2022-03-23 - Morning After Hell

(TXT to Ravn) Una : So... I have coffee and I have cinnamon buns and I have a porch. And I'm not saying you need to come and help me with all of these things, but I am alerting you to their existence in case you're vertical and up for company.

(TXT to Una) Ravn : I have a massive hangover and a breath that could probably wilt a sunflower at ten paces. Coffee might make it less lethal. Let me take a detour through a shower, be right there.

(TXT to Ravn) Una : Why do this not surprise me. Ok, see you soon.

True to her word, Una's taken up residence on the porch, curled up with feet tucked beneath her in one of the big rattan chairs that sits out there. There's a very good chance that she's not slept yet, given the dark shadows lurking beneath her eyes, but she has definitely showered and changed, even if that means 'into clean lounging pyjamas' and not actual clothes. Her hair's still damp, post de-tangling, and though there's a plate with warm, gooey cinnamon rolls sitting on the table in front of her, it's her bowl-sized mug of coffee that she's focused her attention on: coooooofffeeeeeee.

Contrary to ominous undertones, the Ravn that appears on Una's porch twenty minutes later does not look like death warmed over. A careful inspection might reveal his skin tone to a shade paler than usual, the eyes a little dark as if he'd perhaps sat up late night; apart from that, still-wet hair and the usual turtleneck and blazer ensemble reveals nothing. Ravn, it seems, is one of those people who carry and conceal a hangover very well. Probably because it's not all that uncommon a challenge where he is concerned.

He strolls up and makes zombie grabby hands for the nearest coffee mug. "What. A. Night, though. Ugh. Did you get that poor girl to talk? Coffee. Coffee. I was just about to eat ours out of the tin, add water later."

Naturally, there's a coffee cup waiting for Ravn (and equally naturally, it's as over-sized as Una's is), with a coffee pot waiting beside it.

Una looks up from hers to study Ravn a moment, taking in those minute acknowledgements to the night before and most likely categorising them as 'unfair'. She looks like death warmed over, and she didn't even drink her way out of it! "A little, not a whole lot. She's not a happy camper. What a fucked up introduction to this world, right? Ava took her home, eventually. I was going to text her later to see how that went, but..."

But Una's not yet ready to engage with that.

"Yeah." Ravn plonks down on the chair bonelessly. Long fingers curl around the coffee cup as if it was sacrosanct to his survival. "That's one hell of a way to get tossed into the deep end of the pool. Makes you wonder how often that happens -- how many missing kids and teen suicides aren't actually crimes or suicides. Kid like that, no way to tell what's coming, how to handle it."

He shudders. That's a nightmare right there. Don't even need the visuals to feel sick to the stomach.

The Dane dismisses the thought. There's a time for everything, and it's bad enough as it is. "Looked like they got all three of us good this time. You looked about as bad as I felt and I'm pretty certain I didn't cut a flattering figure either."

"They'd be easy prey," Una supposes, sounding as if she'd like to be thinking through literally anything else. "All those teenage emotions. Hormones. I mean--"

She breaks off, her mouth twisting into something that's not a smile, but maybe the bastard step-child of one. "Yeah, it got us all good. And I'm usually... I mean, most of the time I'm pretty unflappable, you know? I worry too much about things, but I don't freak out. But this time I did. They knew exactly what to do to really dig in and get us."

Ravn draws a hand over his face with a tired expression, and then nods. "They really did. I'm usually better at -- well, containment. They dug into our most primal fears. For me, being a child who's not quite fitting in, who doesn't live up to my parents' expectations. Being a disappointment. Being weird. All of it things I can distance myself easily enough as an adult -- but on that level, you're not an adult, you're a terrified child."

He reaches very tentatively for a cinnamon roll. Most of it is probably going to end up just picked apart on the plate; but the fact that he even tries says a lot about Una's baking skill.

One day, Una may even come to terms with the fact that Ravn even trying her food is a compliment, and that the not-eating of it is not an insult; it's going to take time. For now, she's just not going to watch the desecration, because it's easier that way.

"Mmm," she agrees, staring out over the lawn. "And for me, my mom just... not understanding. And that hit particularly hard, this time, because she actually really doesn't, and literally proved it to me on the weekend. So it hit on that, and on all the fears that go with it."

Beat. "Fucking nightmares. We're going to have to take them down. Because if we don't..."

The next kid it targets may not be so lucky.

"Not getting any argument from me on that. Those things need to be shoved right back into Petra's circle where they came from. And if you can make out the imprint of my boot on their ass for a decade to come, fine by me." The Dane all but growls.

He schools his face back into a less angry expression and sips his coffee. Bliss in a cup, this. "I think -- parents not understanding is a commonly recurring theme in this town. And they can't -- because telepathy isn't real, faith healing isn't real, and making things float like a Jedi is not real. Even if we somehow prove it to them, the Veil makes them rationalise it all away. And the easiest rationalisation is that we're the ones that's broken somehow."

It's been a long night. There was some more explaining in the car about thing, with Katie being mad about powers that she doesn't even want. Thankfully, with the Veils' help, there's no doubt that the parents will buy the sleepwalking excuse for how the Doctor just so happened to find their daughter outside at nearly four in the morning. But, that did mean that there was no more sleep to be found for Ava, who has busied herself in other ways. Mostly work, research, and now, getting back from a very long run. It's been a little while since she's been able to thanks to her ankle, so she's taking advantage of full flexibility again.

She spots the pair on the porch, and there's a strange look that flickers across her face for a moment before she raises her hand in greeting. "You two doing okay?" She starts to move across the lawn, getting closer. "I've been thinking about what Katie said last night. You're both going to need healing if there's something tagging along with the physical injuries from that nightmare."

"That almost makes it worse, because my mom, theoretically, knows it is real, but I think she's blocked it out of her mind, or just refuses to deal; I'm not sure. Though... I guess it's arguable if that is worse or not, really, right? Frustrating, but not the same as not being believed, maybe." Una's of two minds on that, sitting on her rattan chair on the porch, all curled up. She sets her coffee down, slinking forward to claim one of the cinnamon rolls (one that she will eat, even if she ends up being the only person who does, properly).

She's still mid-reach when Ava approaches, and for a moment her stance is very 'rabbit caught in the headlights'; and then that fades, and she's able to give the doctor a brief, tired, rueful half-smile. "Hi Ava," she says, tiredly. "You want some coffee? I can get another mug. I'm-- I'd forgotten about that."

And that stops her progress towards cinnamon roll deliciousness, so that instead she can reach behind her shoulders, and rub, uncomfortably, at the bruise she can feel (even if she's probably not actually seen it).

"I was thinking I'd ask Kinney later," Ravn murmurs. "To be honest I'd -- also kind of forgotten about it. Everything kind of became Jack Daniels at some point last night. I didn't want to waste good bourbon on just making myself pass out. Are you okay?"

Ava wasn't there for the attack on the bridge. But she was there for the aftermath, and the aftermath is sometimes just as rough. Or even rougher when one realises the consequences -- such as say, that the high teen suicide rate in the western world could have a reason, and that reason came out of a hole in your lawn.

Ava waves off the offer for coffee. "I've had about a thousand cups since the first one you gave me this morning, and I don't want to put you out. Thanks though. I'm pretty sure any more and I'll be more coffee than person." Her eyes stay on Una as the redhead rubs the back of her neck. "I already used my heal for the day on Katie, but if there's someone else you trust, ask them. I honestly don't want you going back to bed with whatever that extra little hijacker is still attached to you. I can be here at midnight if you can stay up that late if you can't find someone else?" she offers.

Confusion touches her face. "Me? I wasn't in the nightmare. Why wouldn't I be okay?"

"I can ask Jules," says Una, uncertainly. "I don't know how much about her power, and I know it won't be high powered, the way you are, but-- well, we'll give it a go. I'm not sure I'll be sleeping anytime soon, anyway."

She lets her hand fall from her neck, or perhaps, more accurately: she forces her hand away from her neck, and goes back to reaching for that cinnamon roll, breaking a piece off of it once she has it on a plate and within reach.

"It was hard going. With Katie. It's... it's just been a shitty few weeks, hasn't it. With one thing and another."

"I guess I forget how often a doctor will have to deal with some kind of trauma," Ravn amends. "I've sometimes wondered how you cope. I'd be struggling hard to not take it all back home from work with me. I guess you learn to put up barriers or you get swept away to sea."

He toys with the cinnamon roll. "That poor kid. Sometimes I am grateful I came into my power before I was old enough to learn that magic isn't real."

"Cope." Ava says it with a small laugh. "Um. Exercise helps me. Research, getting out of my own head. Friends, usually, but I pretty much lost contact with all of them when I moves away, so it's been a little rough, and pretty in my head." She frown at that and sets her hands at her hips, looking down at her feet. "But, I've been dealing with this stuff since I was a child. It's kind of always been a part of my life, I guess. Or, as long as I can really remember, anyway."

"I really feel bad for Katie. Neither parent having it? That's going to be a pain in the ass for her. But yeah, these past couple of weeks have been a wild ride."

Una's brown-eyed gaze rests on Ravn for long moments, her expression quizzical, as if she's trying to remember something, but coming up short. Trauma will, of course, do that to you; and anyway, it wasn't as if she really saw what he did with his power.

"Well," she says. "You've got us." Not, of course, that either Una or Ravn is currently a poster-child for 'working through trauma' or 'not compartmentalising like whoa'.

She supposes, then, breaking off another piece of her cinnamon roll, "At least Katie knows, now, that there are adults out there who believe her. She may not want to know that, because it means it's all real and she can't pretend otherwise, but... she knows. That's probably more than a lot of kids have."

"Yes." Ravn's reply to Una's observation is short and astute. Katie will not be the only kid in town who hangs around the community centre on Spruce Street for reasons of that nature. Learning one step at a time that there are others like them, working out how things work. Telling others like themselves that there is one place where at least some of the adults also -- know things.

Some of those kids in the toddler play groups, the preschoolers, some of them have eyes that have seen far too much. He thinks about Alexander Clayton, a long time ago, talking about how his toys used to come alive at night and try to eat him.

Then he shakes his head. "It's not -- even that wild recently. For me, I mean. Since HOPE opened, this is my normal. We're an arse pain to the Them, and they remind us, regularly, that they can break us."

Ava offers Una a brief smile and a nod. "Thanks. I appreciate that. I'm here to talk, too, if you need it. You both seem pretty rattled about what you went through. I'm not therapist, but I can promise doctor confidentiality will carry over into friendship talks as well."

"They can break us. But then they'll have to toys let to play with. So they won't. And they know that we know it. Which puts them in a hell of a spot, now doesn't it?" Ava points out with narrowing eyes. "I don't know what that means just yet. But it has to mean something beneficial for us in the long run."

Una can give out offers to listen, but can she accept them? Jury's still out, because aside from a quick nod, delivered with complete lack of eye contact, the redhead does not respond.

That may even count as a 'no'.

"I was sort of working under the assumption that... well, breaking us would be bad, because we'd stop being useful to them. But I'm not sure I'm convinced of that. They may not deliberately intend for us to be broken, but if we are... there's still power there. And there's always more where we came from."

Beat. "And there I am, just having tried to reassure Della that, no, it's fine, she doesn't need to freak out. It's not so bad."

"You have to tell her that. What else are you going to tell her? Life is shit and then you die? Might as well put the noose around her neck yourself, then. Besides, life isn't shit. We have a lot of influence ourselves over what we do, what we let ourselves get dragged into. We could have not agreed to keep an eye out for those nightmares. We could have refused to interact with the faerie circle. We could have taken one look at Katie and walked away. It's all about choices and consequences."

Ravn draws a deep breath and refills his coffee cup. There are dark circles under his eyes, no matter how much a cold shower has tried to erase them. "Sorry. I don't -- buy that life here is hell. It's rough and sharp and sometimes quite awful, but the good makes up for it. You win some and you lose some. This one was rough. The next might be hilarious."

There may always be more where we came from. There's no guarantee of that. Not even for them. One of the things I'm studying in my bio mapping. Or trying to, anyway. If I could only get a long on the Veil side that I could get to and from." She sighs. "Now that would be a dream." Ava frowns. "I know. That's weird. Sorry."

She runs a hand along her pony tail. "It's not so bad. There are some amazing things that come with this life. Experiences that nobody else will get to live. Some of them are terrifying, absolutely. But still-- I got to pet a dinosaur, and fix its boo boo. How many people can say that? We got to spend time in the jungle, and it was beautiful despite the rest of the situation."

Something slumps in Una's shoulders, likely a gesture of acknowledgement that she does know Ava and Ravn are right, and that it's lack of sleep and the remains of emotional trauma that are tinting her vision to something rather the opposite of rose-coloured. Even so, there's a mulish pull to her mouth when she says, sighing, "I know that. All of that. And it's not that I want to give up and stop fighting. I'd just like to feel, just briefly, like we win sometimes."

Last night, apparently, does not count as a win, though it very clearly was.

In a not-subtle attempt to deflect attention, Una asks, "Bio mapping? You want to figure out whether there are genetic markers for this?"

"I know people who claim it's possible to walk in and out," Ravn murmurs. "I mean, I've seen people open doors in Dreams, but it is also possible outside of them. You need a mover with enough power to draw the Veil aside for you step through. Supposedly there's a city on the Other Side just like this one, except not quite. I've always wanted to go see for myself but I never had the opportunity."

His attention shifts back from wondering what a Veil Harbor would look like. "I have no idea whether there are any markers that modern science can identify. But I'll come in for blood work if you want. That's certainly a small sacrifice to make in the name of science."

"I do want to see if there's genetic markers. I want to see if the Veil alters our DNA, or if there's something in our DNA that makes some of us more likely to gain these abilities more than others. I want to see things through the lens view." Ava bobs her head. "I've been working on it for a while. But it's tricky because I have to keep a lot of data in my head because things tend to get rewritten or 'lost'." she airquotes the word lost with a frown. "You know how they don't like things to be documented."

There's a head bob for Ravn. "That'd be great. I have Conner coming in too. His eyes lit up when I told him what I was working on. I think he would have given me a pinky finger for science if I said it would help."

Distraction! And it's a good distraction, too, because Una's frown has turned from an unhappy one into a much more interested one: thoughtful, too. "I knew about the doors," she says, picking off another piece of her cinnamon roll. "But I've only seen them used in Dreams-- and just once, really, with Kailey. But the whole city?" That's new information and... there it is. Dread and disgruntlement fading-- though not disappearing altogether-- in the light of new, interesting, and (dare we say it) exciting information.

"Della wanted to know if it was pre-determined from birth, or if we... develop things based on things that happen later. Well - sort of. I'm extrapolating. But it's an interesting question, even if... well, no, they probably won't let you actually find out. But it'd be so interesting to know, anyway."

"I do want to know," Ravn agrees because he too would much rather talk about potentials and maybes than about the kids they don't get to in time to rescue. "I know there's a city hall over there. And you can get in touch with it, in a manner of speaking. There is a mail box in city hall on our side, that goes to someone over there -- we call her the Revisionist. I wrote her once -- we say 'her' but, I don't know if she's even a her or an it or a they. I wouldn't do so lightly because she can literally rewrite reality. Not rationalise -- rewrite. But it's possible, and it lends credit to this idea that there is a mirror world on the other side."

"I kind of need to see this city not, I'm not going to lie. That sounds like something worth visiting before I die. At least once in my life." Ava tilts her head. "We have a mail box that leads to their mail box? That's some weird stuff right there. Even with all that coffee I've had, that might not be enough coffee."

There's a glance towards Una with a small smile. "It would be neat to know if it's predetermined or not. Or if it's something that just happens because you're exposed to too much stuff down the line later. One you end up feeling responsible for. The other one, it's not your fault at all, right? It was always meant to be!" Or something. She blows out a breath. "Okay, I really have to take a shower, but promise me you will both see someone about healing. I will check in before midnight in case either of you haven't found someone. Make sure you're both good before you sleep."

She gives a little nod before lightly jogging off towards 1 Oak.

Una pauses, and perhaps it means her mind's going a mile a minute, and perhaps it's just that she's tired and deep thoughts are more difficult. "Thanks, Ava," is what she ends up saying, waggling some fingers after the doctor-- it's clearly a thought that is more distracted than not.

When she glances back at Ravn, it's to say, "So that's how you were able to get her to change things for you again. A mailbox. How prosaic."

"What a weird thought. But-- I guess they're all weird thoughts, if you try and rationalise them too much. How did you know the mailbox was there?"

Ravn raises his cup in a salute to the doctor as she jogs on. Such energy. For him, such headache. He grudgingly admits to himself that maybe he should have gone for a run too, instead of a bottle of JD. She's clearly smarter than he is.

Then he turns his attention back to the question at hand. How did he know --

Oh yes.

"This is going to sound ridiculous," the Dane says with a small grin. "We just knew. One day there was this mailbox sitting in City Hall, with a balloon hanging over it. And we all knew -- all of us who had somehow had our stories rewritten. The mailbox is still there as far as I am aware. Whether anyone should try to correspond with the Revisionist is another question -- I mean, it has the potential for disaster. There are at least one creature on the Other Side with the power to edit reality. Dreams have happened, too, that hint there might be others -- you even said so yourself, you were in a dream and you woke up able to drive a car."

Ava runs, Ravn drinks, and Una... well, she bakes. So at least one of the three has a healthy outlet.

"With a balloon," Una repeats. And that, abruptly, makes her laugh. Oh, sure, she holds it back long enough to hear the rest of what Ravn has to say, but afterwards? It's a little giggle that turns into a bigger giggle, likely exacerbated by lack of sleep (and the rest). It's not actually that funny.

But. Well. It is.

Once she's managed to control herself: "Right-- I woke up and I remembered how to do things I'd never done before. Not as well as my dream-self could, but definitely better than I could ever have managed before. It's-- hmm. Unnerving, a little, being reminded that reality is that fluid; that it's not just in dreams we don't have control over things. But it's interesting, too. They have that much power."

"It's probably the most terrifying power they have," Ravn agrees. "When you start thinking about it, I mean. Spiders and slendermen and things with teeth, those things are all over when the Dream ends, and then you put a bandaid on and get on with your life. But if you somehow manage to do something that blows the cover, ends the masquerade, hell, you somehow find irrefutable evidence -- well, you didn't. Nope. Didn't happen. It never could happen because you've always been a deadbeat dad stuck in a joyless janitor job and your only escape is to drink harder or go find a rope."

He toys with the cinnamon roll. "We have to keep this in mind. That everything is a negotiation. They do have the power to end us, to make us end ourselves. You can't outwit them. But you can negotiate. You can trade tit for tat. You can do what we do a lot of the time -- choose to play along, figure out the narrative and roll with it. Give them what they want and in return, maybe they give us a bit of what we want. It doesn't have to be awful at all -- but we do need to remember that they have that power, to edit us out."

Una's shudder is unfeigned, and comes with a wrinkling of her whole face: ugh. ('Ugh' is an understatement, possibly in line for 'understatement of the year'.)

"And that's why we play along. Because even at its worst, even when the dreams where we are playing along are ridiculous and uncomfortable and humiliating... it's better than the alternative."

She's really just repeating what Ravn's already said with that, but it's probably intended as reminder to herself: bedding down the information, yet again, so that she can pull her socks up and get on with life.

"Ava's treading a dangerous line, then," she concludes. "But-- that's nothing new. She can't help herself, can she?" Not really a question. "But at least she's playing along in other ways, so maybe that means she'll be okay. Maybe she won't get too close. I have to wonder... ugh, no, it frankly freaks me out, just thinking about it. They can rewrite who we are. Does that mean they can take our shine, too? It must do. But that also implies they can give it."

"Hell if I know. Whether they can just take it away, I mean. I guess that's one of the things Ava wants to explore -- whether it's us or them doing it in the first place." Ravn nods and reaches for another coffee refill. "That said -- I don't think they mind. They don't seem to really care that we talk to each other here, fill each other in on what we know. Try to go public, though -- they'll shut that down hard."

He shakes his head again. "I lie awake sometimes and think about how awful it is. Then I remind myself that if you wear those goggles, everything is awful. Don't need the Veil to remind me that Jeff Bezos and the Muskrat are horrible people, that the world is full of starving children, and we're headed for an environmental disaster. But those are all things you can get up and do your bit about, and so are the problems that come with the Veil. It's life itself that's terrifying. And beautiful, and wonderful."

"Right," Una agrees, sounding a little more as if she's convincing herself of this. "Yes. Humanity is plenty fucked up already, but we're... well, half the time we ignore that, because it's inconvenient, or feels too distant. But it's not distant for the people whose island is disappearing under the water, or who are working eighteen hour days at age ten to feed their family. And in turn... this stuff, this isn't distant for us."

It cannot be said that the analogy makes her feel better, of course, but Una's exhale is more even, and finally, she goes back to eating her cinnamon roll. "I wonder, then, if it's even a good thing, from their perspective, that we talk. If it gives people the resilience to keep going. 'Let the little people have their... I don't know, their workers organisation, but we'll smack it down the moment they turn it into a union that threatens us too much'."

"Honestly wouldn't surprise me if that was the case for some of them. For most, though, I don't think they even think that far about us. We're just -- part of life, like trees. You notice a pretty one, you enjoy looking at them, and if one looks like it's going to fall on your house, you call someone to have it cut down before it can do any damage." Ravn sips his coffee.

"I think it's important for us to remember the good things. If you look at everything with the 'life is shit' goggles, then everything looks brown. I'm the last guy to argue that everything is roses and sunshines, but bloody hell, there are good moments. And some of those dreams are fun."

It takes a moment of pause, and then Una laughs again. "Like trees. Okay - I buy that."

She's got a piece of sticky cinnamon roll partway to her mouth, but doesn't go back to moving it. Instead, she stares at it, considering the pastry, the cinnamon, the sugar encrusting it.

"Cozumel, a few weeks back? That was fun," she says, without turning her attention from the food in her hand, her voice soft with the remembrance. "And as ridiculous as it was, and painful and embarrassing, the whole Zorro one as well. And-- oh, there was the retelling of local myth, more recently. That actually made Jules willing to talk about a dream for once; she's usually completely closed up, I think because she sees them as part of her spirituality? I'm not sure."

"If you look at it all from a folklorist's perspective," as Ravn admittedly does, "then it probably is part of her spirituality. All of our stories probably have roots in this, whether we believe this happens because of our stories, or our stories happen because of the Veil. It's an opportunity for Jules to see some of her own cultural foundation stones in the flesh, so to speak. That has to have an impact -- imagine being a devoted Christian and going back to the Crucifixion or the Wedding in Galilee? Same kind of deal, I figure."

He toys with the cinnamon roll, dissected into so many bits by now. "Sometimes I think, it's not all bad at all. It's not even that the monsters only feed on bad emotions. It's that we only notice the ones who do. If you have a dream of, I dunno, going out with someone you're very fond of and watching the stars and maybe getting it on, you wake up happy. Possibly sticky. You may be a bit annoyed that you need to change the sheets but you don't think you've been victimised by a creature from another reality, lapping up your emotional state. It's when we wake up screaming we take heed."

"Yes, but--" But what? Una doesn't have a solid 'but' to argue with, and subsides, though it looks as if she's still working that one through in her head.

Only: "Okay, well that's a very specific type of dream that's not familiar to me, but I'll take your word for it, and substitute something that makes more sense, and-- okay." (There is, yes, a faintly twitching smile for the description offered by Ravn, but that's an aside, because in any case, she's still working through the whole point: bad dreams vs good dreams vs all the rest) "Though now I'm left to wonder if any dreams are just... you know, dreams, and not interactions with another reality. And also, how often people end up having shared dreams of that variety. My brain, so many tangents."

She eats the cinnamon roll.

"It was just an example of something that no one could possibly consider a bad dream -- getting to spend a good time with someone you like. The point is, dreams that feel good -- we don't perceive those as inflicted on us by monsters. And that's possibly why we think it's all monsters out there." Ravn nods and nibbles on a bit of frosting.

"Truth is? We'll probably never know. I personally think that most dreams are just dreams -- our minds working through things, processing. But also that some of the good and vivid ones are Dreams, capital D. We'll probably never sort it all out. I'd love to go exploring on the other side, not going to lie. And I'd love to understand it more -- also in order to work out defences against creatures like those last night. They got us good, and I do not care for a repeat."

"Right," agrees Una. "I do take the point. And I'm intrigued by this idea of them not all being monsters, definitely."

Her hands are all sticky (and not in that result-of-a-good-dream way, promise!), and she wipes them idly on her leggings, smearing sugar everywhere and not especially helping the hand situation: oh well. Sticky or not, she reclaims her coffee. "I think I'm going to start keeping a dream journal," she says. "Both kinds. Well. All kinds, rather, since we've already established it's not always completely clear which is which. Because now you've got me curious about this, and maybe it'll tell me nothing at all, but maybe... Data. More data can't hurt."

It's over the rim of her mug that she adds, "They did, and I don't want one either, because I'm not sure even knowing ahead of time would've given us any better protection. How do you defend yourself against something that knows your weak spots? Because 'getting rid of weak spots' is not really an option."

"Keep it as fiction," Ravn suggests. "They let you get away with more if you're clearly writing fiction. Write shitty YA story drafts in a drawer, who cares? If you die some day and your grandchildren come to clean out your desk, they may read them and think, hey, grandma wrote some good stuff, wonder what pills she was on -- but they won't think it's real. It's another give and take situation -- couple of blokes in town do write about things, but they all pass it off as fiction. Which makes you wonder about Stephen King, really."

Then he takes a deep breath. "I talked to Ariadne the other day, about this. Told her that if you've got a closet full of skeletons, you should drag them out on the lawn for all to see -- that way they can't be used against you in the same way. It's not that simple, of course. But I think a lot of what we can do is try to face our skeletons, our issues. Be honest with each other -- and with ourselves."

Una's snort of laughter is amused, but her expression belies it: thoughtful, and accompanied by a quick nod that suggests she sees the merit in this, and approves. "Oh, I'm 100% convinced on Stephen King being one of us-- though clearly his bit of Maine is not actually like Gray Harbor, else his career would never have gotten off the ground. Not the way it did, anyway."

That's remarked on lightly, a mere soap-bubble of a thought ready to float off into the morning sunlight and pop. Saying it gives her a moment more to digest the rest of what Ravn's said, though she'll need longer still; there's a limit to how much thinking and talking a person can do at the same time.

"Which comes down to trusting the people around you, doesn't it? And yourself, which is maybe the more difficult bit. This is," and then, there, look: a spark of real, genuine mirth, "all the more reason for us to keep doing stupid things like karaoke night."

"Surely that's beyond what someone can ask of a man," Ravn grouses, though there's a sparkle of amusement in a blue-grey eye. "There's got to be a convention against this. I'll need to order a copy of the Human Rights declarations. The Geneva Convention. Something."

He chuckles, and nods. "But yeah. Community is key. Getting along, knowing the next bloke will have your back. And facing some of those demons and skeletons. I am really, really bad with crowds. Getting on a stage with a spotlight in my face is probably my worst nightmare. I've spent most of my life trying very hard to not be noticed."

Una's got her own amusement, amply amplified by Ravn's reply. "I think you're out of luck, there, though next time... we'll aim for it not to involve stages." And, uh, singing, probably.

"That's got to be a difficult one to try and work your way out of," she agrees, leaning back into her chair and balancing her mug upon one knee. "There's trying to face your skeletons, and then there's... hello, my worst nightmare. And, in any case, the bigger issue there is the not being noticed, I think? The stage is more a symptom. Either way; that's a rough one."

Her mouth twists, slightly. "Mine has always been more about... people seeing through me, at all the bits I don't like or tolerate, so how can they? That's something I do like, in some of the Dreams: being someone else for a little while, inhabiting that role. Even when it's not easy."

"Because it lets you be somebody who might have their shit sorted, so to speak?" Ravn nods thoughtfully. It makes sense, at least to him. "Zorro has his -- her -- shit sorted, she's the bloody protagonist and we all know that at the end of an episode, Zorro has saved the day again. All you have to do is sit back and enjoy the ride."

He nods a bit. "I can relate to that. I've had similar experiences a few times. Not being someone else per se, but being somewhere it didn't matter if people noticed me. I'm still working with it a lot. When I came into town in July '20, I was in a frame of mind where I never stayed anywhere for more than a few days. I kept my head down, I was transient. It took hard work to get -- well, less feral. Getting used to people in town getting to know me, remember me the day after. I hate saying it, but -- karaoke is probably healthy. I mean, I don't think I'll ever get up there and sing, in part because I can't bloody sing, but I do have to keep pushing the boundary."

"Exactly," confirms Una. "And Zorro... doesn't have to work through complex emotional issues. Zorro doesn't need to know where she stands on everything, or deal with shades of grey. I mean, in the end: Zorro's world is exceptionally black and white, which makes it an easy role to play."

Her fingertips play with the edge of her mug as she considers the rest of what Ravn's said. "As we've determined, I cannot sing either-- but possibly I should not even have tried, because I remember what happened next." And nothing will convince Una that it was not, even in a roundabout kind of way, some variant on divine retribution. "It's a little hard for me to imagine you as... 'feral', as you say. I guess because you really are embedded into this place, now. Part of the social tapestry. But I also understand that there are differences in... mm, levels of emotional involvement, I suppose? Sometimes it's only skin-deep. Which is not to say that it is now, but..."

"For three years I never talked to anyone beyond the bare necessities. I made a bit of small talk here and there. Maybe spent five minutes talking about the weather with someone in a bus stop, things like that. Before that, almost two years of not talking to anyone at all except in an academic context. I somehow managed to finish my PhD while going from therapist to therapist and avoiding all unnecessary social contact." Ravn looks at the mess on his plate that was once a cinnamon roll. "It's not something I want to -- brag about. Just trying to say, I do understand having fears and issues."

He cants his head and looks up at Una again. "Sounds to me like what you are describing is some kind of imposter syndrome? A fear that we will find out that you're not -- whatever you're supposed to be. It's quite unbased in reality of course, at least where I'm concerned. You are my neighbour, and you are a skilled baker."

Una's silent, serious in her expression and thoughtful in her stance, as Ravn speaks. She watches him, but lightly, letting her gaze slide off of him and towards other things, perhaps as a way of not making her gaze too intense, too intent; still, she's clearly listening. She nods, though it's a gesture perhaps as much for herself as for him. When he looks up again, she meets that gaze, and it results, eventually, in a laugh.

"Those things are both true," she confirms. "But it's not that I'm-- you know how people lean in to certain parts of themselves, because those are the things they know how to hold on to? I am a skilled baker, and I lean in to that, because I'd rather be associated with one thing I'm actually proud of, rather than... than if I don't, I end up worrying about who I end up being for people. Or if I'm not that, providing something that makes people happy, will people still want to be around me? Which--" she's quick, very quick, to follow up on, "I don't logically think is true? But-- like you said. You understand having fears and issues. The whole point is that maybe you know better, but can't stop yourself from thinking that way anyway."

She lets out a breath that is almost-but-not-quite a laugh. "I didn't really talk to anyone either, until I came here, so we've got that in common. But I told myself... new town, new you. Be someone different. Which, it turns out, both works and really, really doesn't."

"It works, but only so far. Because underneath that new you, there's the same old fears." Ravn nods again and picks up a bit of his demolished cinnamon roll; give him enough time, he probably will eat it all. "Some of it is rational. I had a ghost following me for a long time who would literally attack anyone it thought was looking at me in an interested kind of way. Your fear of being found not quite measuring up is not unfounded either -- people are quick to judge, and it's not difficult to get written off as not worth someone's time."

Then he offers a small smile. "For what it's worth? You don't come across like an imposter. I absolutely get why baking is your big thing, but it's not all you are. I don't think anyone in our little community thinks so, either. You do remind me a bit of myself in some regards -- hard to read, the way people are when they don't fit into the standard boxes. But if there's anywhere on God's green Earth that has room for people who don't quite match the usual parameters fit in -- it has to be here."

"We don't just wake up one morning and become someone else," agrees Una, whose brows are still knit together with tension and-- at least only mild-- discomfort, but who has straightened, and exhaled one more time with a whoosh of release. "Even in Dreams, it's not like we wake up and are someone else, for the most part. We're just shoved into that role."

She has a little, uncertain smile for the rest of it. "Yeah. Here's a good place to be, if you... are like that. And that's good. I think in our own ways, everyone here's a bit out-of-the-ordinary. It's just that some fit better into the boxes society sets out for us, and some of us... like our own boxes, and are comfortable with the walls we're used to. Or maybe not comfortable-- maybe trying to stretch them. Or destroy them altogether, I don't know. So you'll keep going to karaoke, and whatever."

Beat. "But if people are going to be okay, here, with... a rag-tag band of misfits, maybe, or at least some of us being like that, amidst the others who I know will argue have their own issues and equally probably have doubts about fitting in... well, that's good. But I'm probably not going to stop trying to bake my way into people's fond thoughts, and taking up every opportunity to feel like I can, just maybe, belong."

"Hell no. Bake all the things. And I'll keep right on trying to get the information people need to them because that's who I am -- the book nerd with a white knight complex." Ravn laughs softly. "It makes sense, though, when you think about it. Not just about the shine, either -- Gray Harbor has an extremely large rainbow community for what's essentially Hicksville in the woods, too. With the things that go down here, no one cares if you're gay, or poly, or ace, or into Legos. We got far more important things to worry about. Maybe that's pretty healthy. And I like to think it creates a place where people like you and me who have anxiety issues can fit in, too. A place where everyone's got their own flavour of weird so no one needs to be condemned for theirs."

Una's first low snort of laughter is for Ravn's descriptor of himself, but there's another one, too: Hicksville in the woods is right. Rainbow Hicksville in the woods is even more right.

"We're all so used to weird," she says, wryly, "that our own personal weirdnesses no longer seem so bad-- at least that's the theory. It makes sense. And your information helps us to process things, or contextualise them within a bigger mythos, and I keep spirits up with cookies, and-- Ava is the scientist, who needs to know how things work from that end. Ariadne's the sheer balls; not to mention the best in a fight, except where it comes down to using shine, though I don't actually know that. Maybe she kicks butt there too. I mean-- I could go on. Everyone brings something? And the point is to learn to value the thing we bring, and not... you know."

Hide your light under a bushel, as they say. Or wish you were someone you weren't.

"Ariadne sure as hell kicks arse," Ravn agrees with a wince and remembers his one attempt at a spar. Where spar meant, he flailed and fell on his face, and Ariadne tried very hard to not laugh too loudly.

Then he nods. "Something along those lines, for all of us. Aidan Kinney is the artist -- and so is Kailey Holt, with a heaping side order of toddler mum takes no shit from Veil creatures. Rosencrantz is all heart and spitfire, Jules is a solid reminder that there's more layers to this than the scientific. List probably goes on for quite a while."

A searching look goes out to Una all the same. "If you could choose, though -- who or what would you be? No holds barred, who is perfect Una?"

Una may not have been there to see it (though some part of her may wish she had been), but she's heard enough to know to what that wince pertains-- and grins.

"Right. All these people, every single one of us, bring something-- and something different. It's just..."

Ravn's question throws her, at least for a moment. Una glances away, brown eyes trained into the distance, out and away towards a lawn that is less green, less summer. "That's the kicker, though, isn't it?" is what she says. "I can admire all these things in other people, but I can't imagine being them, or having that. I'm not the scientist, the warrior, the artist, the... icon. The joy. So that's it, in the end: the perfect Una is the one who accepts who she is, and learns how to be the best she can be at it, and... just owns it. Not: 'weird Una' but 'fascinatingly, excitingly different Una'."

Beat. "Same question, though. Who is the perfect Ravn?"

Ravn has to take a moment to half laugh, half wince behind his coffee cup. "That's -- pretty much the answer I would have given. That I don't actually know, I mean. To some people it's I wish was rich or I wish I was a boy or I wish I was famous. To me it's more complicated. I don't want to be fascinating and excitingly different Ravn. If anything, I want to be normal, ordinary, run-of-the-mill, Ravn from Oak Three, normal. Even when normal is highly debatable in this town, and maybe that's why I like it so much here."

Una's laugh is wry. "You just want to be normal, and I... I want to feel special somehow. I get that, though. I hate feeling like... like I'm just not like everyone else. I want to be the same, but I also want to be notable; somehow it works in my head, but I'm not sure the differentiation is really clear."

She grins, reaching for the almost-empty coffee pot so that she can top of up mug. "I like that too. 'Normal' means less and less, except... except for the knowledge, I suppose, that you feel like you belong, and that people don't think you're weird. And probably, no one really sees themselves as normal, even when we do. It's all so stupid, when you think about it like that, and even so... the perfect me is still out there, surely. Taunting me. Living the life that I want, even though, actually, neuroses aside, I do like my life."

"You can be special and still normal," Ravn points out. "I want to be just another bloke in the neighbourhood -- the bloke who does this thing, and he's good at it, but he's just a bloke like everyone else. One does not exclude the other. If anything, it's when it does exclude that I run away. I was born to be special through my name and my family, and I don't want it. I don't want it so much that I'm terrified how people will react when they inevitably find out."

He chuckles again. "Turns out most people in Gray Harbor don't give a damn because they have far more real and pressing problems. We've got a bloke like Rosencrantz who just wants to play his violin and pick an occasional fight, and no one here thinks they better avoid that New York ex-con because that New York ex-con is a solid fighter who can and will save your arse when the monsters come knocking. I wish I had half the stones that man does, to just be who I am and if someone doesn't like it, they can go whine about it somewhere I don't have to listen."

"Maybe if you were in line for the British throne or something..." But Una's laughing, and nodding too.

"I think that's the thing, yeah. Just being able to own who you are, no apologies. If I could do that... but I'm not there. I don't know if I ever will be. Probably not, let's be honest. Realistically, I don't think I'd enjoy being someone else any more than I sometimes don't like being myself. It's not about the specifics, it's about... just being okay with it, warts and all."

She shakes her head. "Just listen to us. I mean, it puts everything into context, doesn't it? No wonder the nightmares got to us-- we do it to ourselves as it is."

Ravn laughs softly and traces the edge of his cup with a gloved finger. "I mean, you're not wrong. Let me assure you, I am not in line for any throne, least of all the British. We do do it to ourselves. No one gives a fuck who we were somewhere else. At best it makes for a fun anecdote, a story to tell some night at the Pourhouse. No one cares."

He shakes his head as well. "But fear is not rational. Part of my fear is conditioning -- don't look interested, don't look like you're even thinking anything, because if you do, somebody might end up with their face ripped to shreds. That ghost is dead, it's not going to happen. I'm still reacting instinctively as if it might. When we were at the bar and Kailey sang that song at me -- I mean, she likes to joke around that way, flirt for fun's sake, nothing serious. And I still freeze over inside because there's a part of me that expects a dead woman to step out of the shadow fully intent on murdering her, even when I know it will not happen."

"No one cares," agrees Una, vaguely-- vaguely, because she's already moved on to the rest of what Ravn has to say, and that, clearly, has both caught her attention and left her thinking.

Ultimately? "That's fucked up. Not... not that you feel that way, because that's understandable. Trauma does ridiculous, sketchy things to our brains and it's no wonder, given... everything. But the having to deal with it."

The redhead pauses. "Does she know, that it makes you feel that way? Or are you trying to use that as a way to get over it? Or just avoid making her feel bad?"

"Kailey?" Ravn shakes his head. "I haven't told her. I don't want to tell her. She's just being friendly and kind the way Kailey is. And given that the danger isn't real -- I figure I just need to get fucking over it. Which, as we know, is easier said than done. Maybe I'll jump at shadows for the rest of my life. I'll just bloody well deal with it. It's not something I have to deal with a lot, after all."

He shoots Una another searching look. "But the fact that you seem to -- be right there on the page with me, tells me that this is not new to you either. Different situations, different triggers, but same monkeys? Something made you feel that if you let people get a closer look at you, they'll find you don't measure up?"

"She'd probably hate that she makes you feel that way, though," offers Una, by way of opposing view. "Not that I know Kailey that well, but..."

It's easier to comment on that than to answer Ravn's question, though it's very, very clear that the redhead has both heard the question, and has an emotional response trigger to it.

She exhales, turning her mug around in her hands. "I mean... this is ridiculous in comparison to murderous ex-fiancee. But. The usual stuff, for the most part. I didn't really fit in at school, lots of rejection, but my mom and I were close, and she had my back, and everything was going to be fine. I'd get out of high school, and she promised me I'd 'find my people' at college. And then I'm working my way through the summer between high school and college, night shift at the 7-11, and... well, long story short is I get held up at gunpoint and end up finding my power in one fell swoop when I... well, I don't even know what I did. He ran away.

"But the point is that I got home, realised my Mom glowed with power, and then... she rejected me. Like she suddenly saw me, realised what I was, and decided I was no longer worth her while. She was the one person who supposedly understood me, and..."

The breath she exhales is shaky. "So, yeah. It's no dead fiancee, but it evidently did a number on me. Go figure. Mom issues."

"Maybe that's something we should tell Ava," Ravn observes. "Look for trauma in the past, whether it's adult PTSD or childhood neglect. It's always there."

Then he leans forward a little, more than a little awkward. "Your mother looked at you and saw the monsters, is what you're saying. She knew what the glow means, and she rejected you because of it. You were her ticket to normal and you -- didn't deliver."

He nods. And then winces. "My parents weren't like us. But the experience was not dissimilar -- my father was the kind of man who needs to climb every mountain, sail every ocean, shoot every trophy. And what does he get? A scrawny asthmatic son who hates getting dragged on adventures. So -- daddy issues."

Una's little laugh is more than a little wry: past-trauma, almost certainly there, yes.

"Yeah," she agrees. "She saw the monsters she'd run away from-- and she did run away, from here, and what else, I don't know-- and rejected me because of it. And-- well, you get it, then. Not being the person your parent expected you to be is a heavy burden. It's fucked up, is what it is, and if I ever have children, as unlikely as it is... I don't know. I bet my mom believed she was going out of her way to avoid the mistakes her mom made, you know?"

"Were... you the very first in your family to be like us, do you think? Or just it skipped your parents."

"As far as I know I was the first. But just because no one talks about it doesn't mean it can't have happened before." Ravn hitches a shoulder lightly. "Maybe others like me just made the same choice -- keep quiet about it. It wouldn't surprise me if I had mind readers in my family tree; a lot of my ancestors were powerful men, and a power like that certainly would come in handy at court. My first ancestor on record was -- the title is drost, there isn't really a translation. But basically, king's steward. You'd think someone like that would come out of an established, powerful family. Maybe he did. And maybe he was just someone with the power to affect minds."

Una opens her mouth to comment-- and then shuts it again, shaking her head.

When she does speak, it's to comment, "Mind powers really kind of freak me out. I don't want people in my head. Reading my thoughts." Una does not know that this is not possible; and probably would not fully believe it, if told. "Or... changing my emotions. Those are mine, for better or for worse."

"I don't think they can read thoughts. I remember someone telling me you can't read or plant thoughts. But they sure as hell can read emotions, and they can plant them. Which is terrifying." Ravn does not argue. "And I guess that's another thing that's important to keep in mind for us -- that we have to be a community so that we talk to each other. Someone doing that in Gray Harbor wouldn't get away with it long, not if any of the rest of us were around to see it."

He fiddles with a bit of cinnamon roll. "There was a bloke -- some kind of twisted healer. He shaped flesh. Built creatures out of -- spare parts. He did so in his own little pocket reality so no one was actually hurt, but it was going to end with people getting hurt. Some of us confronted him about it. He put a meat cleaver in my arm rather than agree to keep his ... obsession... in the dream world. Serial killers are real. Some monsters are human. But we can watch each other, and for each other."

True to form, Una's response is dubious, at best. How can Ravn be sure? "I hope not," she agrees. "I hope-- that we'd all be more thoughtful of each other. And not just our community; people in general. Using that kind of thing to get ahead, around other people... that's absolutely no better, in my mind."

She's slower to respond to the rest, taking a moment to set down her coffee mug and then hesitantly reach for another cinnamon roll. "Sort of... Frankenstein's monster? that's... that's fucked up. I mean, that's not new. Just."

"Just-- yeah. Some monsters are human. Nothing new there. I guess you stopped the guy? After the meat cleaver."

"Yes." Ravn winces at the memory. "We had two ways of taking him down -- one for each of my companions. Monaghan had a firearm -- and Clayton had the mind tricks. So far, the emotion overwrite Clayton did has held. The guy is terrified, I think he's gone as far as to go vegan. But if it hadn't worked? We'd have had no choice but that other solution. And as you know, what happens in a dream is real. He'd have had a bullet in his head as real as the meat cleaver I came out with, stuck in the bone of my arm."

He sips his coffee. "I wish it didn't have to be like this. But all of these powers are double edged swords. They can be used for good or for evil. It's all about -- well, us, what kind of people we are."

The pained cast of Una's expression is unfeigned, though not so serious that she can't begin demolishing her cinnamon roll. "I'm glad you managed the non-lethal version," is what she says, after chewing and swallowing. "Though I'm still not altogether comfortable with the doing of it. That must have hurt." Rubbing her arm in sympathy is only natural, albeit sticky.

"I hadn't really thought too much about what someone unscrupulous could do with it. There are so many ways to cause harm-- as many as there are ways to cure it, I suppose. But what's that old saying, something about any tool also being a weapon in the hand of someone... I think I completely missed how that thing goes, but it's the same thing you've just said, I guess. It is all about us. I suppose... for some people, maybe it feels justified, to misuse it. If you feel like you've been hurt by them."

"He started it." Ravn offers a tired half-smile. "Best defence since kindergarten, isn't it? It's always easier to blame someone else. Like your mother blamed you for representing the things she thought she had escaped from. Like my father blamed my mother for giving birth to a weak-ass son -- and she blamed me for being stuck in a marriage where love became habit and then a quiet war."

He reaches for another cinnamon roll, possibly to eat, possibly to demolish. "Everything is a weapon in the wrong hands. Sometimes I have nightmares about it -- what people like us can do to an unsuspecting world. Then I remember that the Veil won't let us, and people who don't have any special powers are perfectly capable of fucking up the world on their own. So we try to make our own little corner of the earth a better place to be, and leave the rest to others."

"The bullied kids finding someone smaller and weaker to bully," agrees Una, with a tiredness that's all her own.

She makes a face. "It shouldn't be a comfort, that the Veil won't let that happen, but... it kind of is, you know? It's not going to let someone run amok across this country or any other; the people that do do that are doing so without any supernatural help at all. Which... fuck that very much."

Poking at her cinnamon roll, she laughs. "Think we can regrow the forests the logging industry keeps chopping down, repair the environment in general, find a way to look after everyone, and-- even focusing local is hard. But you're right; that's what we have to do."

"Well, you can look at it this way: You want to be the lumberjack who has to clear Firefly Forest and the old lumber mill? I think I'd rather be hand feeding piranhas, personally." Ravn laughs softly. "The Veil protects itself in many ways. Most of the known thin spots are kind of out in the woods, you know? Or at least where people don't live. They say Golden Gate Bridge is one and while that's certainly in a populated area, it's not like anyone lives on the bridge."

He shakes his head. "We can't save the entire world. But all of us can save a bit of the world, and I reckon it adds up, yeah?"

Una's wry smile and the nod that accompanies it acknowledges Ravn's words. "I don't think I'd want to be the person repairing the railings at the bridge, either," she allows, in a way that suggests she may not even fully remember what happened to the railings: only that they were damaged.

"Golden Gate Bridge, seriously? I wonder what else is one. There's probably more than we can possibly imagine."

One more nod acknowledges the last of Ravn's words. "It does. If we can make it even a little bit better for ourselves, and the people here... the yeah."

Ravn reaches up to rub his temple with a gloved finger. He frowns. "I'm still not sure what happened there. I remember -- feeling angry. I wanted it all to stop. I remember a feeling like pushing it all away, like you would shove a bully away from you. And then the damn thing -- went flying. I'm still trying to work out whether that was me, and if it was, how the hell I did that. I'm going to have to -- work out what's going on there. The same thing happened over Christmas."

He pauses. "Well, not the bridge. A display of chocolate bars at the Safeway -- it blew up. Chocolate everywhere. Pretty sure, looking back, that that might have been me as well."

Una pauses, partway through peeling a layer off of her cinnamon roll, and looks at Ravn. "And there was the boulder," she says. "In that Dream the other week. Which is-- a different thing, I guess, but maybe related? I mean, maybe your powers are just reacting to strong emotion or something. Last night... it wouldn't be surprising, if things go awry when you're that emotionally involved. I'd've done anything to get it to stop, if I'd had the presence of mind to do anything about it in the first place."

That may be a roundabout way of saying 'thanks'.

Ravn rubs his temple again. "I'm not sure. I feel like it's about to change, somehow. Maybe it'll become clearer. I have tried a few things on the quiet. Moving something heavier. Nothing really happened. Maybe I do need to be scared out of my wits for some reason, for it to work. Maybe I just haven't worked it out yet. I'm confused as hell because I never had this kind of power before, and I have not had any reason to think I would somehow grow into it."

"Well," says Una, after a moment. "Even if it just happens when you're scared out of your wits... it helped, last night, and that's okay. It's not like you need that kind of power on a daily basis, right? Just when things get bad like that. I think it's safer not to have that kind of power in general, anyway. Ava's kind of power, that much of it, kind of scares me."

"Kailey. Rosencrantz. Finch de la Vega. Couple of other folks. The laws of nature just don't apply to them. If they can imagine it, they can do it. I've always felt a little -- well, inferior is the wrong term because this is like any other lottery in life. You don't get to pick your birthplace, your skin colour, your gender -- or your power levels. Having less power doesn't make you less of a person, but at the same time it's difficult to not feel a bit like, move over, now, the big boys are in town." Ravn laughs, a little sheepishly. "I mean, some people open doors between realities or heal near-lethal gun shots or boss dragons around. And me, I bend spoons."

Una shakes her head, looking as if she's caught between wistful envy and outright relief that she's not so blessed. "And I... can set fire to things, sometimes," she agrees. "Or maybe throw a rock. It's hard not to feel over-awed, and a little... I mean, inferior works, even though I know what you're saying. Not everyone gets to be powerful; and in the end, it's what you do with it, and what good you do, in general."

She makes a face, though. "I think it comes back to that 'feeling special' thing, though. It turns out I have super powers! Just... not super super powers."

"So, I think we established the other day that when it comes to music I am a relic." Ravn laughs softly. "Maybe it's true because right now I'm reminded of an Arlo Guthrie speech from the sixties. Talks about how there's always someone who's got it worse than you. But think about the last guy -- he's got it so hard he hasn't even got a street to lie down in so a truck can run him over."

He shakes his head, still chuckling. "It's the same way the other way around too. There's always a bigger fish. I mean, while we're at the pop culture references."

By Una's expression, 'Arlo Guthrie' doesn't even ring the tiniest of bells: just dead silence, really, the equivalent of a ???? though at least she's polite enough to laugh. "Well," she says, "that's probably true. Yes. Even the person with the biggest power is still nothing to what They can do; we've established that much. And-- well, if Ava's right, then we know there are limits, too, even on what people think they ought to be able to do."

That casts a shadow over her expression, too, one that she covers over with, "So I will stop being covetous and focus on what I do have. I'm lucky. I'm unlikely to catch Their attention, except for Dreams, and that's a good thing."

"I think what bothers Ava the most is not knowing whether there are limits, or there are people imposing limits." Ravn nods. He's not particularly bothered by the reference going foul; the point was made, and that's the important bit. Not even a street to lie down in to get run over, man. That cat has it hard.

"I think that's the key, personally. To just live here. To accept that we're this little tribe of strangers, and as long as we sit around the same campfire, the dark can't really get us." He smiles and actually takes a bite from the cinnamon roll (no one tell Vyvyan Vydal, there will be explosions).

A low, rueful chuckle from Una. "Amen to that," she says.

Look. Cinnamon rolls were eaten. She won. The end.