked? Humans are humans," she notes, pulling her lips to one side. "Let's start there. I don't feel like dealing with Sally Hansen and whatever brain-nuking nonsense she's watching at the desk. I don't trust it to distract her enough." One of the side doors leading to outside isn't very far. Bolstered by the idea of company -- knowing company by what Una has shared so far -- the barista leads the way.

"If you make murder cookies though, don't forget the murder chocolate chips," she notes drolly, still attempting to inject levity into the fact of her toes feeling like they're cold as hell and the sensation of enjoying some food that's not in her mouth at the moment. Cue stomach growl.

Is the receptionist's name Sally? It might as well be, and the narrator shall henceforth refer to her as such even if it actually says Mary Anne on her birth certificate. She is the archetypal rat trap receptionist, and she is too busy painting her finger nails and gossiping about what Our John said to Our Celia to care much, anyway.

Nowhere on Sally's work sheet does it say 'check that the doors are locked' and hence she has not. The Kitchen door is unlocked -- and so is Delivery. Staff Only is not -- perhaps because that's the door Sally arrived through when checking in for her shift, and locking doors behind her is an ingrained habit. They are the kind of doors with an upper half made from lightly frosted glass, allowing a slightly blurred view inside without actually entering.

Staff Only reveals a hallway in which hangs a number of coats -- one of them Sally's, no doubt. There's nothing exciting about it -- it's the kind of hallway that leads to the reception, no doubt, and to a small office in which the motel's paperwork is done.

Delivery contains laundry bags and crates -- because what a motel exchanges the most of is not food but laundry. Sheets and towels. The Seaview may not be the five-star hotel of the Casino island, but while it's got a pretty meh reputation, it is not a roaches' nest full of rats and meth dealers. It is clean -- just not high end. Heaven only knows by a rich heiress such as Renata Shaw wants to play at running a fourth-grade motel in the middle of nowhere, but it has to meet at least some standards.

Kitchen offers a few into a small industrial kitchen the kind you'd expect to find in a diner, only smaller. Even in the tourist season proper it is unlikely that the Seaview employs a real chef for room service. One gets the impression, though, that various small, pre-packaged meals are available on request, long with what an optimist might call a Continental Breakfast -- couple of sausages, toasted bread, marmalade, orange juice, small bowl of yoghurt, that sort of thing. It would not be a far leap at all, to assume that one of the doors in there lead into some kind of walk-in freezer or cold storage; you don't keep TV dinners for twenty rooms in one fridge, those things do take up some space.

The eating here is great, but I can't feel my toes anymore.

"I won't spoil the spiel, then, but-- I mean, you can probably figure it out just by its name, right?"

Option two it is, and Una seems not unhappy with this, following after Ariadne at an even pace. "She noticed me pretty quick when I came in," the younger red-head confirmed. "Even if she did make me wait until the commercial break to actually acknowledge me. So yeah, maybe this is better. Maybe we'll get lucky. I promise, I never forget the murder chocolate chips. And I never replace them with raisins of sadness, either, because there's nothing worse than biting into a cookie expecting chocolate and--" Alas. Raisins.

Under her breath, as they approach the doors, "I can't feel my toes, either... damn it, that wasn't me. Ok, kitchen, kitchen-- this one?"

"Yep, that one." Ariadne nods agreement towards the door in question, marked KITCHEN. Finding it unlocked, she spares a moment to wrinkle her nose -- not good, not responsible. This motel gets more and more uncomfortable to her by the minute. Regret, such a bosom buddy. The kitchen itself seems sterile enough. There's definitely the feeling of trespassing, at least to the barista, but she recognizes the possibility of claiming to be lost. Maybe the laundry room was this way? Here's hoping no one finds them here.

She pauses by one of the counters, looking around with her hands tucked monk-like back into her sleeves again. Curling semi-numb toes, she ends up staring towards the back. Is that...? It's not a huge door, metal, but it's more than likely by the grade of handle and make something to do with cold.

"Think that's the freezer...?" she asks Una, glancing over at her fellow red-head. Hunger-not-hunger continues to gnaw at her innards. It's unsettling.

It certainly looks like a walk-in freezer, the kind you'll find in cafeteria and diner kitchens everywhere. Not the large kind where bodies of oxen hang from hooks. Nothing so creepy -- just one of those cabinets with shelves on three sides and a door on the fourth, and freezing temperatures. A man could stand in there -- if he kept his arms close to his body. He'd also be visible through the glass half of the door -- one should think.

I'm getting so sleepy. Maybe I should just lie down for a quick nap. Can't hurt.

Una is not enthused by the unlocked door, shall we say, but nor is she especially bothered: she's not, after all, the one who would have to deal with someone not-exactly-breaking in in order to dose the microwave meals with, I don't know, rat poison or whatever. (This is probably a thing she would not be one hundred percent surprised to hear about, were it to actually happen.)

She may just be disappointed: no lock-picking required, nevermind the lack of necessary skills.

"Looks like a freezer to me," she agrees, wrinkling her nose. It takes a deep breath, but then she steps up directly towards the freezer door, and yanks, hard, at the handle. "Hello? Is someone in here? Hello?"

Ariadne is quietly thankful about how her fellow adventurer takes the risk of going to open that freezer door. She's...admittedly nervous that there's an actual goddamn body in there and refuses to be the one to have some frozen-solid hulk of human suddenly collapse inwards at chance of crushed toes. Plus, she'll probably scream and climb backwards over the nearest counter if this happens, truly.

"Hello?" the barista then very quietly echoes of Una, her hands in their sleeves having lifted up to before her chest. They'd be clutched there but for their coverings and she appears one step away from chewing on the sleeves themselves, holding herself very still. Toes are wiggled in her slippers again. She doesn't want to be sleepy, not in the context of cold. It's a horrifying thought. She's a scientist. She knows how this works. Hypothermia kills.

To no one's real surprise, the freezer door is locked. They always are -- and as anyone who has ever worked in some kind of kitchen context will testify, it's not because the boss is afraid that the fried chicken will attempt a jailbreak. It's because some asshole always forgets to close the door properly otherwise, and that costs a fortune in electricity, trying to freeze the whole damn building.

The keys are hanging right there, on the hook. Lock The Door: The Burritos Want Privacy says a hand-written sign above.

The door swings open easy enough. And sure enough, it's a closet freezer, full of cartons of frozen calorie bombs, neatly stacked.

Except for one, anyhow. A carton of burger patties lies open on the floor, several patties chewed on and gnawed at. Something has nibbled bits and pieces off the patties, probably to let them thaw out in the mouth.

'Something' is a young mackerel tabby cat, curled up next to the open carton. It raises its head and blinks, looking a little dazed.

Oh shit.

Surprise? Probably not exactly, but it's also true that Una-- having found no resistance to getting into the kitchen in the first place-- is probably more focused on what might be inside the freezer than resistance on the freezer door. It's jarring, and almost-but-not-quite sends her flying. (That's probably why she's pink cheeked and a little embarrassed when a glance to the side finds, true to form, the keys. "Oh," she says, glancing at Ariadne. Right. Ha. Yes. Keys. Good.

A few moments of fiddling, and then, sure enough, the door swings open. And...

"Oh."

A psychic cat. Because of course.

There's a blink and shrug from Ariadne at the pink-cheeked glance from Una. She confers by this that she didn't immediately notice the keys either. Of course she's curious enough to rise onto her toes and lean to see about what's inside the freezer once the door swings open with its broken seal of air pressure and --

"Oh!"

Is there an echo in here?

On swift slippered feet, she walks over to stand behind and beside Una, her expression deeply concerned. "Geez, you little dork, how the hell did you manage this?" she asks of the...wait. Another blink. "The...with the...my feet are cold, its feet are cold, the burger bits, is this...?" she asks of Una, struggling to make sense of a psychic cat.

The tabby looks up with bright green eyes. A tentative "Mew?" It shivers.

Cold. Sleepy. I'm gonna get up now. And walk out. Right. In just a moment. Just gotta rest my eyes a moment.

It yawns and tries to curl further up on itself, tuck its cold little toe beans deeper into its stripy fur.

Cats don't have teeth like that. Or well, they do -- but not quite so many. There's teeth enough in that little pink maw for at least three cats.

For a moment, it's adorable. "Look at it!" Una begins to enthuse, never mind the psychic weirdness. The yawn, and the curling and the toe beans and then--

"... Oh what the fuck. You see that, don't you." Una can't quite tear her gaze away from the cat and its teeth to glance at Ariadne for confirmation, but it's not as if there's much else she could be referring to.

"Psychic cats have teeth, who knew." Her voice is shaky.

"Uhhhhhhhhh."

Smart answer, Ariadne. She too took a gander at that impressive set of dentition and finds her hands balled up into sleeve-covered fists under her chin. "Soooooooo...the last thing I saw to have teeth like that lived on the bottom of the Sound and needed gloves to be handled. Do you think maybe a box...? Like we can shoo it into a box? Because unless we find knife-proof gloves around here, it's a cute little...thing, but no-nose-goes for trying to pick that thing up."

Because it's a thing, not a cat -- no cats have teeth like that. Or talk inside others' heads.

Ariadne still squints at the creature. "So...cat. You can't sleep here, buddy. You're going to turn into a cat-sicle and that's just depressingly morbid, we can't have that." Get up already, floats through her head in silent exasperation.

Why are people always so noisy, good grief.

The presence lingers -- and looking at the cat, there is little doubt left that it is indeed the source of that unwanted mental intrusion. There's nothing hostile in the feline thoughts; merely a full belly and the need for a nap, and exasperation that people are making a fuss when all the cat wants is to curl up and try to warm its little pawsies on its own tummy.

It recognises that tone of voice. It's the kind of human voice that politely asks you to get up and leave. And if you don't, next up is the hand in the scruff of the neck and the toss. Or worse, the boot up the backside. The cat yawns.

Look at my teeth, human.

Then it stands and arches its back in a luxurious stretch before finally (finally!) making to meander past both women to plop its butt down in the hallway.

I'm cold. Why is there never a warm and cosy ray of warm sunlight when you need one?

"A box?" Yes - yes that's exactly what they need (because Una, sure as anything, is not touching anything with that many teeth either, and everyone knows how cats are about boxes and, and, and)--

Of course, the cat, as cats are wont to do, makes up its own mind before there's any opportunity to get to the end of that thought, let alone actually obtain aforementioned box.

Una exhales, giving Ariadne a wary glance. "Yes, we've seen your teeth. Thanks, cat," she says. "There's no sun, but I'm sure there's somewhere a little warmer for you to curl up, now that you've eaten. Somewhere that isn't a freezer that is, by definition, cold. Maybe even a pillow?"

"No kidding." Having stepped around Una to stand at the other redhead's side, Ariadne now has her sleeved hands folded under her chest again, giving the cat one of those expressions equal parts uncertainty and disapproval -- the disapproval mostly for the lack of survival instincts. "I dunno about a pillow, but like she said, somewhere not a freezer. How did you get in here anyways?"

Since the door was unlocked, sure, but entirely closed when the humans entered the kitchen not so long ago.

Ariadne blinks. "Wait. How did you get into the freezer too? The -- door couldn't have been left open. It doesn't feel cold enough in here for that." Now the cat with the nightmarish teeth is getting a more leery look from the barista.

The cat cants his little head and yawns again, displaying entirely too many teeth -- there's no threat implied but even so, it's a somewhat unsettling sight. Then he blinks, the feline equivalent of a shrug. A cat comes. A cat goes. Does anyone ever really know why, or how?

Wouldn't it be nice if the humans decided to get the cat a nice, warm corner and a saucer of milk?

A cat hopes. A cat seems firmly convinced that this is what humans are for. A cat is very much a cat, one might argue -- if one is willing to ignore the teeth, and the way feline thoughts seem to spill into human minds.

Sally in the Reception was eating her lunch. Maybe she got something out of the freezer to nuke. Maybe some little grey shadow slipped in without her noticing because she was busy telling her friend on the phone about the date she was on last night or the dress she saw for sale, and the male lead of her daytime show.

Her name isn't actually Sally. And as far as a cat is concerned, her name is 'oh, look, open door', with all the potential an open door has to an alley cat.

It takes Una a moment, and then she adds: "And the door was locked. But-- it's fine. He," she hasn't checked, of course, but evidently 'he' feels correct, "clearly can't have been in there for too long." Despite the teeth, evidently she's finding something in the cat just a little endearing: maybe it's the shrugging blink, maybe it's actually the teeth (this seems less likely, but then, this is Gray Harbor, and we get used to weird things fast in this town).

"Ok," she says. "I'm going to close the freezer," which she does, and locks it too, because it's always better to leave things as you found them, right? The leftovers from the cat's meal... well, maybe she's forgotten about them. "And let's see about-- there'll be milk in the fridge, right? Hopefully not that awful long-life stuff, but actual milk. You probably don't want to stay in the kitchen, cat, because once that door's closed again, you'll get stuck, and I'm pretty sure you don't want that."

A pause. "You have a dog, you said."

"I do have a dog, yes, Samwise. I can't take this little guy in," Ariadne replies to Una, brows knitted. She's busy watching the cat act and be, for all sakes and appearances, like a cat -- except for those teeth, my god, they're from a sandworm or something. "And I hate to be a fuddy-duddy, but milk's probably not best for him. Pasteurized milk tends to not sit well for cats or dogs. Granted, if he's been eating god-only-knows-what for most of his life, maybe he can stomach it."

The barista appears to have also decided the cat is a 'he', though watch her be wrong and not be terribly surprised.

"She's right though. I know you want to be someplace warm, but this isn't the best place." Una gets one of those contemplative side-eyes. "Someone's going to realize you're in here and chase you with a broom. Or call animal control." There's a very bland, scholastic corner of her mind wondering why she's talking to the cat like it'll understand concepts like 'animal control'. That corner of her mind is also thinking about shrieking. This is a very vivid hallucination -- or the cat is talking in her head. Neither are comfortable options.

Someone walking in to see two grown women having a conversation -- not with each other but with a cat might lead to some bizarre assumptions, most of which would probably go along the lines of they're both crazy, somebody get those redheads a date, a life, holy cow, ladies, it's too early to become crazy cat ladies, have a little self respect.

Good thing that both hear the door open behind them. And here's Sally (whose actual name is Lynn): "Are you lost?"

The question is probably directed at Ariadne who is actually staying at the hotel. The look Una gets is certainly questioning: It takes effort to get lost like this on one's way out -- all around the building and in another door. Kudos for effort?

If there was anything worth stealing here, maybe Lynn would worry what the hell they're up to. As it is, she just breaks into a smile. "Oh, there you are, Tommy! I swear, that cat always wanders off! He belongs to my neighbour, I think." She pauses. "I'm actually not sure his name is Tommy. But I call him Tommy because he's a tom cat, see?"

"I... did not know that." An experienced cat-(or dog-) owner, Una is clearly not.

The sound of the door makes her freeze, hastily turning on her heel to see... Sally-actually-Lynn. Her cheeks turn pink. Clearly, yes, Una is exceptionally good at getting lost.

Maybe it's not necessary, given 'Tommy' has capture Lynn's attention, but the younger redhead ventures, "I ran into my friend Ariadne, and-- we heard, uh, Tommy. He must've gotten trapped in here, so we came to try and rescue him... I'm so glad he has a home. We were worried."

Right, Ariadne? Right?!

"We were definitely worried," agrees Ariadne, blinking at the sudden appearance of the front desk minder. "We had to rescue him. Couldn't leave a cat trapped in here, that would've been awful of us." Also truth. Her hands haven't appeared from inside their sleeves, but her shoulders seems to have relaxed by an amount. That Sally-actually-Lynn knows who this cat is as well as names him means there's some sort of ownership and, hence, assumedly, responsibility for the cat not belonging to either redhead. Whew.

Samwise would have freaked OUT to have the motel room be SUDDENLY CAT. Known for his playful enthusiasm, Ariadne winces a little to think about semi-feral cat claws to the dog's nose. Yikes.

"But yeah, my friend Una here showed up without telling me. Girl, you gotta text beforehand, seriously," she then eyebrows at Una. RIGHT, UNA?!

Sally Lynn claps her hands; her nail polish is sparkly pink and perfect (she has a lot of time at that front desk). "Poor little Tommy. I'll just take him back to the office. He can nap on the couch and I'll drop him off after my shift. They're such adorable cats. There's three of them -- they're siblings, and they always get into all the wrong places. It's like, they have a knack for it or something. Dahlia will be glad I brought him back!"

Sally née Lynn is not the brightest star on the night sky, but there's certainly no malice in her. Poor lost kitty is going home.

Tommy doesn't seem to mind too much, either, when he's picked up.

I'm going to find a way back into that treasure trove.

Oh god. There are three of them?

Una-- just barely-- manages to control her urge to blanche, grimace, stare, or otherwise.

"My bad!" she tells Ariadne, her voice artificially trilling: why yes, she's exactly the kind of girl who does kooky things! Of course she is! "As long as Tommy-- adorable Tommy!-- is safe... We'll, uh, get out of your way."

She does, however, give the cat a Look. Stay out.

Three of them. Ariadne purses her lips, brows lifted. Oh my. A glance over at Una quickly shifts to a flatter, less amused look at the cat -- Tommy, whatever his name is. Not funny.

"Yeah, we'll get out of your hair. Thanks for taking Tommy back. We weren't sure if he was the kind of cat to let us pick him up." Because furry Jaws. "Here, let's go. I need to find another pair of socks. My toes are freezing still." Subtle flat look at the cat. Ariadne then makes to step around the far side of the counter, putting it between herself and both Lynn as well as the cat Tommy. Precautions, people -- that, and this entire affair has her either wanting a long, hot shower or a stiff drink or maybe both, somehow, in some order.

She needs into that place over on Sycamore ASAP. A long bath with a bottle of red wine sounds amazing right now.

"You can just walk out through the front desk area," Lynn offers and leads the way with a helpful smile and a mackerel tabby slung over one arm. "Tommy" doesn't seem to mind too much. He clearly knows the woman, and probably makes a habit out of conning saucers of milk or bits of lunch sammich out of her. Heaven only knows where she finds the courage to toss him about like an ordinary young cat, given the teeth on him. Maybe some people just love cats that much.

"Thanks!" enthuses Una, though even a fleeting glance at her face will put a lie to the enthusiasm.

She may have already forgotten the little untruth about her friendship and visit with Ariadne, because as soon as they've passed through into the reception area, she seems at a loss to do anything but move towards the door. Before she's gone, though, she pauses to glance back at Ariadne, her expression-- and the quick bob of her head-- some kind of acknowledgement to this shared wtfery. This town, man.

But what better way to bond with new people than... cats with teeth.

Out into the reception area they go and Ariadne too seems to be rusting through a decision. That head bob is returned with a grimace and nod, a shrug. The weird -- it happened -- they survived it -- now what. Glancing back over her shoulder to make sure no Lynn plus toothy-cat is lurking, she then does an awkward 'wait' kind of gesture towards Una. Behold: the hands! They have appeared again!

"Hey, um...thanks for tagging along, Una. That was...really...really weird," the barista says nearly sotto-voce. "Did you...look, I said you were supposed to text me and I feel like kind of an asshole for saying that and having it be a total lie after we just survived what could have been something, like...reeeeeeally freaky -- not that it wasn't, but. Still. You seem like you kind of know what's going on and I'm new here, sooooo...did you want my phone number in case you do need to text me about something?"

Hands! A 'wait' gesture! Una responds to these, clutching her document envelope beneath one arm (it's been there this whole time, promise) and giving Ariadne a smile that has an edge of wryness.

"Welcome to Gray Harbor?" she murmurs back in response, though the quick nod there confirms it: really weird, whatever she wants to say otherwise. "Not an asshole, but yes: give me your number, and I'll text you and then you'll have mine. I've only been here a couple of months myself," did she mention that already? She probably did. "And it's... not easy, sometimes. It helps when you know people."

A pause. "Have you... Dreamed yet?"

One can see concern flicker through Ariadne's features at that first response.

Welcome to Grey Harbor. Everybody keeps saying that like it's some curse. Her features smooth after the confirmation of accepted number is spoken and she sighs, fishing her cell phone out of her hoodie kangaroo-pocket.

"Uh." Reflected light from the cell phone screen bounces off of her chest as she pauses, blinking at Una. "Like...normal dreams or you're talking about something more...portentous?" the barista decides as the appropriate descriptor for these Dreams. Capital D. She can somehow tell by the subtle emphasis put on the word. Her thumbs still quickly bring up the text app and linger.

Una's phone comes out, too, though she doesn't quite manage to activate it (it's an older model: no facial recognition, no automatic lighting up). She hesitates. It may, just possibly, look as though she's regretting bringing up what she's just brought up.

Still, despite casting a glance over her shoulder at Lynn (who is thankfully not paying them any attention), she chews on her lip and then explains, "Right-- more portentous. Good word. They're... real, for want of a better word. Fucked up things out of people's subconsciouses, or just... random things. Adventures. Generally you end up drawn in with other people, and go through some shared experience. My roommates and I, for instance, we were aid workers in Africa."

It's a lot to say, sotto voce, but Una manages. "I mention only because... it seems to happen a lot, here, and it's probably better to know something about it before going in. Because they're real."

Real, Una says, and it makes a wariness come into the barista's features. She still listens, thumbs hovering over the touch screen of her phone. Some shared experience. A part of her wants to ask what drugs are being used here because it sounds like some form of lucid acid trip with friends.

"So...when you say 'real', you mean, like...what. You come out of them with bruises if you manage to knee a table...?" the redhead asks of the other, brows knitted. That bottle of wine is sounding more and more delightful as the seconds pass here.

Wine may not even be enough.

Una hesitates-- and then she nods. "Yeah," she agrees. "Exactly that. You're actually there, so if you get... hurt, that's for real. But equally, sometimes it changes reality, too. I know how to drive, and shoot, because of a Dream." (Not well, in either case, to be fair, but that's not the point, is it?)

"Ravn knows more about this stuff than I do, but... that's part of the whole Hotel California speech, I guess. Leaving this town would be the smart thing, but none of us ever seem to. I don't want to scare you, just..."

Just what? 'Terrible things may happen to you, but don't be scared!'

"Noooooooo, no-no-nonono," Ariadne begins and then cuts herself off. What started as a polite reassurance almost slipped into one of those Freudian denial blurts. Ahem. "It's okay, you haven't scared me." Lies. But saying it aloud is helpful. "I'm being forewarned of potential crazy which is better than just being subjected to potential crazy." Like the cat, she does not say aloud. It's already being parsed away as explainable, instinct, a little voice in her head which led her in her boredom to check something out and that something turned out to be a cat. No big.

Her phone screen lights up again as she touches it. "If I run into Ravn again, I've got questions for that man." It almost sounds like a threat of interrogation. "But here, my number is..." And she rattles off the digits for Una. "A-r-i-a-d-n-e, and Scullin's the last name. S-c-u-l-l-i-n."

Una does not look entirely convinced by Ariadne's reassurance which, to be fair, is probably not unreasonable. Before responding, however, she dutifully unlocks her phone and takes down the number-- and sends a quick text in response, just to confirm that she's got it in right. "Irving," she adds. "Una Irving."

Then, after an intake of breath and an exhale, quick and sharp:"I--" Another pause. "Right. Exactly. It's better to be prepared than not. I'd hate for anyone to do something stupid in a Dream without knowing. And... I think you do generally know it's a Dream. Or you think it's real and you're someone else, which is a whole different-- Well. It's a trade-off, though. It's nice... belonging somewhere. With a group of people."

"I mean, it sounds like lucid dreaming to me," Ariadne agrees to the second interpretation of a Dream. She's a scientist at heart. Things can be qualified and quantified. It still sounds like a bad drug trip, but maybe she can avoid by just...not...doing any of the drugs around here. Her phone goes off, ping, and she adds Una plus Irving into her phone book. The notes under the number are as follows: red hair, met at motel, Tommy cat with too many teeth. Perfect.

Away the phone goes and the barista sighs heavily. "I suppose it would be nice having people around in the middle of something like that. Taking on a lucid dream alone seems like kind of a dicey prospect."

"I admit, I'm not sure I know enough about lucid dreaming to be sure, but-- there's definitely something to it. I think." Definitely. She thinks. Una's not terribly experienced with any of this, and sometimes it shows, despite her attempts to be helpful.

"It helps," she agrees. "Different people, different skills. Multiple heads, instead of just one. And... knowing that other peopele are real, and being able to hold on to that." Her own phone is tucked back into her pocket, one hand still holding on to it while the other adjusts her envelope. "And in general, when weird things happen. It's nice having people. You've got my number now; I can't promise I know answers to all the possible questions, but if you need to talk about shit over beer or... tequila, for that matter, reach out."

"I...really appreciate it, Una." Surprised to hear this much emphasis slipping into her voice, Ariadne clears her throat and nods. "I dunno about tequila, the stuff is nasty, but a nice dark beer or two? Sure." Because two dark beers are more than enough to turn the barista into a giggling puddle. "You can tell me about these...Dreams you've had. I can get more forewarned and all that." Her smile appears after she tries for it, a bit thin but there nonetheless.

"I'm going to get back to Sam now, he's probably wondering where I am. You take it easy in the meantime, yeah?" she wishes of her fellow experiencer-of-the-weird.

"Oh good, you're a beer drinker." This apparently makes Una happy, and her smile-- warm and reassuring, despite the seriousness of their topic of conversation-- acknowledges, without drawing too much attention to, Ariadne's appreciation. Quieter, and more serious: "Any time. It really was good to meet you."

Straightening, she adjusts (again) her envelope, and gives the other woman a hasty nod. "You too. Thanks for--" Well, you know.

Cats with teeth. Enough said.