2022-04-22 - Coffee and a Headache

Coffee. Tea. Free wi-fi. If one of these doesn't lure in business, surely another will, and two out of three isn't bad. Two out of three seems to be working for Nicasia, who has camped out on the bench, at a table, with an open laptop and whatever the largest size brew the place sells and a stack of file folders held together with binder clips. It's a touch mobile office, but it's very strategically located because it lets her keep an eye on the door, lets her an eye on those coming and going, something done with only passing interest. An upward flick of her gaze every time the door opens, as habitual as the steady pace of drinking. What she's not doing is actually working but that's a later problem.

Trust Ravn Abildgaard to walk in a bit later, sleek black laptop under one arm and a surprised expression on his face; his usual table is taken -- bloody hell, working from home not at home and watching people come and go is his thing. And then it strikes him that of course this woman is going to position herself like that; she made it clear enough what her profession was at the Pourhouse, and it likely involves a hell of a lot of people watching.

Just like his. He wanders up to the counter and makes puppy eyes at Russ the barista on duty.

Somehow, it works. Without a word, the younger man serves up a hazelnut roast. Must be the Dane's regular order. He looks relieved; maybe he worried that Russ would get it wrong -- in which case he's certainly not got a lot of confidence in the local labour force. Hazelnut Roast is not a complicated order.

Then he saunters over and without much ado plonks himself down at Nicasia's -- his -- table. "Looks like we're office mates today. How's life?"

Coffee is indeed the siren's call that brings Perdita, as well. Dressed modestly in a two piece lilac number that reaches almost to her knees, paired with ballerina flats in black, her long hair partially swept back. She looks like she's about to go to church, which... is a rarity for Dita.

A glance at Ravn and his new friend, as if confirming something for herself, and then Russ gets a little flirtation as she gets her own coffee, and a bagel with schmear... and then, hot on Ravn's heels, she's joining the pair at the table, uninvited, flashing a brilliantly friendly smile at the pair, crossing her ankles primly as she sits.

"Della hasn't threatened him enough, I see."

It's a common thing. What's less common perhaps is the choice of seat, the choice of table, but Nicasia has absolutely made herself at home and maybe there's a certain something about that specific spot that appeals to some secret common thread. It scarcely matters. There's a look when Ravn comes in: it starts subtle-like, that casual glance that she's given everybody who's wandered in and subsequently departed, but becomes a little more conspicuous about the time he's gotten his coffee. By the time he's actively headed for the table she's ceased the pretense of work-like practice and lifts her chin in a more appropriate greeting.

There's some similar attention for Perdita, that summary look-over that is marginally more thorough and becomes increasingly moreso when she follows Ravn. But she gets that same chin-lift, whereupon Nicasia leans back against the wall and turns on a particular slightly crooked sort of smile. "It's a nice office. Not sure I can afford the rent, but maybe if we go halfsies." Her gaze flicks back and forth between them, brow then arching inquisitively. "Threatened for what?" Shameless curiosity, here.

"Coffee. I have a long and malicious feud going on with the Day Manager here. When she's not on duty, I get to order things that are almost black coffee. If she's here -- well, let's just say things that strawberry mint lattes happen." Ravn makes a face. He's obviously not a fan.

Then he raises that mug in a greeting to Perdita. "You look positively saintly today. Are you planning to marry into a modest fortune up on Bayside and then dumping your elderly and devoted husband into Gray Pond?"

"I still maintain that Della the DM is just flirting with you the only way she knows how. By trying to kill you." she flashes a wicked little smile at Ravn, then tilts her head slightly, her voice suddenly shifting from its usual flat Anywhere-From-The-Midwest sort of accent to one best described as sweet Southern Belle. It's uncanny how accurate it sounds.

"Why, I do declare, Mistah Abildgaard, I would nevah do such a thang."

She takes a sip of her coffee, and then in her normal voice, points out, "I have a massive, mostly empty building. I can just... stash him in a room and hire a nurse in a low cut dress to look after him." and then, by way of explanation, "I'm supposed to be meeting an architect for the Orangery on the roof, and I thought maybe I'd try looking somewhat professional."

She looks like she's going to try and seduce the Preacher's son or something.

The face Nicasia makes isn't entirely feigned, halfway between sympathetic and dismayed. "Strawberry mint lattes sound like they might be against the Geneva Convention; have you checked?" She slides a look toward the barista, as if he might somehow be complicit in this attrocity, and then looks at her own cup, which most assuredly is nothing of the sort. Still woth drinking, however, as she picks it up and has a sip while her attention drifts back to Perdita.

"A massive, empty building with an orangery on the roof?" This is her takeaway from the second half of that, still nosy. Which drags her over to the part of this that might be marginally delayed, by way of the offer of a hand. "Nicasia Aldrich. You had me all excited there for a minute because I have a lot of elderly, devoted furniture I need to dump and I doubt I'd be doing the pond any favors by chaining it up with some cinderblocks."

"Not sure the pond is deep enough in most places, anyhow." Ravn makes a face. "Right under the bridge, maybe. Insert all the local horror stories about bodies being dumped, of course. Handful of ghosts. Mutant crayfish. The last are documented by Fish & Wildlife, at least."

He sips his coffee and makes no movement towards opening his own laptop. As always, it's mostly an excuse for hanging out -- his boat does not have proper wi-fi, ergo, right? "The sad thing is, I wouldn't even be surprised to find some ancient nurse and her even more ancient patient somewhere in your building, Dita. That thing has stood around for a century, and you don't know what's in half those apartments."

"It actually wasn't bad." Perdita tells Nicasia of the Strawberry Mint Latte. "There was one with cucumber that was mildly horrifying, though."

"Perdita Euphemia Leontes," her parents clearly hated her. "I own, for some reason, the Bauer Building. It's the big old Italianate limestone brick with the Couturier's on the first floor. About as close to a skyscraper as we get around here. Seven floors, most of them in need of major renovation., and a basement that... is at least no longer flooded." Her smile shows pride, fondness for the building... and just a bit of stress.

"Garrett and I have checked every single room in that place at least once. No ancient nurses and patients, thus far. Though in this town..." she shrugs slightly. "Who knows?"

There's a very particular expression Nicasia dons. It's not absolute disbelief but there are shades of dubiousness in it, a certain natural - defensive - sort of skepticism, maybe the healthy sort that keeps normal people from having their heads randomly explode or whatever, like maybe she isn't convinced that this isn't all just an incredibly elaborate practical joke. "Fish and Wildlife documents the crayfish, but not the ghosts? Is there a different department that handles those?"

"For some reason, or Some Reason?" Subtle special emphasis goes in repetition of this term as she looks from one to the other, endless questions rolled out as long as they're going to feed her answers of any sort at all, all with the same carefully cultured interest. Her expression does soften slightly in something like sympathy though. "Seems like half the town is in need of major renovation. At least all the stuff I.. don't own but am party to, for some reason." Hence surely the elderly furniture she's looking to offload. But it brings her back around, very circutiously, to a different facet of the conversation. "Is there a lot of... you know. Haunted real estate around here?"

"I suppose that depends on whether you believe in ghosts," Ravn says over the rim of his coffee cup. "There's certainly a lot of real estate that people claim is haunted. Personally, I do believe in ghosts, so I'm going to give you a resounding yes. Somebody else might not, though. I imagine the main problem with cataloguing ghosts is to document that they're real, though. There was a crew in town doing a ghost hunting show for a while but -- well, they met a ghost. I'm not sure what came of it, but I imagine that somewhere, some editor nixed the idea of a ghost story about a dead girl and a lady in her late sixties who somehow changed into a hot young thing every night at the Platinum for her pole dance. Maybe the editor is a regular at the Platinum."

"For Some Reason." Perdita responds with a little shrug. "I went to bed one night at the Murder Motel, woke up what I thought was the next morning in bed with some random fire fighter and when I tried to do my walk of shame before he woke up, he asked why I was trying to sneak out of my own place."

She begins spreading her schmear of choice, a plain cream cheese, over her bagel.

"I was missing... three months?" she looks to Ravn to confirm. "Missed Hot Girl Summer and everything. Went searching, found out I'm the proud legal owner of the building. Still not entirely sure how I paid for it, but I'm getting it restored to its original glory. Found the pattern for the old façade for the penthouse and I'm going to get that redone when the Orangery is done, too."

"I've met a few ghosts." she says, a bit more somber, now. "Mostly they seem to just be... remnants of people who can't quite move on, like an image projected on falling sand."

None of this really does much to convince Nicasia that this isn't a local in joke and she do much to try and keep it out of her expression. So there it remains, that subtle dubiousness, the not-quite-buying it, but the not-quite-leaving it either; she asked the questions, she takes the answers, and so maybe is going to sort through them at some later date. On her own time, not theirs.

"The ghost hunting show actually found a real live ghost and then didn't actually run with it?" There's that, something for her to ponder, though there's a little snort of almost-laughter at the idea that said ghost might moonlight as a dancer. Perdita's story gets a listen and then what might be the obvious question. "How are you paying for it now? Restoring it has to cost more than buying it outright." She might even be familiar with the building in question, at least in passing. In the end she can only shake her head and drink her coffee, sipping down some of what's probably going room temperature, but still worth more interest than either her beat-up laptop or the dog-eared file folders. "I really don't remember this place being anything like this, but maybe time did me a favor."

"They did a whole lot of recording," Ravn recalls. "Whether anything actually got on tape? I have no idea. Ghosts are notoriously camera shy, aren't they?"

He sips his coffee. "A lot of people lost twelve weeks. Myself, I found I'd bought a house on Oak Avenue and moved into it with a friend. Which we had talked about doing, granted, but I'd still expect to remember doing it."

"I inherited a bit of money when a friend passed last year. She wanted me to 'live better'." Perdita smiles, a little sadly, but fondly, too. Someone Dita seemed to really care about. "But mostly? Smart investments, doing a lot of the grunt work myself, with the help of my... friend. Plus, now I have tenants, one of them is a contractor who's always willing to do work in exchange for rent... and one of them is willing to pay nicely to have her apartment directly connected to her shop."

There's a little shrug, and Dita takes a bite of her bagel, then uses it to gesture toward Ravn to prove she's not crazy... or that if she is it's contagious.

"And you never dug into why that was, or how it happened? Twelve weeks times any amount of people is a lot of time to have go missing," Nicasia points out, but it's less Captain Obvious and more an overt fishing expedition. If curiosity actively kills around here she probably has a pretty short life expectancy, but is unperturbed. Mostly.

Then, "I guess some things in town work out for people. Though this inheriting a bonifide mess thing seems to be a common affliction." She gestures vaguely at her work pile, entirely unworked, more content to lean against the edge of the table and pry than she is to do whatever any of that happens to be.

"It happened to a lot of people." Ravn sips his coffee; if it's a tall tale, at least he's pretty committed to it. "No one ever did manage to find out why. Not everyone experienced it the same way. To some, it was a blink of an eye, and then it was twelve weeks later. Others found they'd carried on with their lives but they did not remember anything at all. And one woman -- who was out of town -- found that for twelve weeks, the outside world did not know Gray Harbor exists. She couldn't for the life of her get a plane ticket into Hoquiam Airport. Just, nope."

"I don't know if it's worked out, entirely. There's still those creepy ass tunnels in the basement... and yes, they're still there, or they were last week when I went down to clear out more of the furniture."

"For me, I kept going with my life and have no memory, as near as I can tell. Sort of like a fugue state. Did things mostly as I would have done, I guess, except buying a building and getting a cat. The fire fighter was business as usual, though." a slight shrug and her smile is hidden behind her coffee as she takes a sip.

"... Wait, Hoquiam has an airport?"

"...huh." It's a studied response, even if, in the end, that's all Nicasia arrives at. She looks between them both yet again, assessing and contemplative, and finally just shakes her head. "Does that sort of thing happen on the regular? Missing time. Ghosts. Homicidal foliage. Mutant crustaceans?" All of the many things she's picked up over the course of two brief conversations, some mental list checked and rechecked and still with some vague, underlying disbelief. Or unease. Or something.

That and, "I guess that's a no on taking our nasty old furniture."

Ravn can't help quirk a lip at that. "Your nasty old furniture probably can find new homes pretty quick if you put up a note on the corkboard at the community centre. Just don't expect much in terms of payment. There are a lot of people in this town still struggling to find their feet after Hurricane Cimaron last summer. Substantial property damage, particularly to the houses along the Chehalis -- half of North Bay tried to push right up the river."

Then he shrugs a little. "Gray Harbor is -- never dull. What can I say? Sometimes you wish it would be a little more dull. And yes, Hoquiam has an airport -- just a small private one but it's there. There's no commercial flights that I know of, but Hyacinth could definitely have afforded to charter a Cessna and fly in if she could have convinced anyone it existed."

"I mean... Worse comes to worse, and that doesn't work, you post it on Craigslist or Freecycle and someone will show up to take it off your hands if it's even remotely worth salvaging." Dita offers, after Ravn suggests the corckboard.

"Gray Harbor's never dull in the right ways." Perdita offers, tilting her head slightly. "It's not like there's a lot to keep you entertained if you're into the night life, fine cinema or five star restaurants," all things Dita is a huge fan of, "but if your idea of an entertaining night out is getting shitfaced and watching Bubba Junior and Allen get into a fight out in front of the Safeway about Bubba Junior knocking up Allen's sister Aldina, you're in the right town." she shakes her head slightly, clearly having witnessed exactly this, recently.

"Interesting. I'll have to see about chartering a plane down south, sometime. I miss sunshine and beaches."

"Yeah, I don't want money for it, I just want it gone, preferably without having to pay for its removal. Might try the community center first," Nicasia decides after weighing these various options, this somehow preferable to Craigslist. Or worse. Whatever worse is.

A little snerk of laughter follows this description of how the town isn't really dull, and she shakes her head. "That isn't really my idea of a good time; it sounds a little more like work. On the plus side, business seems like it ought to be booming, but our books are barely breaking even which makes me wonder what the old man was doing. Or not doing. But that's not nearly as interesting as mysterious hotels, missing time, and dancing ghosts. Seems positively mundane, in fact."

"We do have a five star restaurant, on the Casino Island," Ravn objects mildly. "Sitka is rather nice. I just never go because while the owner doesn't insist that you dress the part, it is kind of heavily implied, and I hate wearing a tie."

He glances at Nicasia at that last bit, though. "I wonder how many people actually end up in Gray Harbor on the run. I have a feeling it's a substantial amount, though not all of us are running from something that involves the law. I also suspect that most of them probably aren't found. This town changes people. Connects them, too. Do you have any idea what your old man was doing, if he wasn't doing what you thought?"

"Definitely try the community center. It's a great place to start for most things..." the bagel is finally finished, and Perdita takes another sip of her coffee.

"I've only been there once..." she can't quite repress her shudder of disgust, though. Memories of that weird ass Dream with the suicidal cows come flooding back. "Though I had that... one really bad nightmare about it. Haven't wanted to go back, since. I dreamed they tried to serve me live cow that spoke." She takes a deep breath... but then the conversation is turning toward the sort of work Nicasia does, and running from the law, and the already off kilter young woman's eyes widen. Interesting. She's able to get her voice back under control, but the careful mask of amusement she typically wears has been pulled back for the moment. She suddenly looks a lot younger than her almost twenty five years, more vulnerable.

"What sort of work do you do?" dark eyes move from the papers to Nicasia to Ravn, and there's a subtle tension that seems to suggest she might bolt at the wrong words.

Nicasia mmmns in a very soft, very noncommittal kind of manner. "I suspect that if I ever make it out to the casino it won't be for dinner." Especially not when Perdita starts talking about talking cows, which wins the arch of an eyebrow and the probable inevitability of yet another question. But this one she doesn't ask. Yet.

"Some of us ran away from Gray Harbor. Kind of unsuccessfully, I guess, though I managed to resist numerous attempts to reel me back in. But that's always how it happens, right? Just when you think you're free and clear, bam." She tips her cup this way and that, then has a sip.

There's a touch of clarification, first. "Not my old man. Myles's. Mine is, unfortunately, still kicking." She does indeed note the tension but doesn't address it directly, in the same way that she very much now doesn't look at the younger woman. "Leonard owned and operated Safe Harbor Bail Bonds for as long as I can remember. You know. Putting up something as bail for some defendant, pursuant to his or her her appearance in court, and when he or she fails to appear, there's pretty wide lattitude for pursuance of fees and damages and whatnot. We sort've picked up the trade, though operated out of Las Vegas until very recently, when Webber, Senior, passed away and left the mess to his son. It looks like he was mostly doing that, just not very well. Or was drinking every dime he made."

"It's not a town that makes it easy on anyone. A lot of people disappear here. Most of them homeless folks and ramblers, and no one even knows." Ravn nods and sips his coffee. "But yeah -- that's the whole Hotel California thing, you can check out but you can never leave, it'll find a way to pull you back."

He cants his head. "You're planning to stay in that business, then? I figure there's more money to be made that way in Vegas -- I mean, size of the city alone. On the other hand, might be worth it to talk to Rhys Evans -- the bloke who manages the Casino. Don't tell me people don't make bets they can't cover in a place like that, and yachters sneaking off in the middle of the night can't be too hard to track down. Sounds like easy money if you don't mind driving out to Ocean Shores or down to the next town over to pick the sucker up."

"That's always the way of it." Perdita agrees, and, with effort, seems to be coming back to herself. Just bail bonds. Not private eyes. "Safe Harbor Bail Bonds is an amazing name, at least."

"That does sound like a good way to make a buck in this town, and there's... not a lot of good, legitimate ways to do that." and Dita would know. "Don't let my bad dreams scare you off the casino, especially the restaurant. I get nightmares occasionally, and they're vivid as can be, but they're not based in reality."

Nicasia tilts her coffee cup again, a slow swirl of whatever's left inside. "People disappear everywhere," she counters. "Homeless people, people with mental disorders, runaways... that's not limited to just here. They're vulnerable and there's always going to be other people that prey on that."

A subtle, sharp little something creeps into her smile, but it's not aimed at either of them. "Kinda gives people in our line of work a bad rap; to be fair some of us do prey on that, but at the end of the day you get nine people who can't fork up the grand they need to post bail to go back to flipping burgers until their trial date, and one guy who decides skipping out on our dime is a much better choice than going to prison for another bid. So. Yeah. Rhys Evans? Might have to reach out, see if he's got anything adjacent."

Around and around goes the cup. Around and around goes the conversation. "I've had some pretty wild nightmares myself; if I let them scare me away from anything, I'd never go anywhere."

"I'm not going to pretend I know enough about the American court system to have an opinion on the whole posting bail thing." Ravn hitches a shoulder lightly. "I've been picked up by cops here a few times for loitering but that just came down to spending the night in the drunk tank and getting a talk about don't do it again, and a ride to the city limits." Of course it did; he's pasty white, male, and obviously a foreigner.

"Evans is a businessman. Sharp, attentive. And, I imagine, not keen on the idea of people pulling up the anchor and sneaking off at night. I can't imagine that doesn't happen -- casino's on an artificial island, most of the patrons are yachters from out of town. No idea whether he's already got somebody picking up runners, but it can't hurt to ask."

"I'm not a fan of the cops, or the criminal justice system, in general. I've seen how it can be twisted and perverted a little too often, and usually over money, race, or the combination of them. You don't drive cross country with this skin without getting pulled over a few times. Luckily, I have a dazzling wit, a charming smile, and a seemingly endless supply of low cut shirts to flirt my way out of bullshit." Perdita flashes one of those charming smiles.

"I also don't agree with the bail system," she now offers Nicasia an apologetic shrug, "If I do the same crime as Russ, over there, I shouldn't be able to be out running free because I can put up the Bauer Building. That said, I can't fault anyone who does a job that's needed under the current system and does their best to do it honestly and honorably, either."

Nicasia, who is fairly white, also has a slightly acidic smile. "You don't say. My father was a cop here for thirty-some years. My high school boyfriend was black. The system is definitely skewed in favor of money, and that tends to be disproportionately skewed in favor of race, but... yeah. The whole thing is a little broken, but it is what it is, you know? Find me some system that isn't." She's unapologetic; nonplussed.

And maybe casting a wide net for business; she fishes a pen out of a pocket of the jacket laying on the bench beside her and scribbles something on one of the file folders which might, if one is adept at deciphering chicken scratch, translate as Rhys Evans casino as a literal note to herself for later. "It's a living. It's a lot easier than working other missing persons gigs, anyway."

"White skin, good credit, and a pair of balls always works to your advantage." Ravn hitches a shoulder; it's fact, he's not going to argue otherwise, and certainly not to people who have personal experience. "I used to travel with Roma in Europe for a while. The shit cops threw at them just because they could."

Hazelnut roast is sipped; it's not what he wanted, but it's considerably less horrible than what he sometimes gets. No one carries a grudge like Della the Day Manager. "Gray Harbor is a little less -- well, like that. Maybe because our Chief of Police is a Mexican bloke? Not saying you won't find archetypal mouth-breathing donut eaters on the Force, but at least some of them are open to the idea that melanin is not a disease."

"That can't have been easy, for him, or for you." Perdita tells Nicasia, sympathy in her tone. "I'm the youngest of four. Romani and Mexican. Báte fled Hungary to come to a country where he could be treated as a human being first, but then ended up being treated like shit because he was a brown immigrant. Mamá got stopped by ICE for her immigration papers more times than I can count, even though her family's been here longer than half of their families. Older siblings got hassled by the police all the time, especially my older brother and sister. Oldest brother was protected a bit because he was good at football, but Dmi and Daya got a lot of crap. Me... I stayed inside. A lot."

At the comment from Ravn, she quirks an eyebrow at him, perhaps an inside joke. "It's a bit better, here, with de la Vega in charge... but I've experienced a lot of racist bullshit, first hand, from cops. Not so much here, but..." she blows up, her fringe fluffing up as she does. "Growing up in a small town is hard enough. Add in a racist police force and you've got a nightmare."

"White people don't have a lock on being racist assholes, just like non-white people don't have a lock on being criminals. People of every color, every size, shape, creed and constitution, are pretty much equally capable of being serious pieces of shit. Some of them seem to excel in some ways more than others but I'm not really going to sit around and play judge and jury. Glass houses, and all that." Nicasia pauses for just a moment, looking into her coffee cup, but her gaze slides to the counter as if debating whether it's worth giving up her seat to go get a refill. Apparently not, because she doesn't move, only regroups.

It's a longish moment before she diverts, question running in a different direction. "How effective is the local force, now? I vaguely remember what it was like here back in the aughts, but now? Gray Harbor crime statistics are not incredibly easy to come by."

Ravn cants his head as if to suggest that this is a question that's more complicated than just 'good' or 'shitty'. He sips his coffee and then makes the attempt anyhow. "Normal stuff -- I think they're no better or no worse than elsewhere. Like most places, understaffed, underfunded. Same ratio of guys who became cops because it's fun to shove folks around as anywhere else, I figure. Gray Harbor's got a scary ratio for violent crime and murder but most of it isn't so much the town as it's tourists and vagrants. It's not New York where they say the biggest mob gang in town wears blue, you know?"

"Flat white, thanks," says a tall, darker-skinned man at the counter, his accent clearly not local. Mikaere's wearing his usual cargo shorts, t-shirt and sleeveless fleece, along with a pair of boat shoes, never mind the spring weather, and has recently managed to wander past the table at the window with only a moment's consideration of those sitting there, two known, one not. For the moment, though, his attention's on Russ, and on making certain that his order-- surely not that complicated-- gets what it needs: which is to say, espresso and steamed milk in appropriate quantities.

Perdita merely looks at Nicasia for several moments, one eyebrow raised. And then the timer on her phone is going off. She taps it off, before she smiles warmly. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, but I’m afraid I have to run. Busy day, and all.” She rises smoothly to her feet, flashing a smile at Ravn and Mikaere, before depositing her disposable cup and paper plate in the trash on her way out the door.

The specific spot Nicasia picked out originally is prime real estate; she did spot Mikaere when he came in and there's that beat of study but it's the conversation that holds her primarily. Perdita's raised eyebrow gets the smallest one-shouldered shrug, but she doesn't elaborate any further. "A pleasure. Good luck with the orangery, and the architect." It leaves her with a bit more room to consider Ravn's reply to her question, which she turns over for a moment before trying, "Your tourists come here for the violent crime and murder sprees?" That makes it her turn to arch an eyebrow, but there's room provided for clarity, for elaboration. "Mostly this is professional curiosity," she adds. "Not that most of those ever make it to our offices, but hey."

"Nah. The tourists come for the festivals and the quaint Main Street, but mostly for the Grand Olympic Casino. We're between several national parks, so we get a lot of wildlife tourism as well." Ravn sips his coffee and raises a gloved hand in a wave to Perdita as she dashes off. "Town's got a higher death ratio annually than the rest of the state put together, though -- a lot of which is sailing accidents and people going camping without a guide. And a lot of it is related in some way to the casino, I figure -- people do stupid things when they lose money or try to impress one another. Most, though, we never hear about -- we who live here, I mean. It's people from out of town coming in and, well, leaving feet first."

Then he raises his hand again and waves at Mikaere. "Speaking of -- Mikaere, join us."

"Mm?" Mikaere may have clocked the what-was-a-trio at the window, but he's not, it seems, been paying them much attention while he waits for his coffee to be made-- not, that is, until the sound of his name disturbs him from his reverie (or is that simply very serious contemplation of milk frothing?) and draws his gaze.

After a moment's confusion, his attention zeroes in properly, and he lifts a hand, a gesture that seems to be both greeting and 'hold on a tic', the latter because his coffee is handed over, and he can meander his way towards the table-- and steal the chair Perdita's so recently departed. "Hey," he says. "Speaking of what?"

This time, Nicasia gets a longer glance, those dark eyes giving her a considering once-over.

"Sounds a lot like Vegas, although there you're more likely to get left six feet under the badlands soil than you are dumped in the harbor." Perfect coffee shop conversation. No, really. She tilts her head at Ravn, though. "Hpw much of that is because the place is... you know." There's a vague gesture with a pair of fingers, a circling back to some earlier conversation, or some earlier part of this one. "Or does your tourist industry also suffer from Hotel California Syndrome?"

Then Mikaere is invited to join them and she looks up at him again, trading that once over with one of her down, an up and down that arrives at, "What, you mean to tell me he's not from around here?" It's a sidelong shot at Ravn, but she's polite enough to then lift offer a two-fingered wave at him as he parks himself, more or less filling out the table's constellation once more. With the wave comes an introduction, tempered down to "Nicasia Aldrich. Full of questions. Still no business cards. I really ought to get on that."

"Most of it is -- yeah. You know. Things that need to eat." Ravn nods. If there's a faint trace of relief in his tone it's probably the fact that at Nicasia does seem to recognise at least part of what he means. That does save on him having to try to rationalise things that quite frankly can't be. "And sailing accidents are real enough, most of the time. Turns out that when you fill people up on champagne and coke, they probably shouldn't be allowed to sail a yacht."

"Mikaere Hastings," answers the bearer of that name, and no, he's definitely not from around here. Possibly Australian? South African? Kiwi? British, at a stretch. "Definitely not from around here, and also," at least his smile is bright and broad, full of even-but-not-perfect teeth, "No one on coke should be touching anything on a yacht, that's absolutely true. Or even a dinghy, frankly. Sail sober or not at all, that's my advice."

He lifts his coffee, then, taking a tentative sip. It seems to pass inspection, because he nods, and sets it back down again, though one large hand continues to curve about the mug.

Nicasia does catch on pretty quick. To some things. Sometimes.

"I rather prefer Jack and Coke; never been on a yacht, though. Not many of those where I was." There's that flash of smile, a sharp little twist like a tangle of barbed wire. "I can see how that would be a leading cause of death. Recklessness is the leading cause of a lot of things, come to think of it." She rolls that off with another languid one-shouldered shrug, gaze skittering doorward as some other patron comes in or goes out, the opening of the door offering the briefest of distractions.

"I'm guessing that sailsport isn't a big thing in Vegas, yes." Ravn chuckles -- but there's a lingering undertone of questions in his voice all the same, because where, if not Las Vegas, in the desert, would a certain breed of millionaire build a private yachting harbour and the lake to go with it? "Personally, I'm in favour of a good bottle of wine under the stars, but only after the weather report's been checked, the anchor dropped, and the designated sober sailor has been volunteered."

He glances at Mikaere. "I'm honestly not sure whether my Vagabond qualifies as a yacht. Back home, we call the floating houses for yachts -- or the old wooden schooners. A sail boat like mine is, well, a sail boat. I'm learning that this is not how it is done in English, though. Here, it seems to be a matter of how much you feel like bragging. Sail boat, meh. Yacht, I'm a rich guy from Olympia."

"Plenty of opportunity around here," Mikaere muses, in answer-- presumably-- to Nicasia's comment on not having been on a yacht. "Recklessness, generally-- yes. Common sense is less common than you'd hope, ay?"

The corners of his mouth draw up and then he properly grins, shaking his head in Ravn's direction. "In theory, I think, the difference is about whether she's big enough to sleep on. Got a cabin, some berths? You can call her a yacht. Although some will say it comes down to size, specifically. Personally, I'm happy calling my girl a boat, and 'sail boat' is better still, because I've no interest in a motor boat, and not much in a row boat, either."

"So you're from Vegas, then?" His attention has drawn back to Nicasia.

There's a dismissive shake of the head, confirming the general lack of boating in most any form out that direction; if there's a privage yachting harbor and lake, Nicasia never saw it. She listens then as they banter about boats, not quite so avid, not so passionate, but not disinterested. There's a professional contemplation there, some mental note or other made, though she can't help but snicker at Ravn's secondary observation. "I guess it does depend on what sort of image you're trying to portray. 'Course, my father lives on a boat and it's about the furthest thing from a yacht, or even a sailboat, as you can imagine. I'm not real sure the thing can even leave its berth."

And then the question gets turned on her and she shakes her head. "Sort of. More like one of Gray Harbor's prodigal daughters who made it out and almost but didn't quite resist getting dragged back in."

"Well, my girl sleeps six, if they're very good friends. Three if they're comfortable, one of whom better not be too tall." Ravn nods, chuckling. "I suppose she's a yacht by that standard, then. The lack of a shower probably counts the other way, though -- some of those floating villas have jacuzzis."

He doesn't sound envious. More like somebody who'd call that a terrible waste of electricity and effort. Filling it. Heating it. Emptying it. Cleaning it. Dude, there's a literal ocean for swimming purposes, right there. (Granted, the ocean is less great for bath bombs).

"I do have a shower-- thank you, recent model boat-- but honestly on long trips it's not a lot of use. Where's all the water supposed to come from? I can't imagine," and this, from Mikaere, is aimed towards Nicasia, thoughtful and considered, "living on a boat that doesn't actual sail. I appreciate people do it, of course."

A slower nod acknowledges her explanation. "Welcome back? People keep telling me that; that this place doesn't want to let you leave. Or draws you back in. I can see it, too."

Nicasia meets that thoughtful, considered expression with another little flash of something like bitterness, like she can't imagine it either. Or like it's worse, somehow, like it says something about the person who would do such a thing, but she doesn't get into it. "I can't imagine living someplace without running water for very long. I don't even need a jacuzzi. Just hot water and enough pressure that I don't have to wonder if it shut off every time I close my eyes." Then her eyes narrow. "Wait, do you both also live on your boats?"

There's another one-shouldered shrug at the question. "I guess. I can't say as I ever felt any need to return. Had more reasons to stay good and gone, until I didn't. I came back as moral support, if you can believe it. A business opportunitiy. Mistakes may've been made, what can I say?"

Ravn laughs softly. "I do eight months a year, yes. Well, sort of. I also live on Oak Avenue where our house has a shower. But I do like to spend a lot of time on my boat, and I do sleep there most nights. My cat is kind of adamant about it -- she hates living on the land. And you know how it is, a man's got to obey the woman in his life."

He shakes his head at that last bit, though. "Moral support is never a mistake. You may end up deciding this was not where the two of you ought to be, and leave again. But turning up to have a mate's back is never a bad thing."

Mikaere has not missed that look on Nicasia's face, but it gets filed away rather than commented on. He, too, laughs at her question, his answer coming after Ravn's, but not disconnected from. "I don't, at the moment, but that's because my girl is up on dry dock being repaired. She's supposed to be back in the water tomorrow, though, even if she's still not entirely seaworthy. Not going to lie, there's something luxurious about a full-size shower and proper bed, these days, but I like my freedom, too."

He refocuses his attention on his coffee, though not without adding, "Supporting people you care about's not a bad thing, no. Nothing's permanent, as I've been reminded a few times. If it doesn't work... you can always leave again, whatever this town thinks or wants or tries."

There's a huh but it isn't really a word so much as it is just the sound; Nicasia doesn't even open her mouth. Not until she's rounded up her coffee cup again and had a sip. There s a slight curl of her lip at Ravn though, at his cat-adjacent wisdom, but she declines to comment on that. The other, though...

"You sure about that? The way you all have been talking makes it seem like this is some kind of giant roach motel, like now that we're back the only way we're getting out is in a box. I don't know. Maybe we'll stay, maybe we'll go. Maybe he'll stay and I'll go. Maybe it was just meant to be all along." Her expression ventures toward bitterness again but coffee cures that ill, at least until her cup is empty. "What about you?" This is for Mikaere. "You're a long way from home. You on an extended vacation, or you stuck because your boat's busted?"

"People like us don't often leave," Ravn says with a small shrug. "It's a fact. It's also a fact that sometimes, people do. And when they do, it's usually without a goodbye -- you realise one day that you haven't seen Jack for weeks. You go check out his place, turns out he doesn't live there anymore. Where did Jack go? Maybe he got eaten by the dark. Maybe he moved back to Seattle and didn't want to deal with the baggage. Have you read Watership Down? Think Cowslip's Warren, except that we do try to look out for each other as long as people want to be looked out for."

"Little bit of column a, little bit of column b," Mikaere admits, around the rim of his cup; there's more coffee to be drunk. "I arrived because my boat was busted. Seems like the place wants me to stay, though, and since I don't have any burning need to be anywhere else, just yet... here I am. Maybe I'll get a job. Apparently I'm allowed to, now, despite never having lifted a finger to make it happen. Maybe I'll run out of money and have to skulk back home; we'll see. But--"

He acknowledges Ravn, now: people don't leave. "I do intend to leave, and I like to hope I'll do so in a way that is respectful of the friends I've made here. But it doesn't always seem to be that simple."

Beat. "Place wants you to stay. Doesn't mean you don't still have free will."

This is all listened to. Absorbed; Nicasia is making mental notes for sure, now that she's out of coffee and has little to do but lean against the tabletop, the work she brought along definitely not even a little bit being looked at. "I really ought to say that figuring out my exit strategy is premature. Haven't even been here a week." And yet she's the one who keeps looking at the door. "Haven't give anything or anyone a fair shake yet. It's not really all doom and gloom, right? The parks are nice. Downtown is awful pretty. People are reasonably charming. Business might even be good."

"I stay for the people," Ravn readily admits. "I've found a network here, of people who are a lot like myself in some ways. The rest? Nowhere is perfect. You win some, you lose some. I'd rather live in nowhere, WA and feel like I belong, than go home and feel like I've been in the wrong place all along. Does that mean I've drunk the kool-aid? Probably."

Mikaere sets down his mug, already empty, and answers Nicasia's comments with a nod of his own. "I haven't figured out why I'm still here yet," is honest enough, and a little self-effacing: surely that's something he ought to have worked out. "Aside from the obvious issue with my boat. I ought to be impatient to be going, and I'm not, and not even because I have a date for Friday."

No pause, there. He continues immediately: "It's a decent enough place, though, despite everything. There's a warmth. In a sense, it's a better place than it should be. Somehow. But."

His shrug is even. It is what it is. Whatever that is.

"It is what it is. I guess we're going to make a go of it. Kind of have to, since I broke my lease and packed all my stuff. Put all my chips on Gray Harbor. Some of the people seem nice enough." There's some amusement behind this, shown as Nicasia looks between them, one and then the other. "And maybe I'm a bit of a sucker for a mystery. Plenty of that to go around, huh? Congratulations," she adds, concerning the date.

A fingertip is pushed into her cup, sliding it about half an inch toward Ravn. "Is there kool-aid?" It's also not very super serious. "It's kind of a lot. All at once. I doubt any place is really genuinely good, but I'm real sure some places are actively malevolent. Whatever it is, it can't really be any worse than Vegas, can it? A different place. Different problems. Different struggles. But some people are gonna be assholes no matter where you go, and some people are going to be fine, upstanding sorts you want to have your back. For moral support."

Ravn nods his agreement. "I think it comes down a lot to who you are. Gray Harbor has a habit of swallowing people up. Giving us some local issues to worry about, no fucks given about who you were somewhere else. To some of us, that's what we were looking for -- somewhere to disappear and just become part of the tribe. Or at least, it was to me. I have a home in Denmark. I'm not heading back there anytime soon. I have relatives; I don't like them. I have few obligations, and none that cannot be handled over the net. Here, I have friends and people who are far closer to me than any actual blood relatives."

Mikaere's got a quiet little smile for the acknowledgement of his date; the kind that suggestions definite satisfaction with the situation, but does not seek to change the topic with it. A man's got to keep some things to himself, after all, lest he be seen to be a squealing girl about it, which would never do.

"There's a lot to sink your teeth into here, I think," he agrees. "And Ravn's right; it's easy to feel like you're part of the tribe, now, part of something. It's not always a happy, shiny something, but it's-- still something."

One of them has probably seen the particular expression of dubiousness that Nicasia ends up donning, like she's rather less sure now that this isn't actively some elaborate practical joke, some weird local humor - some weird foreign local humor - that she's stumbled into, cognitive dissonance furthered by the simple fact that neither of them are from this country, nevermind this state, nevermind this town. "I'm not sure I'm looking for a tribe," she admits slowly. "But I've only been in town three days, and I'm still looking for some more basic needs. Maslow wasn't quite wrong in deciding people need to deal with stuff like shelter and security before they start thinking too hard about self-actualization and ghosts." Because those two things are totally related.

"But you are the worst combination of fascinating and forthcoming, and there's definitely something here. Of course for every answer there is, I have about a dozen more questions. Occupational hazard." Her arms recross in the opposite configuration along the edge of the table. "So what do you do with all of That?"

"Ask a hell of a lot of questions and some day realise that now you're the person people are asking questions of," Ravn says quite earnestly. "I woke up one morning and realised -- I had this image of myself of the new kid in town but somewhere in there, I became the bloke at the community centre, and a lot of people come to me first. Not because I know everything, but because I know everybody. I'm the bloke who doesn't know what to do about your problem -- but I probably do know who has a good idea."

Maybe Mikaere's picked that expression up. Maybe he gets it, too, because there's a twitch of a smile there, and the faintest little bob of a nod.

It does mean he holds his tongue, waiting until after Ravn's spoken to venture forth with anything else. "One day at a time," he agrees. "Whether you want to or not, you're probably going to end up caught up in it. In something. Sirens on the harbour, or cryptids in the woods. Dreams." Definitely not just capitalised because that was the start of a new sentence, that one. "You learn to roll with it. Or you don't. Sometimes you just don't."

"The day people start asking me questions is the day I know it's time to move on," Nicasia murmurs, a stray thought shared, passed like currency for the conversation. "Hey, maybe I'll beat the odds. Maybe you all are just special and I in fact am going to do exactly what it says on paper. Keep my head down, chase my cases, get Safe Harbor out from underwater, and then... I don't know, retire to Florida and take up residence in a trailer with a lawn full of plastic flamingos and assorted water fountain saints."

Mikaere gets a slight narrow-eyed look. "Real sirens? Bigfoot?" Yeah. Right.

"Oh, the sirens are real enough. And a bit of a problem." Ravn winces a bit. "They're part of the yachting accidents rate. That said, they don't usually go for women so you're good. No one really understands the rules there but they have some kind of rules. Fish girls who sing and lure men into the ocean, though. You'll probably meet a homeless guy on the boardwalk who hands out flyers about them. The unusual thing is that while Denny's got a diagnosis of paranoid schizophrenia, the rest of us can see the damned things too."

Good luck with that, says the glance Mikaere aims at Nicasia. Still, he doesn't comment on it; that might be impolite.

Instead, "I ran into the sirens, a little while back. Fishing cruise, not that we ended up being able to actually catch anything. They wanted the men. The ones who weren't-- like us. Women are breeders. Damndest thing, really."

The memory makes him frown. "But mostly, they just wanted to feed their young. I mean, that's a thing. A reality. That's what animals want to do. What we want to do, too-- Maslow, ay? But a bit shit for the ones they want to eat, and in this case, that's humans."

It's actually possible to see the moment where Nicasia crosses the line between thinking they are both really just making this up as they go along and deciding that no, they are actually very serious about this, like some vital cog in her brain slips a gear and she's left just kinda staring. At one, then the other, back and forth, forth and back. And possibly just how critically unprepared for it she is. It's fully twenty seconds before she manages, "And, what, Fish and Wildlife just conveniently manages to keep the man-eating sea people off its native species list? Or is that more an issue because they ate the census takers?"

"Bit of both, I imagine." Ravn looks into his coffee mug. "Most people see harbour seals. Or sharks. There's some pretty big sharks in these waters -- dogfish, and even the occasional great white. Drunk yachter jumps overboard for shit and giggles, doesn't come back up. Swimmer swims too far out, current takes him. Tide's treacherous in the bay as it is. There's always a rational, plausible explanation."

"Seals," agrees Mikaere. "Though they look, to me, more like sharks with lady-shaped upper bodies. Well-- sort of. Not fully." The anatomical details go unspecified, probably at least in part because the tall Kiwi has registered something of Nicasia's thought processes, and may not want to go too far down this rabbit hole. "As far as most people are concerned, they're just seals, though, and accidents just happen. It's the damndest thing to see, they way they justify things away."

He hesitates, then gives her a sympathetic little smile.

"Seals, sharks... seems a lot more likely than sirens." There's always a plausible, rational explanation and Nicasia settles for that for the time being. For now. "All the same I don't think I'll be swimming any time soon, even if they aren't interested in women."

Ravn can't quite hold back a small smile at that. He's had that reaction to things -- several times. One, in particular stands out. "I had a -- we call them Dreams. They're kind of like lucid dreaming but more real. Often very bizarre. I had one of those Dreams a while back. I was at the Casino restaurant, with three other people. A double date, I think? Either way, they only served meat. And that's when we realised that the meat was the wait staff. Everyone were cows. And they wanted us to eat them, so they could die and escape. After that one, I went strictly vegetarian for a while. You cope, somehow. I still look at cows with some reservations."

This, at least, is bizarre enough to draw Mikaere's attention away from Nicasia and towards Ravn. His mouth twitches, then breaks into a full-blown smile-- just short of an outright laugh. "Ah, fuck," he says, not un-cheerfully. "That'd do it for me, too. That kind of brainfuck is never much fun."

A flick of a glance goes back to Nicasia, though, just to see how she's taking this story.

Nicasia hasn't packed up and run for the door; that's something, right? "Perdita said something about a dream about that casino and live, talking cow for dinner," she says slowly, carefully. "Is that a common thing, or..." Hasn't packed up and run off yet, but she does now close the screen of her laptop, one slow gesture that might at least be a step toward her exit strategy. Slowest retreat ever. "All this strange shit and yet you're still here. Still want to be here. You people must really be something, collectively."

"No, that's what reminded me. She was my date for that dinner." Ravn shudders. "And we did end up having to fight off cows that tried to force us to eat them. It was the ultimate vegan propaganda experience. Weaponised beef dinner."

He shudders again. "I wouldn't miss that part. Wanting to be here is in spite of that sort of experience. Wanting to be here is about having made friends, grown fond of people. A bit like soldiers in a war they know they're losing. They stick around because of the others. All for one, one for all, that sort of thing."

"Sounds hokey, doesn't it?" Mikaere's not entirely drunk the kool-aid. Not enough of it to prevent him from wrinkling his nose, and then letting out a little huff of laughter. "I've been here a few weeks, and I've not Dreamed yet," he puts in. "Plenty of other weird shit, but not that. But I've Dreamed before, back home, so it's not a new thing to me, and I'm prepared for it; it'll happen. Generally does."

"I've had a couple of super doozy nightmares but nothing quite like that." Nicasia shakes her head. "I honestly can't imagine. Or maybe I can and I'm not sure if that's better or worse, I'm just going to hope it's not contagious." Something's still out of gear mentally because it takes a second before she gets back to, "You two had the same dream? Is that common?"

There's then a very slight nod at Mikaere. "More than a little, yeah. I'm not sure whether I should just nod and smile or be more actively, even proactively concerned that you all are even telling me this. And then wondering if I need to go load up on shotgun shells or something."

"It's not as uncommon as you'd think. And it's one of the ways to tell which dreams are just dreams and which are Dreams, capital D." Ravn nods slightly. "Also, honestly? Don't. Don't bring a gun to a fight -- it can be turned around and used against you. It's tempting to go all defensive but it's very rarely going to make any real difference. I'd be more worried about something disarming me and using my firearm against me since it's there and up for grabs."

Mikaere nudges his empty cup out of the way, and gives Nicasia a crooked smile. "It's better to know about them before you end up in one, in my opinion," he says. "It's not actually going to make the experience much easier, but at least you'll have some awareness. Like-- if you get hurt in a Dream, you're getting hurt for real. So if you know that, you know not to do anything too stupid, just because it seems like a good idea. And,"

He acknowledges Ravn with a nod. "He's right. But I speak as a non-American, and thus a man for whom guns are just short of horrifying."

Nicasia looks between them again. So, what, you just stand there and take whatever this random cryptid nightmare shit dishes at you? You run away? You light some candles and wave some incense and say some magic words?" And she was doing so well up to this point. Maybe she's just reached saturation point on the weird.

"Sometimes. Sometimes there's a point. Sometimes there's something you can do. Sometimes it's just fucking weird." Ravn upends his mug; alas, everything has an end and hazelnut roast does, too. "That said, I'm Danish. We're just as concerned about American gun laws. Not going to pretend I don't own a firearm, though -- friend of mine insisted. I've never used it for anything but shooting up plushie weasels. I think -- you have to go a little crazy here yourself, or at least be willing to accept that sometimes, shit's just messed up."

He glances back at Nicasia. "But honestly -- honestly -- is that so different from everywhere else? Las Vegas, people go there, get wasted, get married to a hooker and a pair of rollerskates, end up dead in an alley. How's that crazier? It's just a matter of what the predators look like."

"You use your brain," Mikaere suggests, evenly enough. "Whether that's to reason your way through something, or to-- fry something with the power of your mind." An entirely reasonable possibility.

"It's-- eh, no. It's fucked up. Sometimes. Do you need us to stop talking? We can stop talking."

Is it honestly so different from everywhere else? Nicasia's expression very much says yes yes it IS. It's in the shape of her mouth, the way it's partially open, caught without words, in the way one eyebrow has lifted in an almost incredulous little squiggle. Mikaere isn't entirely spared that either.

It takes her another twenty seconds or so to recover her ability to speak. The expression is scrubbed off her face with one hand, fingers ending up over her brow, rubbing there hard like this whole thing is starting to give her a headache. "I'm not sure I need you to stop talking, but I'm pretty sure it's Jack and Coke for dinner. Or maybe champagne and coke, but then I'll probably end up going home with a chupacabra, right?" She dives off this train of thought so fast that somebody might break something in the process, but somehow it's also not a huge leap of logic to her next question, which is both oddly specific and very vague. "So it's not just the place that is weird, it's the people? You randomly do... stuff?"

"A lot of people do -- stuff." Ravn glances at Mikaere, a little evasively. Maybe he's concerned that Nicasia has had what she can take in one sitting. Maybe this is not the time to make his coffee mug do backflips in the air by force of will, or other interesting stunts to impress the masses. Maybe this is a time to let her digest what she's got.

And remember. "Why do you ask? Not trying to be cheeky, and I apologise if I sound like it. You grew up here. People who leave, tend to forget. Consider the option, at least, that you asked that question because you do in fact know the answer."

Mikaere catches that glance, and though it's subtle, he's got the faintest little incline of his chin in acknowledgement. The human brain is malleable, and impressive, but it's also-- human. There are limits.

He turns his gaze back on Nicasia, studying her thoughtfully all over again.

He says nothing.

"The other day I saw someone do something," is where Nicasia starts with that, but maybe that's too vague, so. "He was looking for something. Needed something, more like, and didn't really look for it so much as it just sort of came to him. I thought I was seeing things. This isn't a matter of forgetting, you know? This is me wondering if I need to start scheduling regular appointments with a therapist."

Ravn shakes his head. "No. You probably didn't imagine that. It's absolutely a thing."

One that he can do, at that. There's a time to show off. It's not when someone looks like they're already balancing on the edge of a meltdown.

"It's a lot to swallow," he says instead. "But consider this: If you kind of, sort of vaguely remember things -- that might explain why you didn't in fact run screaming. That's what a normal person would do. That, or start looking for the invisible strings. Because if there's one thing we all know, it's that telekinesis is not real. And yet you saw it happen."

"You saw it happen," agrees Mikaere, just quietly. "And you haven't forgotten it. The brain-- we're capable of more than we know. Sometimes, a lot of times." His smile is a sympathetic one.

"You're not crazy. I promise you that."