2022-04-19 - An Application of Antacids

Evening of 4/19, not a text. No ring, either. Straight to voice mail.

"Good evening. At least, I hope you're having a good evening. It's Della." She doesn't assume. "... Ravn, you've run into Mikaere Hastings, right? New, boat, emotions?"

"Also -- in talking with Una -- something came up that's unnerving." Can he hear the strain in her too-collected voice? "Not tonight, it isn't an emergency, but if you'd be up for meeting up I would appreciate that. When you have time. Your porch again if you like. Good night." It isn't quite a laugh, that small sound that goes unfinished: it's over.

A day or two pass before Ravn Abildgaard finds himself knocking on the door to 5, Oak Avenue -- after having waited to make sure he saw Una Irving leave. Whatever this is about? The tone of it suggests that whatever is going on, Della wants to discuss it in private. The voice mail had no undertones whatsoever along the lines of 'can we all meet up for a beer and a chat'. It had several undertones of 'something to worry about', and he feels rather bad about not noticing it on his phone until now.

He's been a little distracted. And his students know better than to try to reach him on mail anyhow. Also, a number of them refuse to speak on phones anyhow.

He glances up to where he knows Della's room to be and hopes it's nothing so serious that a day or two passing spelled out disaster.

No movement at that corner's windows. It's quiet but for the various Disney and not-so-Disney birds -- and are they interbreeding? There might be some very special eggs already up a tree.

At least the Prius is parked nearby.

Some time after, matter-of-fact steps approach the door from its other side, pointed enough to be in heels and not impressed with whatever pucky's being sold. Then the peephole's occluded. Then...

Then the main door swings narrowly open, Della looking stern and sharp-eyed behind the screen, never mind how she's barefoot and the growing-out hair sticks out like so many bird feathers above one ear. It's taking her seconds to adjust from, "Sorry, thought you were the cultists again. Born-again with frogs."

Ravn blinks. "Frogs? Do I want to ask? I don't want to ask. They probably avoid our house because Kinney would probably invite them in and just listen to them until they realise how silly they are."

He raises his phone, carried in one gloved hand. "No, I got your voice mail -- a bit late. Everything all right? You don't look like you were just out back, burying a body."

She has a short laugh for that. "Better him than me." Still eyeing him, at a distance enough that it's not sharply upward, she breathes out visibly but silently. "That. Yes."

"Thanks." Another second or two of processing, calculating, then a nod. "Want to come in?" Bare toes push out the screen door a fraction, enough to be an easy grab without the handle, even with gloves. "Just a couple things I need to finish up... Wonder what would happen if we did. Would it regrow."

Sometimes the hallway's like the marina, strains floating from the kitchen and various rooms upstairs: radio and hip-hop, podcasts and folk, the odd old classical and movie themes too. Today it's just fugues. On the cello, though, mathematical composition with that instrument's warmth.

"I've a feeling that burying bodies in the faerie backyards might produce strange results. I also resent the idea that we might have to dispose of bodies. Still, frogs? What is this, the Cult of Seth Monaghan's Toad Girlfriend Arisen?" Ravn pads along. He's been inside before -- to the kitchen, anyhow. There's something funny about how you can always feel who lives in a house -- he doesn't consider himself to have particularly bad habits, and nor does Aidan Kinney, and yet he can tell immediately that this is a house of women.

It's the small things. Scents, things lying about, habits. An older grifter told him once, women are raised to clean up their shit, men are raised that women pick up after them. "How close to panic should I be?"

"P.C. Hodgell, maybe. But -- 'Seth Monaghan's Toad Girlfriend Arisen'? That is... very specific."

Della pauses to swing the deadbolt.

The house is reasonably clean, though there's clutter here and there, someone's hoodie, someone's mug. "Don't panic." After a stop by the living room for what turns out to be a laptop and a mug, they're headed for the kitchen; "Coffee? Black. Or tea." Then, "Sorry. I just didn't expect, and it's taking me a little while to come back." It's something she could just do, or just front, but she puts it into words for him instead, rolling her shoulders. "Before I jump in -- how are you?"

"Oh, the poor guy had a Dream in which he had to play midwife to a very large, very pregnant faerie toad, and we've teased him about it ever since." Ravn nods. It's Gray Harbor, this is normal. "Coffee, black, if you have -- otherwise, tea, black is fine too. I'm really not that picky."

He pockets his hands lest they accidentally pick up somebody's hair clip to fiddle with. "I'm doing all right. Things have been kind of, sort of calm lately. I don't expect it to last -- not with Brennon apparently pissing off somebody important on the Other Side, and then there's the bloke abducting people, but, you know. For this week at least? Relatively quiet. How's it been here?"

She doesn't laugh; she does nod seriously, and then remember to smile. "Espresso, anyway, lungo." The counter's habitually clean enough, when cooking isn't actively happening at least, that she just sets her gear down without more than a brief glance to make sure; the laptop's still open, but mostly closed, angled away from the room.

As Della preps the coffee -- hers is from a differently colored capsule and will need some tinkering in between -- there's a look back over her shoulder. "Hang on. She's what? And... abducting people?" Her voice isn't raised, but does lean in.

"Brennon is kind of trying to take on the Other Side about the whole healing issue," Ravn murmurs. "She's managed to get her office blown up and gotten yelled at a few times by someone we think is the Vivisectionist. I've a feeling she's headed for trouble, not going to lie. But, she's an adult making informed choices, you know?"

He plonks himself down on a chair. "The other bloke -- asshole named Haggleford. We don't know why or what for, but yes, he's trafficking people. Into the Veil it seems. If you get approached by some guy who could go by Evil Santa, just walk the other way. He seems mostly interested in people who don't shine, though."

"'Vivisectionist.'" There's a pause. "Anything concrete leading to that particular name?" Della's got a nod for an adult's informed choices, and also a mug of coffee that's untainted, which she offers handle first.

"As for -- Haggleford, what a name -- that's awful. Sounds like the mermaids in his tastes. Any particular kind of people, any particular locations or times? I'll let them know," the housemates, if they don't already.

"A penchant for nasty medical experiments, as far as I've been able to figure out." Ravn makes a face. "People here don't like to talk about those things a lot. Which is not as crazy as it sounds, given that things might indeed overhear."

He accepts the mug with gloved fingers and wraps them around it; mm, warmth. "So far, the people we know Haggleford's gone after have been people who had some kind of business out in the woods. Sometimes he lures them out -- he tried his luck with some of us by sending us invitations to meet at the old lumber mill, made it look sufficiently mysterious enough that people actually turned up. In part because that place is haunted as all hell, and we do worry what kind of stuff may come out of there."

Then he shakes his head. "But this is not what you called me about. I have met Hastings, yet. Seems like an all right bloke to me? You found out something about him that's pretty damned bad, I'm guessing?"

Della's own grimace speaks volumes; hopefully it's not something they can overhear. Not that it stops her from addressing the second, empty mug. And then -- "What? No!" Oh. "Separate questions. But the rest; all right, it isn't what I called you about, but that Haggleford, what's being done to stop him?"

"We're trying to find out what he wants and where he lives so we can go kick his arse sideways into Sunday," Ravn says bluntly. "What else can we do? Can't call the police and tell them we got an extra-dimensional body thief. Have to make it clear to him that this is a bad place for him to do his business in."

Della looks at him for a long moment, her eyes dark, dark brown; then she flicks the standing-up hair back behind her ear. "There isn't anyone in the police who'd be inclined to believe?"

Ravn nods. "Yes, there are. Brennon's boyfriend? He's a police officer. And the Chief of Police, de la Vega -- he's like us as well. But what can they do? Can't arrest someone you can't find. Can't drag them before a prosecutor for things you can't prove. The legal system doesn't work for us very often here because we don't have laws to cover the kind of shit that the Veil gets up to."

"Boyfriend, now," Della murmurs, brows peaked, interest piqued -- but more for the latter man, with another speculative look. Her espresso is ready; she pauses to add a few shakes from a couple different spice bottles before stirring. "Mm. That makes sense." Doesn't mean she has to like it. "So, speaking of extra-judicial activity... what methods of 'making it clear' are generally approved of around here? Tell me while I finish this up. I think I can do both." Her half: trading coffee for laptop, one knee going up to be an impromptu desk as she leans against the counter, swift and frequently-punctuated typing that moves from staccato to legato and back again. It's the rhythm section that doesn't need a melody.

"I'm not a violent person." Ravn looks into his cup. "I don't think anyone else wants to be violent either. But I think that after some of the things we have seen and heard -- maybe the answer really is, whatever it takes. If it acts like a monster, it's a monster. Also if it wears a handsome human face."

It's an answer that earns a flick of a glance. She keeps typing. "And if it doesn't," let's go with the shortcut here, "glow?"

"If Haggleford didn't glow he wouldn't be doing what he's doing. He's using the Veil somehow, to traffic people. Into the Veil, for reasons unknown. If he was just a regular crook? Then the police could deal with him? As it is? I suspect there's going to be some kind of show-down eventually. I hope so, to be honest. The man is dangerous." Ravn makes a face. He doesn't like making himself judge or jury -- or, heaven forbid, executioner. This is one of those times all the adventure is a bit overrated, and he really wishes you could just dial 911.

More typing. "I see." Not that she's looking, but this time the ending punctuation's a firm nod, followed by closing that laptop -- not a snap, but swift and then slow, the sort of movement that would have passengers jolting in their seats before the car slowly, gently kisses the curb. Della regards Ravn and his coffee, her coffee. Her laptop, which she slings under one arm, standing; her coffee gets her free hand.

"That ties in, actually, with what I wanted to ask you about. Not with Mikaere, to be clear; that was on the off chance you hadn't heard, and if you had, just a gut check. Which you gave." Which gives him an opportunity to edit if there's anything else. Her head tilts. "I feel strange asking about this. But: can... things... hear us less in the house than they can outside? In case we should care? Outside, the porch, would be great. If you don't mind. I'd like to pace." And all those intangibles: clear air, light, space.

"Porch is fine." Ravn gets up, coffee mug in hand. "Honestly? I think it doesn't really matter where we are. If something over there wants to listen in, it will. Sometimes you say something and it happens half an hour later. Sometimes you tempt fate like you got paid per challenge, and absolutely nothing happens. I think it's very random, and that there's not really a lot we can do about it to control it, barring leaving town altogether. Which some people do -- the Roens, for instance, went to Portland to get married because they didn't want anything to happen and screw it up."

"Charming." It's singed, a tone in her voice he'd not have heard from her yet. What isn't, what's even light -- back down the hallway, setting her laptop between balusters high on the stairs -- "'Roens,' who're they? Sounds like eloping away from someone's miscreant uncle."

Lock, unlocked. Light. Not the harsh light of a sand- and gun-filled absence, not even spilled gloriously unfiltered over racing camels and bright blue robes, but green and plant-filled where it isn't sky and, well, a good view of the sidewalk and road. "There's a lot to be said for not having to be furtive. Not having to look all ways, or -- if you're right -- swallow blame for getting run over."

"August Roen -- Røn if you ask me, but that's because it's a Scandinavian name -- runs a garden shop out on the outskirts. His wife, Eleanor, owns Espresso Yourself. They're quiet people, good people. And currently out of town for the same reason -- they don't want the Veil to interfere with the birth of their first kid." Ravn nods. He approves of this decision. Don't tempt fate, particularly not where children are involved.

He follows Della out and takes a breath; fresh air is good, even if it's hardly spring proper yet. "So -- what did you come upon that was unsettling but which wasn't Hastings? He does seem like a solid bloke to me. And he's got an interesting perspective on this all, from his own people."

"Oh, them! Of course. You mentioned, with the cats," the cats. They're all a tangent that, for once, Della doesn't come close to running off with; instead, she waves him to a seat if he wants one, and either way she'll prowl, looking up, looking around. Still barefoot. Nothing that will spill her coffee, yet. "Good to know. And I like what I've seen of his ethics. In fact," ends up with an exclamation point when she stops herself. "We'll get there. But, regarding what you said earlier," today, "...What you do in Dream: does it get easier to do out here? Like some people, with -- violence -- in video games?"

"The cats, yes." Ravn curls his fingers around his mug; coffee, black and simple, his favourite. "And to tell you the truth? It hasn't gotten any easier for me. I've seen some things -- maybe I'm not as easily shocked or surprised as I used to be. Now I understand that these things can happen. That they do happen. I'm not jumping a mile at the first sight of something unnatural. But I don't want to get used to the idea of violence. I don't want to ever become someone who calmly thinks, eh, hand me the shotgun, we'll sort this. I think it's a pitfall of it all -- that there is a danger this can happen. Sometimes the solution is violence -- and it always will be, because we don't make these stories, and the creatures who do, sometimes want violence. But it should never be our first choice. It will never be my first choice."

"Good. Good." Not to be judgy, but then again: good. "I don't want to, either," Della says flat out. But, "What have you noticed in other people? Do you think you would notice? Since, it sounds like, the possibility is there." Steps later, in a different tone, "It doesn't necessarily have to be violence, that people become accustomed to."

"I'm not a fighter. I don't want to be." Ravn nods. "But you do keep dodging the question -- you said you came upon something unnerving? Or was that it? Not that I'm implying that the idea of violence becoming easy as you get more jaded is not disturbing. In fact, that's a profoundly disturbing thought, and I say that as someone who's been attempted murdered by a mad flesh sculptor."

Called out, Della laughs, and with an element of actual humor; she runs a hand through her hair, the long side, and keeps walking, now further by the porch's edge so she can patter fingertips along the rail. "That's a big chunk of it," she says. "It's integral. That's why I want to know about what you might have noticed, Ravn; about what you would have noticed, for other people. It is..." she pauses to look at him, to let him see her. "It's not dodging to me, at least not intentionally; I don't mean to waste your time. Although that, the sculptor, sounds like a story for the list.... What it is, is working things out." Working through them.

Ravn shakes his head. "You're not wasting my time. I'm getting curious as to what it is you're working up to. So let's try to get there? One thing I've noticed and talked about sometimes -- the kind of people we are. Almost all of us? Three criteria. We're creative in some way. We're broken in some way. And we're fighters, in some way. Not everyone's an ex-Marine, and not everyone had a nervous breakdown, but there's almost always a reasonable amount of all three in those who shine. I suspect that's something the Veil looks for."

Broken gets him a sharp look, a look that lengthens all through fighting.

"Now I half-wonder," worry says her voice, almost clearly enough to be heard in one's head, "if you'll think it's not all that; the piñata's empty." But she says it easily enough, pushing off to continue, though her pacing's slower now. "That's notable." Notable enough to brace her coffee and pull out her phone, tap tap tap, four words' worth. "Thanks."

"If it seems that people, some people, do get accustomed to -- for example -- seeing violence as a solution, then it's something to watch for. Oh, not to stare at and see behind every shadow," necessarily, "but to... keep those invisible whiskers out, if you will, in case. There are other behaviors, like how some people yell at Siri or Alexa, and I'm not saying that they should be treated as actual thinking beings, but contempt, that's something that spreads. And all this ties in with your veterans with PTSD."

Ravn nods slowly. The logic behind this is not unreasonable. So far he's on board. "I am sure there are some to whom that slide would not be too difficult. People who already have one foot over the edge, so to speak. I haven't met a lot of them -- fortunately. I know a number of people who can and will fight if they have to but they don't go looking for the fight. I know more who are willing to try to find another way."

He nods. "Also, broken can be repaired. Broken can heal. But most of us are damaged goods in some way, yes. To some, a rough childhood. To some, the divorce from hell. To some, doing time in jail. It all leaves scars. The Veil needs us to be vulnerable."

"Ours wasn't like that." Just so he knows; just so he's told.

She should have spilled her coffee; she doesn't miss a step. "Repaired with gold dust, for the cracks. You've seen kintsugi? Poetical." She says then, "Vulnerability is a different topic altogether."

She, Della, says: "Again, not just violence. Do you... when you're in a Dream, are you very much yourself? Feelings, skills, looks, perspective? Relevant for how closely it matches up; for what there is to work with; for how much they shape us, even for that time."

Ravn smiles a little. "I've seen the Japanese bowls, yes. And I like to think we can be like that, too. That the sum of our scars can make us into something which is also beautiful, and just as useful."

He sips his coffee. "In the very most of Dreams, I'm me. Sometimes, I am dressed up as someone else, playing a role. Like how I was a Catholic priest in a Dream where Irving played Zorro and Scullins was her love interest. But I'm still me, under the role. Sometimes you're something else entirely, but it's very rare to have no idea that you are in there, somewhere."

Something about what he says, or his phrasing, makes her smile just a little. Afterward, "For me, the really notable one -- the one we brought up with Jules' grandparents, with Fire -- I was my character. The first one... it was all mixed up, this way, that way. But I've hope, now, that it gets better. More stable. Me. ...Within the body-suit, at least."

Though, actually, "I wonder, if you were ever in a woman's suit -- for example -- if you'd be more like some collective sense of Real Woman, whatever that is, or just what the Dream and your internal conceptualization make of it." Della adds more wryly, "Let me guess: it would depend on the Dream."

"I honestly can't say because I haven't had it happen." Ravn blinks a few times. "I've been in a few where gender roles were reversed -- I was in a dress, on heels, that sort of thing. But the biology didn't change. I'm -- honestly not sure how I would feel about that? It's a very big change. I've been a cat many times, but I've still been a male cat. I have to imagine that there are some big differences. I mean, there's more to gender than biology. The dysphoria might be a problem?"

For that, he gets what might be a brilliant smile, but not today; today still has the screen door in between. "Just so," Della agrees. "It makes me want to ask around, but when it's not too nosy," this shaded wry. Tap tap. Coffee. Just a sip: making that, at least, last.

"Which leads to -- from how much we are or aren't ourselves, mind -- how you'd mentioned the temptation of a Dream where things did go right, the right job and everything. That got me wondering: Dreams like that, are we more likely to get what we think we want: our fantasy? Or might we want what we ordinarily wouldn't, and thereby still disappear? If people with practice become more like you, not changing so much, it becomes less...." She doesn't give it much emphasis, or indeed any emphasis at all. "Harrowing."

"Honestly? I don't think it stops being harrowing just because you stop being shocked. If anything, that gets worse -- it happened again, and you still can't do anything about it. I know I feel like that sometimes when the Veil pulls out a big one." Ravn makes a face. "It makes me feel helpless and powerless and small."

The Dane pauses a moment to reflect; Della does ask the big ones today, forcing him to think before trying to answer. "I think that we have more Dreams than we realise. That a number of our good dreams -- the ones you wake up and think, that was a great dream, ten-ten, would dream again -- are actually Dreams, capital D. That there are things Over There who feed on good emotions. We just don't wake up screaming because of those, and we don't try to defend ourselves against them. I want to believe that if we can get Lost over there in a nightmare, then we can get Lost in something good, too. I like to think that at least a number of the people who have disappeared -- chose to not return, because they found something better."

She's turned, stopped, to study him while he says these things -- how it makes him feel, his thoughts on the good dreams and just how many Dreams there might be -- her dark eyes reflective in turn.

"Better than the alternative," she surmises, supporting his conclusion; that gets due weight before Della says anything else at all.

"I suppose I wonder whether the Dreams to get lost in would have all appealed that much to the Dreamer who was awake, if you follow me. Or whether -- oh, how's this for a comparison: would a Dream appeal to the Dreamer wearing beer-goggles, Dream-goggles, but not to the one who's sober, by which I mean awake. Do Dreams make us prone to being Bad Decision Dreamers? Are we advised to not make certain decisions while 'under the influence'? Like that."

"Alhough I expect the result is much the same."

Ravn nods. "I think it's possible. Just like it's possible make a bad decision all on your own. My fiancée emptied a bottle of wine and got in her car to drive off her anger. Ended up crashing the car against a tree and dying. She didn't need a monster to tell her what to do. It would be -- too easy -- to blame it all on Them. We have to own our own mistakes and secret desires."

He looks back at Della. "One piece of advice I offered to Scullins the other day? Put your skeletons out on the lawn. Not suggesting you take everything that's been bad in your life and make an art installation out of it. But be honest with yourself and with others. You've done bad things, things you regret. You've made bad choices. But if they aren't secrets, then they can't really be sprung at you as weapons. That's why I don't try to deny that for a while I was a thief and a grifter. Can't scare the neighbours with a story of oh lord, did you know that the nice man in number three used to break into houses? Anyone who wants to know, already knows."

"Absolutely possible," Della murmurs, right before she pales. "Oh. I'm sorry." It's just as low-voiced. Her mouth, for a moment, pulls tight. She listens.

"When you put it that way -- " and she has this new information to incorporate, deeper responses to offer, they're already piling up but what comes out of her mouth is, "Does that mean you know how to pick locks? Would you teach me? Jules had a lighter, I got that to work. It seems like an important life skill. Not today but -- oh, hell. That derailed quickly." Della makes a face, though one that may be less abashed than it should be.

Ravn's eyebrows shoot up. "Sure? It's -- not as hard as you think or almost impossible, depending on which locks you're after. Electronic locks and modern Yales? Easier to hack the person who holds the key, not going to lie. Older, mechanical locks? Mostly a matter of practise, and more so if you have any kind of moving ability." He smiles a little. "Hell, I'm giving Scullins tips on it already, we could do a joint group sometime if you like? Those are useful skills to have in Dreams -- I've gotten myself out of a cell or holding area several times on that account."

He laughs softly. "Derailment achieved. Yes, we can absolutely do this. Sounds like beers and barbecue in the yard one of these nights, all of us get together and swap tricks? I'd be up for that. And you're making my point for me too -- that's a skeleton of mine that lives in the open sunlight, and the only reaction it tends to get is 'can you show me'. Not distrusting me, or worrying I'm going to break into your house next."

Della's nodding, nodding -- hack the person, yes, and as for a joint group, "Definitely." This time she doesn't need the Scullins-equals-Ariadne translation. "My schedule's pretty flexible except when it's not," her smile turns up there, "so whenever she's free."

As for making his point, "True." Della considers him, not hiding her smile. "At the same time -- we aren't just sitting down at the coffee shop for the first time. We haven't run into each other often, except maybe just lately, yet we've spoken in some depth: not necessarily personally but in a way that, I think, starts to give a sense. We have friends in common, and that's not a little thing. Sure, this could be a long con, but I rather think not."

"So far as I know, you've been straightforward with me, consistent. If you don't want to address something, you just don't. I appreciate that."

Ravn's lip curls into a small, lopsided smile. "Lots of things are easier that way. Don't need to talk about things no one wants to talk about. Don't need to know each other's life stories in gritty detail to have each other's backs in a Dream, either. Some people open up within five minutes of meeting, some of us need a little more time, it is what it is. It must be easier for you to talk to some of us now that you speak the same language, so to say."

He sips his coffee. "I've got a feeling that if we make puppy eyes at Irving we'll find ourselves amidst mountains of food and good company in short time. It wouldn't be the worst way to spend a summer evening, swap some tips and tricks, have a good time. Have you been able to work out yet what kind of abilities you have, besides no longer getting your memories revised to something plausible?"

"'Don't need to talk about things no one wants to talk about': skeletons?" There's a hint of mischief in her smile. "Or perhaps just piles of connective tissue.... Either way, it's appreciated to have walls, or closed doors, over landmines." While she's at it, Della says frankly, "I don't know that I have skeletons as such; there's something like one, but that's on me. That doesn't mean I want to hold my closet doors open for just anyone to walk by."

There's a slight pause. "I miss closets. Old houses just don't have them the same way."

A sip of coffee brings Della back to a more matter-of-fact, "And yes. Yes, it is easier. Speaking of Una: her birthday's not until September; Jules' is in May, but I don't know that that excursion would be to her taste. As for backyard potluck, I'm all for that! Though it'll be quite unbalanced on my end, if I can learn anything -- anything glow-y -- at all. That letter, hearing from Grandma Black, so far that's it." That she knows of. Until her next Dreams hit.

"Not everyone wants a big birthday bash, yeah." Ravn nods his agreement. "Protip? The ones who do tend to be the ones who either arrange it themselves or make sure everyone knows when their birthday is, with various hints dropped. Jules doesn't strike me as the 'hire the Grand Olympic and invite the entire town' kind of girl."

He glances back at the house. "What you can do -- you have no idea what direction you're leaning? Most people seem to have some kind of very basic idea. Scullins didn't either. Turns out she's got some moving talent at least. Also, not everyone is a light house the way Rosencrantz or Brennon are. Until a few months ago my power was on the level of moving a nut into a pocket or twisting a key in a door. Now I'm kind of -- back in school too, trying to figure out what I can and cannot do."

"No, nothing like that. I was referencing going to hear your friend, the violinist, play." Speaking of Rosencrantz. As for directions, "Not yet. Nobody sent out a survey, and the compass isn't so much spinning as sauntering vaguely downwards. I suppose it'll show up or it won't," which doesn't mean Della's voice isn't threaded briefly with frustration. "The books I've read over the years mentioned a whole lot less waiting." But, "How's school going for you?"

"I have the opposite problem," Ravn admits. "I have more power than I'm comfortable with. I've been used all my life to being able to do small things, this way. Now, suddenly, everything feels too easy. It's a bit like being used to puttering around on a small scooter, and then you look down and realise you're straddling a rocket. I'm afraid to push too hard, too fast, too loud. Afraid of breaking things I only want to manipulate."

He hitches a shoulder. "Suppose that for all of us, it's trial and error. Have you tried to move things? Look at them, will them to move? That's how I learned as a kid -- being in my toddler bed, wanting the thing on the shelf enough. I thought it was a poltergeist, maybe, or some kind of ghost pushing things if I wanted them to move. Didn't entirely work it out until I got here, not going to lie."

"Mmm. I can see that. More horsepower, possibly a larger turning radius, 'these go to eleven'... Has it gotten any better, since that exploding display?"

Della adds after a moment, slowed enough to lean back against the railing with a reminiscent smile -- even if it isn't her memory -- "I like the idea of a friendly ghost on the other side, helping you out, reaching things up high. Mine, if I'd had one, would have brought me the plastic horses... or, no; I probably wasn't given those till I was older. Anyway, that's a long time to get to do that. I imagine," with one lifted brow, "you got really good at finding applications for those 'small,' subtle things."

"And yes, I have tried. Looking at them, staring at them, thinking hard at them, trying to not think, waving at them, nudging something else with my hand in an attempt at reciprocity..." Della just sighs, sharing a mostly-amused glance with him. "Maybe I need a focus. Go shopping for a star sapphire, matrix crystal."

"A focus, or for it to work once so you know what it feels like." Ravn nods his agreement, and studies Della. "I wish I could tell you how to do that -- but all I can say is that you have to find that place inside where you can suspend your disbelief. You know things don't fly if they don't have wings. Somehow, you have to un-know that. Otherwise, you're going to be stopping yourself with reason."

He chuckles a little. "And of course that's assuming that you have that talent. There are many different things people can do. Me, I can't do any of the emotion reading or plant growing or healing or -- you catch my drift. Nothing at all."

"Me, do that?" Della's wry, so wry and dry, she could be flatbread. "Clearly," which is to say, not so clearly, "what I need is for someone who does emotions to give me the feeling of it happening, and for me not to append, 'If it could even work that way.' Not that I like the idea of someone rooting around in my head. That's one thing Mikaere talked about."

While she's at it, "What you said just now, about being afraid to push, of being too too... it's not unfamiliar; there are those of us who do have to be cautious around that even without powers." She says it as a matter of fact, but not quickly, and doesn't flavor it with emotion beyond that degree of empathy. The next part, though, "The specifics remind me a little of... someone's kid brother that I knew. He was little and break-over-a-knee skinny and not even in the speeedy, geeky sort of way, and then he grew up and up and out. He liked it, because that's 'what real men are,'" she gives it actual air quotes and a roll of her eyes, "heroes-not-sidekicks, but he also didn't because he'd trip, and knock things over, and just bumping into things made them more likely to be damaged because of sheer mass. And people would think he did it on purpose." There's a pause. Present or past, "He's a good kid."

Ravn nods and then hitches a shoulder with a small smile. "That's what I feel like, yes. Like a kid who grows too fast. Turn around without thinking, somebody's vase is in pieces on the floor. I can relate -- I grew into my height pretty suddenly, from being a scrawny little thing, too. That said? I'm perfectly fine being the sidekick. Not everyone's a big, gruff fighter, and certainly not me. I hope the kid grew out of the 'real men' notions, for his sake."

"Mostly he did, I think. I won't say we didn't sit on him sometimes. Jury's still out on how much was internalized, but it seems like he tries." Della adds after a moment, her voice lower, "I wish concepts like 'toxic masculinity' were in the common lexicon when I was a kid."

After that, the deluge. "But! Speaking of sidekicks: for all that I brought it up, for all that he believed in it back then, I'd still say it's a false dichotomy. It's not like the big, gruff fighter has to be, hm. The 'buck stops here' decision-maker? The integrator? The headliner? The big target? Have you run into The Thief et seq., Megan Whalen Turner? Or Miles Vorkosigan, though he sometimes has 'the failure mode of clever is asshole' thing going on. Bujold, his author, has 'Penric and Desdemona' novellas I'd recommend. Penric kin Jurald was narrow and blond, as I recall; same with Cherryh's Bren Cameron... though he's a translator-slash diplomat on an alien world, with aliens whose home it is. I'm not caught up with that series." Della's dark eyes are brilliant, her voice and gestures animated, no reserve in sight. But then... "Er."

"Do you read novels?" Not that there aren't many kinds of novels; he might have run into all of these, or none. "You'd said television wasn't your bag -- "

Ravn laughs, a little sheepishly. "I do read novels -- and yet not a single one of those ring a bell. I don't think I'm particularly snobbish about my reading habits, though -- it's more that I always end up reading older stuff. The mid-20th century sci-fi writers like Hoyle, Pohl, Clarke. A lot of older novels, classics and, uh, less so -- because they overlap my field. It's hella interesting to me, to take a so-called 'boys' classic' like The Flying Dutchman or Captain Maryatt's Children apart down to the last trope. I keep meaning to read more contemporary, and I keep forgetting."

"Like diagramming a sentence," Della imagines, not without question. Her brows had twitched up with interest at the names he provided; now, "Flying Dutchman, as in the ghost ship? I don't believe I've ever heard of a Captain Maryatt, nor the author Hoyle for that matter, and not so much about the other two beyond 'great men in their field.' What's the appeal? Beyond analyzing them, that is."

"As the ghost ship, yes. It's a novel, from the mid-nineteenth century. Same writer -- Captain Marryat. Hoyle was an astronomer in the middle of the 20th century, made some pretty remarkable discoveries and wrote interesting, speculative science-fiction on the side, just like Clarke. The appeal, for me, is our cultural archetypes." Ravn chuckles; of course it is, the man's a folklorist. "I'm interested not so much in the science, as in what it implies. Clarke, Hoyle, Pohl -- they all speculated on what alien intelligence might be like, how we would mirror ourselves in it. In a way, not unlike this town. Alien intelligence from space or alien intelligence from another reality, it's all alien."

Ravn cants his head, searching his mind for an example. "Hoyle, for instance, wrote The Black Cloud back in the fifties. It's about a sentient cloud of gas and dust that travels space by heating up close to stars and then using the energy to move to the next solar system. But for the Sun to be blotted out causes nuclear winter on Earth. The cloud is by no means hostile. They manage to communicate with it, and it agrees to take as fast a route through our solar system as possible, but it's still mankind into bunkers to survive. So it's the whole idea of a lethal threat that doesn't particularly mean you any harm, you're just in the way. I feel like that a lot here -- like a lot of the time, we're ants in a garden, and it's not hate that makes some big bloke spray against bugs. Just, we're in the way."

Della listens with clear interest, and a little tap-tapping on the side. "That makes sense: along the lines of hydrogen peroxide not recommended for cuts anymore, for killing good critters along with the bad, not that there's necessarily such a dichotomy here. Is The Black Cloud still worth a read, now that you've distilled the concept? Maybe for how they try to communicate. And the Children, was that book speculative too?"

As a side note, "Penric and Bren seem particularly relevant in that way, though I'll hold off for the moment. Oh, and if you do read The Thief, I recommend avoiding spoilers."

"Captain Marryat is a very religious writer and honestly? Probably not that exciting from a modern perspective. The others are - though any novel from the golden age of science fiction will make you wonder how come the entire human race seems to consist of white men. When women exist, they're either objects or desire, or career seeking battleaxes who never found true love." Ravn makes a bit of a face. "And people of colour, well. Clarke's the least offensive of the lot in that regard -- he's got a couple of notable Indian and African-American characters who aren't just there to serve the white protagonist, at least."

He smiles and upends his drink. "Stories, though. I mean, what is all of this town, if not stories? It's what fascinates me so much about it -- that, and the community we're building."

"Mm. Yes, disclaimers exist. I appreciate them; when one knows what to expect ahead of time, it's easier to... filter. Accommodate. It's always accommodating." Della doesn't say that with particular bile; that's the way it was, and often is. She has tools.

"And here we are, creating more of them." She tilts her head, half-smiles -- no, it's more like three-quarters. "In story-land, you'd have just come to a conclusion with a nice ribbon bow. Unless you'd like more coffee."

"Well, did we reach your conclusion?" Ravn smiles at his neighbour. "I've a feeling we reached some of the things you were concerned about, but I am not certain we managed to reach any final conclusions?"

Della gives him a wry arch of a brow, her smile pulled slightly to the side; she looks past him then, drawing in a deep breath so the exhale can, silently, elongate that much further.

When she returns, "My version of final conclusions, for this, tends to be along the lines of 'what to work with for now.' I won't say that the sheer act of talking it out hasn't helped," and what if she'd thought the knock was FedEx? "But the information. The experiences, data and anecdata. It's clearly not a surprise that for some people, actions in Dreams may make those actions -- and viewpoints -- easier out here, nor that we can seek to guard against it; it is a relief that that doesn't automatically happen, it doesn't rewrite our kernel. That we know of. Which brings up the question of straightforward accretion versus tipping points..." but Della can set that aside. "Dream-goggles can be a thing, but they can vary depending on the person or on experience; they aren't a foregone conclusion. That we know of. I wonder, if we do change because of that, as opposed to normal going-through-life changing, will it be noticeable or will it be as though it were that way all along.... In any case, you've normalized it, and it isn't quite so much a sheer cliff to both sides of the path anymore. Again, thank you."

Ravn nods. "We should stick our heads together now and then. I can tell you're working at the same issues as I am -- from a different angle. It would probably be quite productive for us to chat now and then. Not to mention, fun. Irving and I have discussed the idea of the occasional barbecue night -- sound like something that might be fun for all three households and whoever else is around? And an excellent opportunity to compare notes. That's one of the things we tend to miss out on -- passing information on. I've spent so much time not finding new things, but digging out information people already had, and sat on."

Fun lends warm laughter to her gaze, beyond the earlier, confirming nod; "Comparing notes on all that, to go with the lock-picking and other tricks. That'll do." That'll serve. That's good. "And in the meantime... I'll text if anything comes up, and feel free to do likewise. Hopefully people will grow to feel more comfortable sharing, unless it's that they don't realize what they've got."

Ravn nods his agreement, again. "I think a lot of us are still in the habit of thinking of all this as strange and bizarre, and we better keep it to ourselves. Don't want anyone to think we're crazy, right? It's a hard habit to break, opening up about things that anywhere else would get you labelled a conspiracy theorist and issued your very own tinfoil hat."

"Absolutely." Della pulls a face. "I miss my therapist back home. But..." she shrugs: what can you do. "At least if it's shared verbally, perhaps it's less likely to be rewritten, even if there are the coded manuals -- stories, rather -- to fall back on." Also, "Are you done with your mug? I can take that."

Ravn smiles and hands the mug over. "Brennon wants to write things down in the format of a live roleplaying game. Creature sheets, that sort of thing. It has merit, too. After all, it would look like fiction to the non-initiated, so the Veil might even refrain from doing a lot of editing."

Della sets it on the rail, adding her own. "Does she! I like that. Habitat, attempted stats.... Good idea. It would even fit in a binder nicely, pages that rearrange. Speaking of: do you happen to know anyone who draws well, who might teach? Illustration over painting, just the sort of thing that might work for character sheets."

Ravn has two hands free now and one goes up to scratch his chin. "I'm honestly not sure," he admits. "Aidan Kinney and Kailey Holt are both great painters. But whether any of them do pen on ink illustration? I actually don't know. It might be worthwhile, asking them."

"So next door and the woman I'd wanted to see anyway, though I've been hesitating to disturb her, what with the little ones. Monroe did mention the community college, continuing education classes, though with my hours..." Della adds by way of explanation, "I've been trying to take notes after dreams, but the sketches! YouTube just isn't cutting it."

"Believe me, I know that feeling," Ravn murmurs. "I try to blog about some of it -- in a very generalised format. In some remote American towns people believe that -- and so on. It's sometimes low key enough to pass."

"'Quaint American beliefs,'" Della makes up, laughing. Has she seen the blog? She doesn't say. "Maybe I should stitch it, though I don't know that that's what Grandma Black had in mind."

"What I took away from that talk most of all was that she encouraged us to keep open minds." Ravn nods his agreement again, pocketing his hands in his blazer pockets. "And reminded us that just because something exists and considers us to be prey does not mean it is inherently evil. This is a somewhat important lesson because a predator will always go for the easiest prey. Which means that at least in some situations, we may be able to redirect it, or feed it a fare that comes at less price to us."

Yes, and yes. But: "So, basically, run faster than the guy over there?" The most basic, really. Della considers him. "What do you have in mind?"

Ravn shakes his head. "Sacrificing someone else to save your own arse takes us to bad places. I don't want to be forced to judge whose life is worth more, mine or someone else's. But sometimes, we get the option of playing along a little -- and sometimes it's worth doing that, maybe. Better they run us through experiences that are a bit humiliating or strange, than the full trauma, I figure. Better to have five strange and creepy dreams in a week, than one which sends you into a catatonic breakdown."

Della's smile is sudden, brilliant, and quickly disappeared: not that it was a trap, but even so. Call it a moment's appreciation, call it relief. "I can see that," she murmurs. But when he goes on, "...How often does that actually happen?"

"It depends on who you are, and how much you annoy them, to be honest." Ravn manages a small smile. "They didn't bother me a lot in the past. I was low power and not really interesting in general. Then HOPE got off its feet and suddenly I was very interesting. Not all of them like what we're trying to do here, build a community. People who stand together are harder to shake up."

"And now..." Della's focused. "You sound as though you're anticipating more attention." Dreading it?

"I'm accepting that I've painted a bull's eye on my back." Ravn hitches a shoulder. "If there's so much attention to go around and I am drawing a substantial part of it? Good, then someone else gets time off. Besides, they tend to not want to break us -- they want us tethering on the edge, one step short of breaking. If we break and leave or die, the food supply is cut off."

"I would certainly leave," Della echoes an earlier conversation, this time with intonation meant for someone else to overhear. That said, she keeps talking anyway. "So, on the one hand, they might not want to break us, but on the other, they might do it anyway: by accident, or because they've had enough, or that one extra-special taste is worth it. ... Or to scare someone else, ideally multiple someones. The community."

"Yeah. Honestly? Assume they're assholes. Most of the time, smart assholes. But assholes, and they don't understand us. Even the ones who aren't assholes don't understand us, and accidents can happen. Do happen." Ravn balances on his heels. He wants to say something along the likes of 'but everything ends well'. It's just, it doesn't. A lot of the time, it ends pretty damn terribly.

"Atevi," Della muses more to herself, not that that's fair to them. To Ravn, "I wonder if it would help to explain. Or to encourage: not the assholes, but the star-energy-eating clouds. If there were a way to invoke the joy-phages instead..."

"I think we can try. By playing along when it's something that doesn't hurt us. After all, we've done this for thousands of years without harm." Ravn nods his agreement yet again. "Walkabouts, vision quests, spirit journeys, out of body experiences, lucid dreams -- all of those might be this very phenomenon. All of those might be our attempts to commune with the black cloud. And sometimes, the black cloud realises that we are sentient life forms, and tries to help us, or at least not make things harder than they have to be."

"'Without harm,'" gets repeated in verbal quotes. "Without harm except for those who don't come back, or whose minds don't come back, or -- " Della subsides.

In the next moment, she's calm. "There was a movie recently, with a linguist and squid-aliens who communicated in black ink-patterns, even. ... 'Not make things harder than they have to be,' that I like. Although," she gives Ravn a smile that's tilted and wry, "I know it's the book, and they do take light energy, but what would you think about calling it something other than the 'black' cloud?"

"Well, the black cloud is in reference to Hoyle's book -- the sentient gas cloud is named The Black Cloud. Our creatures? Anything they want." Ravn can't help a small laugh. "I don't like the term 'Dark Men' -- nothing says these things are dark or for that matter, male. Dolorphages works for the vicious ones. The rest? Hell, we could go with purple people eaters, or the Them."

In the end, Della lets it go. Instead she confides, laughing, "'The Them' pains the editor in me. But still! 'The Them in Them Thar Hills.' It might provide the right note of, hm, light-heartedness combined with a touch of spooky. Although really, there's no reason not to have a repertoire."