2022-05-05 - I Can Work With This

Morning on the marina. The season has officially begun, and the tourist boats have started to appear. Many are floating dens of iniquity -- or at least, nice summer residences -- docking out at the Casino Island. A number land in the marina proper so that vacationers may enjoy a bit of shopping in the quaint little town; Cape Cod it ain't but, Cape Cod is a lot further away if you're on a week trip out of Seattle and Puget Sound. A number of them are here because of the wildlife preserves on the north side of the bay, and for walks and day trips to the National Park. A number want to combine a trip inland to Olympia with a day of shopping with the Quinault, maybe.

Not so Ravn Abildgaard. His Vagabond is docked on the marina because that's its berth. He's in the aft with a stack of papers, a pot of fresh instant coffee (read: electric kettle of water and a jar of instant coffee powder), and a black cat grooming herself. Every now and then someone familiar walks past on the pier and he raises a gloved hand in greeting because yes, he has work to do and he's going to do it -- in a bit. First, coffee and morning May sun, and a chat with anyone who just happens to stroll past.

Like, for instance, one Mikaere Hastings, who does not live on his Wā Kāinga officially, but certainly is spending more and more time here now that she's back in the water, both for the part-time work he's picked up helping out around the marina, and... other reasons, many and varied. Dressed in his usual cargo shorts and t-shirt, currently sans the sleeveless fleece he often adds on top, the tall Kiwi meanders his way down the pier with a reusable shopping bag slung over one shoulder, and a takeaway coffee (in a glass keep cup, mind you) in one hand.

Vagabond is familiar, her occupants more so; Mikaere pauses as he approaches, then tilts his head up to get a better look and to offer a not-uncheerful, "Morning, Ravn."

Ravn raises his gloved hand in a wave. Kitty Pryde doesn't; statuesque feline rarely acknowledges anything that isn't to her direct advantage. "Morning, Hastings." Still with the habit of just using people's last names, that one. There's probably a reason for it, and it probably has to do with foreign languages.

He glances at his stack of magazines, most of them colourful. "Come on out for coffee? Tell me whether you're the daddy of a blue kid yet? I haven't been back to Oak Avenue for two days, I'm a coward and I'm proud of it."

"Oh you heard about that, did you?" Mikaere makes a face: it's one of genuine distaste, in no way ameliorated by an attempt at cheerfulness. "I was there when she found the thing, and despite my insistence that I was not up for parenthood, and Ava's assurance I'm not on the hook-- well, I have been sent out for baby supplies."

Look at that expression. Just look at it: the utter dismay.

"How rude do you think it is, saying 'thanks so much for the room, I'm moving back to my boat now' do you think?"

Ravn pats the seat next to himself in an informal invite; hop out and have that coffee here. "She texted me and Kinney. Must have been pretty much standing next to you and texting, it seemed kind of -- very much while it happened. Not sure what I expected to come out of those Veil fig seeds but, blue babies weren't it."

He laughs softly. "I don't know about polite, man. I know I'd be out of there so fast you'd have to forward my mail for a week. Having an oopsie -- okay, you stay around, you were part of that, you make decisions together. Plucking a kid off the cabbage patch out in the back? I don't know, I mean, I guess we should offer to help find out where that kid belongs, if there's a tribe to return it to, something. But I for one am not ready to be somebody's father."

This time, the invitation is taken up with silent, smiling acknowledgement. Mikaere steps aboard, setting down his bag of shopping before taking up the available seat, coffee shifted from one hand to the other to ease that movement. "Ah: you're the ones she was texting; that makes sense. Felt a bit like I was missing half the conversation."

"I'm... yeah. Fatherhood's a big step, and one I'd rather take after deliberate consideration and decision-making, in a stable relationship, and just... no, not like this. I mean, Deacon's the obvious choice, anyway, but being present at the arrival of the kid, that put me in a spot I wasn't expecting. I'm not sure what Ava's intending to do. I'd like to see the kid back where it belongs though, yeah. It may have grown here, but I don't think it belongs."

Ravn shoves the magazines off to a side; they seem to the colourful lot -- the kind of tabloids you'd be reading if you desperately wanted the Bigfoot and Sasquatch and Nessie stories to be true. "Pretty certain the kid doesn't belong here. I'm sure the idea of just keeping it is tempting to some -- but we don't know the first thing about what needs a plant-human hybrid has. I mean -- looking funny is the least of it. There are blue humans. There's a blood disorder -- famous family in Kentucky, and so on. It happens. But what kind of biological needs does a human plant have? Does she need to photosynthesise? Or is she a pitcher plant who absorbs nourishment through her skin? You catch my drift. We might end up hurting her or worse, out of sheer ignorance."

He sips his coffee. "Although I suppose that if it has to happen, at least she grew in a doctor's greenhouse. Still, I think just adopting the kid is -- I mean, never mind the whole part about becoming parents because you want to, you also need to think of the kid's needs."

Do Mikaere's eyes flick over the magazines, lingering just for a moment or two? They do. Does he seem inclined to comment? Not so much.

"Will the kid look blue to... other people? But you're right, yeah: I don't know the first thing about this kind of biology, and the last thing I'd want is for some poor, innocent baby to end up hurt because we didn't know. Well. Not 'we'. Definitely not 'we'. It's not a case of not trusting Ava, just-- whole lot of uncertainty there."

He rolls his shoulders, easing into a pose of relaxation despite the obvious tension that's still visible in his expression as he considers this little blue baby. "May no girl I'm dating ever accidentally grow a little blue baby in a greenhouse, that's all I'm saying. Talk about a nightmare."

"Yeah. If I had a greenhouse, now'd be when you'd be finding me trying to sell it." Ravn makes a wry face. "Not quite ready to be a parent either, thanks. And, no -- it's not trust or lack of trust in Brennon. No one can make the right choices without the relevant information. She can't have a clear overview because we don't know what the fuck is happening."

He shakes his head and sips his coffee. "Could be interesting, finding out what someone 'normal' sees. Still hoping some faerie flower woman is going to turn up and say thank you for babysitting, though. This is the kind of nightmare that turns a bloke off the idea of dating, and in this case, it's not even a matter of Brennon forgot to be careful."

Mikaere turns his glass coffee mug in his hand, then finally lifts it to his mouth to take another quick sip. There's not much left in it, and it's probably getting cold, but it's something to do; a distraction, if you like, from some of the more serious parts of this conversation.

"There's no helpful guide for raising a child with unknown biology," he agrees. "And instinct's only going to take you so far. I haven't... asked how it's going." Indeed, he's made himself positively scarce. Bless the timing that made sure this happened after his boat was refloated.

"And arguably," he adds, "by growing Veil fruits in the first place she forgot to be careful, it's just a different brand of careful. Not going to lie, I'm investing in more condoms, though. My heart sank when I saw that kid, and that's an undeniable sign I'm not ready for parenthood."

"You shouldn't be having unprotected sex anyway unless you are trying to have a kid." Ravn nods. "Yeah, yeah. It's not sexy, it takes away from the spur of the moment. Whatever. Nothing romantic about having to have that conversation, either. I have Opinions about this. Known too many people who should definitely not have stayed together but they do because of the damn kid, my own parents included."

He looks up at the blue sky overhead; not a cotton tail of a cloud in sight. "I don't know if I even want kids, at all. But if I do? I won't be picking them on a bush. So we got to work out how to help, sure, but also, how to not end up trapped in some kind of twenty-year commitment, I guess."

"'No glove, no love', as they say," says Mikaere, with the faintest hint of a smirk, though he's equally nodding his firm agreement. "And it's not just on her, not ever. It made the end of my marriage significantly easier, not having to deal with having brought kids into the equation."

He draws his free hand to rest on his uncovered knee, broadly covering the surface there. "Agreed, anyway. If I have kids, it'll be because a partner and I agreed, together, that it was something we wanted. Doesn't mean I won't try and support Ava, help however I can, as long as it doesn't mean actual parenting. Buying nappies at Safeway was not my favourite task ever, but it's harmless, right? And longer term... if I can help get this baby back to wherever it needs to be, I'll do that too."

"Yeah. We don't just leave her to deal with stuff on her own because we don't like the nature of the problem." Ravn runs a gloved hand through the mop he calls hair. "I'll buy formula and nappies, sure, if somebody gives me a grocery list. Won't be the first time either -- community centre, people come in with babies and toddlers all the time for everything from baby yoga classes to help me find the deadbeat dad and make him pay his child support."

He reaches for the electric kettle to refill his mug -- and raises an eyebrow at the other man. Proper coffee to go it ain't, just instant -- but it's here. "Do we know anything about this Deacon bloke, how he'll take it? I haven't met the man. Well, I kind of have met the man. Except not."

He hitches as shoulder. "I met him in a Dream a night or two back but I was a cat, and I was thinking like a cat. So all I remember is this big guy with some kind of make-up on, dressed like I don't know what he was supposed to be. I think he was some kind of wizard."

One of Mikaere's eyebrows lifts as Ravn says 'help me find the deadbeat dad and make him pay his child support', but he doesn't ask (if, indeed, there is a question in there in the first place). Instead, he pulls the lid off of his keep cup, drains what's left inside, then extends it in answer. Coffee is coffee, in the end, and given how long it must have taken to sail from New Zealand to here, he's probably well and truly used to it.

"You were a cat," he repeats. "And he was a wizard. Sounds like a hell of a Dream. I've no idea how he'll take it, though, no. I only know him in passing, and he seems... less deeply involved in this world than others. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not."

"A lot of local folks are like us. They see and hear things. And they just -- ignore it." Ravn nods. "I guess it's a way to cope. A lot of people here are like that about the Dreams. It's just another kind of price you have to pay to live here, like taxes or your mortgage."

He pours water into both mugs and then a spoonful of instant to each as well. "I don't like cops, general. I know a couple of cops I like individually. Lived a bit too much on the street to not see dough nut eater and consider bailing. For what it's worth, the GHPD is a lot less shitty than cops in a lot of other places. Helps that the Chief is like us, I suppose."

"Likely enough, the less attention you pay, the less you engage, the more you're left alone," supposes Mikaere, knowingly enough. "Though I'm not sure I haven't used my gifts more often since being here than-- well, for the most part, back home. But not many Dreams, so far. Not a complaint, mind. The convenience store was a shitty reminder of what they can be like."

He considers Ravn for a moment, his slow nod suggesting he's still thinking through something else the Dane has mentioned. "That's a useful thing. My old man, he was a cop, not that he was... like us. Maritime police, specifically. He'd've liked his sons to join him, but neither of us did. Maybe ten or twelve per cent of the NZ police are Māori; it's the usual story of racism and violence, though at least they don't carry guns. Even in a suit, a brown man's suspect, sometimes."

"Yeah. I want to say it's not that bad but I used to travel with Roma and, yeah." Ravn lets that one lie. Bigotry is well and alive and doing just fine pretty much everywhere he's been. If there was ever anywhere it wasn't, it was his childhood home -- not because he grew up in a socially conscious and liberal environment but because brown people barely existed in his sheltered world.

He sips his coffee. "Dream was weird. I was a cat and I''m pretty certain I missed a lot of things because I was a cat. I could still see and hear, just -- my priorities were different. Normally I'd be all, learn everything, remember it all, find out what we can use. I was more just, whatever, if you guys are going to fight keep me out of it and also, dibs on eating the half-unicorn if he dies."

"Yeah." Mikaere, too, lets that one go: acknowledged, but not dealt with. In the end, what more is there to say, without getting stuck in the weeds of millennia of human tradition inclined to other and diminish.

He doesn't put the lid back on his cup, and instead sips carefully from the rim of it. "... half-unicorn," he says, instead, mouth twisting in a way that is not amused, but could perhaps be the bastard step-child of such a feeling. "That must be a strange thing. Being... not yourself, like that. Usually, I find Dreams want you actively doing something. There's a point."

"I think the point of this one was to make us miserable," Ravn murmurs. "To show us something and then make it clear to us that this sucks and there is nothing we can do about it."

He rubs his temple. "Brennon was in it. She was an elf, a very under-dressed elf. I remember her being angry, her and another doctor -- that they couldn't save anyone. Something about a disease or plague, that they couldn't even investigate. But it's all kind of hazy because a cat's priorities are more along the lines of, is there something to eat? Some tabby to fuck? Some other tom to fight? Whatever."

"Hm." It's not quite as neutral as a 'hm' so often is-- really, Mikaere is genuinely thoughtful, the furrow of his brow indicative of some deeper thought. "Well, that sounds shitty. Especially for a doctor. I'd ask her about it, but--"

But now might not be a good time. And maybe, no time is a good time to ask about this kind of thing, let's be honest.

"Feels like there's a lot going on. Haggleford, the thing with the post-its. Ava's blue baby. This just par for the course around here?"

Ravn shakes his head. "No. There's more activity than usual. The Veil does its thing -- it's usually pretty random. Sometimes it's just strange, sometimes it's awful like the Seven-Eleven, but it's still random. Whoever this Haggleford bloke is, that's not random. That's somebody making some very bad decisions and carrying them out. The post-its, probably pertains to the Other Side Gray Harbor and the Vivisectionist -- and that's fucking bad news too, because we don't want that kind of attention if we can avoid it. The blue baby -- might just be Veil fuckery, but then, Brennon kind of did open her door wide and send out gilt invitations when she built a greenhouse next to a faerie circle and filled it with with August Røn's Veil fig seeds."

Mikaere balances his coffee on his knee, and frowns, listening intently to Ravn's explanation. "I was afraid of that," he says, finally. "I mean, maybe it doesn't make it worse, knowing this is unusual, but it doesn't make it better, either. Lack of randomness indicates intent, and intent is absolutely bad news."

He turns his head, glancing out towards the open harbour, the boats skimming across the waves, and the blue, cloudless sky. "Makes me nervous. This much attention. Hello, we've all walked into a trap."

"Yeah. It bugs me when it's personal. I can kind of accept a world view where we're just not the top predator. You have a food chain, humanity's on it, just, we're not the top link. It sucks, but rabbits and cows probably also think it sucks. It's still -- sane. Nature isn't unnecessarily kind or cruel, it just is." Ravn sips his his coffee and stretches his legs.

"This? This bothers me because this Haggleford character is consciously playing against us. Which means that if that dream wasn't all bull, there's another city out there, that considers us either the enemy or a fair hunting ground. That's not not being the apex predator. That's being at war."

"That's..." Mikaere hesitates over his answer, his face a mask of unquestionable concern. He's turned back, now, eyeing Ravn."Yeah. Yes. That's absolutely the thing. If that's true," and the 'holy shit' is unspoken but so obviously, deeply, visibly there, "then... we have to fight back against it. I don't mind being on the food chain, if that's the way it is. You can't fight reality. But if we're the enemy, that's not the same. That's not cougars. It's not us against cows, either."

He exhales, though none of the tension leaves him in the process. "So what the hell do we do?"

Ravn glances at his stack of magazines. "Well, I'm not a fighter. I'm the know-it-all nerd. So I'm nerding -- trying to teach myself everything I can find about American cryptids. We know that this guy uses cryptids somehow, to transport things and people. That place over by Humptulips River, the mothman in the lumber mill, you recall? So I want to be able to skim the Gazette or Friendzone, and actually notice if someone is making obscure references to cryptids. Because it might just be some kind of message from this bloke to his minions, or whatever."

He smiles wryly. "So far I've learned that Washington State's big on Sasquatch and lake monsters. Which probably explains why the cryptids we have seen aren't local -- it's hard to get a lake lizard out of its lake."

Mikaere's eyes track back towards the magazines, and he laughs. Not a happy, cheerful laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. "That explains the trashy mags," he says, one corner of his mouth twisting upwards into a half-smile.

"It makes sense, though. So, okay, you're nerding out, as you put it, and that's helpful. And... generally, vigilance, I guess? We know he's kidnapping people, right? And not people like us. We can't be everywhere, and we can't save everyone, probably, but we can absolutely keep an eye out. As many of us as possible. I'm not suggesting a neighbourhood watch type thing, but just... the more people know what to look for, the better."

Ravn nods with a wry smile at the magazines. Tabloids would be too good a word, yes. Conspiracy theories and drunken tales wrapped in colourful covers would be more accurate. "I think our best bet is to make sure to circulate information, yeah. So far, it's been pretty random who got to deal with this. I might pick up something from one of these rags but if I haven't told you -- then what use is it, if you're the one facing off with some Appalachian cryptid? We have to talk to each other, make sure to send anything that seems important out there. Even if it makes us sound like we're nuts."

He dips into a pocket for a cigarette, and the battered old zippo that carries his coat-of-arms. "Guess a lot of the time, all we can do is try to be decent human beings. Same with the cabbage patch kid. Not about to assume legal guardianship of it, but I'll help in any way I can when it comes to finding out how to get it to where it ought to be."

"I'd rather sound nuts," opines Mikaere, "than let someone get hurt, crypid or non-cryptid. Hell, I'd rather sound nuts than end up in a situation unprepared, too. Call me a bleeding heart, but I'm not okay with standing by, if there's something I can do. So, yeah: tell me anything you know, and I'll report back anything I do, and share it with anyone else I run into, too. Might end up a bit of a game of telephone, but better a little bit of information slippage than people going into situations blind."

He remembers his coffee, now, apparently, and lifts it back towards his mouth. "Shouldn't be too much for us to ask, just being decent human beings. I mean, I got into politics in the first place to try and make a difference, as naive as that is. The same applies here, and in general. 'Cabbage patch kid', though, that's going to make me laugh forever. My sister had one of those dolls. Poor kid." The baby, presumably, and not his sister, though who knows. "Did you and whoever else come up with any ideas for Ava, when she was texting you? For the kid."

"Aidan Kinney, my house mate." Ravn shakes his head. "Kinney likes kids. Pretty sure he'll be all over helping take care of the kid, which is good. It's not the kid's fault she ended up growing in the wrong place, she should have people caring for her who enjoy caring for kids."

He lights the cigarette and pockets the lighter. "Let's see, the bullet list. Haggleford, bloke from somewhere else -- if that Dream was telling the truth, then he's from some other reality altogether. Abducts people. Missing part rangers, what have you. Some kind of medical experiment over there. He either uses or creates cryptids in the transport process, no one's worked it out exactly. The cryptids are killed again in the process. And he's got people in this reality who work for him, though I doubt they actually know what's going on."

"She should." Mikaere's content to let that thought hang, probably in large part because he's got the rest of what Ravn has to say to take in, one piece of information at a time.

"Okay. So random goons, if you want to put it that way. Paid to do a job, presumably, and not inclined to ask many questions. I'm absolutely certain I'm going to have questions about this whole other reality thing, because that wants to break my brain a bit, not going to lie, but-- the questions haven't formed themselves yet. So Haggleford's definitely not human. But he's using this, our reality. And he's got to be stupidly powerful, to do all of this, so it's going to take a fair amount to take him down."

"Yeah, but this is the part that worries me the most: The part where he's got buddies on this side." Ravn scratches his chin. "A while back -- around New Years, sometime? I was in a strange Dream. We were on the platform of a train station, waiting for a train to Belgrade. We were told the train was full, redirected, something, I don't even remember. Point was, we had to wait. And then this girl walks up and she glows. I mean, can barely stand to look at her -- that kind of glow. She is told to get on the train. Everything ended up in a fight there, we tried to stop her for some reason I don't even remember. In the end, she exploded."

He winces. "They found her here, the day after. Floating face down, in Gray Pond. And here's the kicker: Last summer, that girl came through HOPE along with four others. They'd been trafficked. Local crime handed them over to us, on the quiet, after stopping some gang from Spokane shipping people through here. So whoever it is Haggleford's got, it's connected to the underworld. Which means, it's organised to some extent, and I really don't like the sound of that."

Mikaere had turned his gaze off to the side, staring once again out over the harbour and its endless slow procession of boats, one kind or another, in and out. But something about the story Ravn relates-- and really, it's no surprise-- draws his attention back; he listens, wide-eyed, with his lips set into a tight, unhappy line.

"Well shit," is what he says, finally. "No, that's not good at all. Bad enough, dealing with some kind of otherworldly mess, but when it links in to organised crime, as well... Fuck. Imagine that... chief of police, you mentioned earlier? He'd be conscious of, looking at, the whole organised crime bit of it." Not really a question, in tone, even if the phrasing is there. "But that all means, not just casual local goons. Shit. Fuck."

"Pretty sure the Chief's got an idea of what's going on." Ravn nods again. He doesn't come out and say, 'cause both his lovers were in that Dream. Maybe he should have.

He looks at the water too. "I'm not involved with local crime. But, I know some people. You can't stay in this town and not end up meeting people you never thought you'd end up back to back with. Dreams don't ask what your day job is, or how you feel about money laundering. The people I know -- they're not involved with this. The local boys, they don't work for Haggleford. It's an outside crew. At least we have that much -- the local gang hates this as much as we do."

Mikaere seems unsurprised and even content (as far as it goes) with that confirmation of what Ruiz knows, even without the added explanation: he nods.

"You'd think, something that involves the fuckery of this town," the Kiwi has apparently abandoned using the Māori terms of his youth to describe things, and now just goes for the profane, "would incorporate the local element, not bring in something from outside-- then again, maybe that's the point? Deliberately aim to avoid anyone like us."

Beat. "Can't hurt, having the local element on our side in this."

Ravn hitches a shoulder. "There's always a local element. Old, mostly abandoned harbour a few hours out of Seattle, Olympia, and Spokane? Casino island conveniently close to international waters? Of course there's a local element. Local upstanding businessman's named Felix Monaghan. That's a name you want to just not fuck with. He doesn't glow. A couple of his people in positions to give orders, however, do. You can look all you like -- you won't find dirt on Monaghan. But the one thing that's pretty obvious is, there's a lot of money being laundered and moved through Gray Harbor, and they don't want anything to interfere. It's pretty ironic but given Haggleford is kind of messing things up here, I have thought about maybe trying to -- well, talk to them."

He's not excited about it. Why would he be? No one wants to deal with the local mob. And no one who's ever met anyone who earned the moniker 'a local, upstanding businessman' ever wants to deal with another one of those, or their henchmen.

Mikaere's voice is low as he repeats, "Felix Monaghan. Got it."

He's slower to respond to the rest, considering carefully before he puts word to thought. "It... it's not the most comfortable thought, is it? Bringing in the local crime group, to try and solve another problem. Enabling one to fix another. But it's the lesser of two," weevils, "evils, isn't it? Better to deal with the group that isn't trafficking people, kidnapping, murdering, basically ruining everything for everyone."

"Felix is an asshole." Ravn keeps his voice low and quiet. "I've yet to actually meet him but, no one who works for him, leaves me in any doubt. He's a local boy, come out of nowhere, clawed his way up, not a speck of dirt on him, will have someone give you a pair of cement shoes if you look at him wrong. However, some of the blokes who are in his organisation are like us. And they know that it's to their advantage and ours that we don't get in each other's way."

He drags on the cigarette. "I don't want to be quoted on this but, I've cut a couple of quiet deals around HOPE. We don't fuck with local crime. They don't recruit or sell on our grounds. There's such a thing as being -- well, friends is a big word, but having aligned interests. The big money in this town is in the casino. The casino is so far removed from the problems people like you and me deal with that it might as well be the Moon."

Mikaere's nod acknowledges most of what Ravn has to say, and especially-- or rather, the second nod in particular-- the reference to HOPE. "Never going to get rid of it," he concludes, pitching his own voice low. "May as well work around it, best you can. No, that makes sense. The casino-- never did like those places much. But that's always the way of it."

His gaze sweeps idly in the vague direction of the casino, but doesn't linger. "I assume the ones who do glow, as you put it, are already aware of this whole thing? Haggleford, and his whatevers?"

"Some of them are aware of some of it at least. I feel like I ought to go make sure -- but I'm also worried about poking sleeping lions. We had a turf war here last year. Ended with the foreign gang shooting up a garden expo. A lot of people got trapped in a three-way shoot-out between the foreign gang, the local gang, and the GHPD. Myself, I got mistaken for the Chief and while I don't know which of the local wise guys saved my life, someone did. Got shot clean through the lung, would have bled out in minutes if somebody hadn't done the magic on me." Ravn's hand twitches lightly towards his chest. "So I feel -- I owe somebody there my life. And on some level, I don't give a shit about normal crime. Not with the kind of things we see here, you know?"

Brown eyes drop towards Ravn's hand, his chest, and he gives another of those very slow nods. "Yeah," he agrees. "I mean, I don't like crime with victims; I don't like people stealing from individuals, or threatening individuals, or any of that. But that's the difference between petty crime and..." Possibly he's getting tangled in his thoughts, here, attempting to explain his position without really entirely knowing his position.

He ends up shaking his head. "They're not all bad, no. They did you a good turn. And if it weren't this lot, this current group, it'd be a different lot, and potentially worse. So I get it, I think."

Also? "All hail the healing power. Fuck knows it comes in useful."

"Given I'd be dead several times without it, yeah." Ravn offers a wry little smile. "This is one of these things I don't -- I don't tell people right away, along with the Hotel California speech. Because not everyone can take it, to be a little blunt. It's one hell of a grey area -- striking deals with the mob, making sure the police has no reason to visit. Trust me, the Chief's no idiot, he's perfectly aware that I've got buddies in that crew. It's just -- well, he can obviously not come out and say it but, sometimes, you pick which battles to fight."

The cigarette is finished. The stub goes in a pocket because Ravn is not one to toss them into thea where fish and sea gulls alike might go for something small and floaty. "But it's part of this whole Haggleford mess. He's got buddies in our reality, working out of Spokane. Which means that at least where this is concerned, local mob are on our side."

"No," agrees Mikaere, firmly. "It's not the kind of thing you want to blow people's minds with, at first, is it? Let them try and come to terms with the basics before you hit them with everything else. You can't fight everything and win. Hell, sometimes there isn't any winning, or if there is, it causes a significant fuckup for something else. It's always a game of weighing the odds. Or, better: the scales. Balancing the scales. What's ultimately going to result in the least harm to the most people. Hell of a burden, though, deciding."

His coffee is gone, now, and the mug set down in easy reach. "Yeah," he concludes. "I think that one's pretty straightforward. Balance pretty firmly weighted towards this. And better they're working with the rest of us, than on a similar thing, but without knowing what we know, or vice versa."

"Yeah. It's like this anywhere, you know?" Ravn shrugs; his mug is empty as well and maybe he'd better not make more lest he vibrate into the next reality unaided. "Every town has its Addingtons that has run stuff around here since time immemorial, and its Monaghans who are up and coming, and none of it really matters a whole lot to the blokes on the street."

"It is," agrees Mikaere, ruefully. "And then you just have the regular people, trying to live their lives. Trying to make things a little better, if they can. Sometimes running up against the wall of what already exists; the power structures, the perspectives. Sometimes making a dent. But never really changing things."

The words may sound defeatist, but Mikaere's tone itself is even enough. "But that's just the way it is. World keeps turning."

"We can't save the world, no. But we can make a world of a difference to a few. Got to pick our fights." Ravn nods his agreement; the even-headed Kiwi seems to be on a similar wave length and it's a relief. "Keep information in circulation, look out for each other. And -- you know? Live. Life isn't bad here, in our pitcher plant town. Sure, life throws us some horrible curve balls. But it also makes it worthwhile -- we would escape if it didn't."

Mikaere's laugh, this time, is a deeper, and more genuine one. "Live," he repeats. And, "Yeah-- yeah, it's not. I could get back on my girl and sail away at any moment, but I'm not doing it, am I? I won't go so far as to say that I'm committed, but I'm... giving it a go. Fuck knows I left Auckland in search of a new purpose, and I'm not saying I've found that yet, because all this? It's not, and can't be, an everything. But it's giving me something I think I needed."

He shakes his head. "Maybe after a summer of working the marina, dealing with the tourists, I'll decide I'm ready to take on some part of City Hall. Or maybe something else; who knows. Maybe I'll sail away again. But for now..."

"Yeah. Same." Ravn chuckles a little and glances at the other man. "Some day I am going to have to go home and sort out the family business. Some day can be a long time from now, though. Or I might just not, and when I'm gone, somebody else can deal with it."

He hitches a shoulder. "It's a strange feeling. Like there are so many wrongs in the world, but here's one place I can actually make a difference. I'm not a healer or a scrapper but I know things. Here, it feels a lot more useful than it ever did when I was trying to convince myself to pursue a professorate somewhere. I didn't manage to convince myself. Here? I don't even need to think about it because the Veil's made sure I'm firmly anchored."

This time, Mikaere's laugh is a little more rueful. "It kind of fucks with you," he admits. "Seeing the world moulded into giving you reasons to stay. Reasons and opportunity. But... not in a bad way, it turns out. Not enough to freak me out and send me running. I don't know if I feel useful here, yet, but I feel like I could be, and that's kind of comforting. Another warm body, mind that cares, against the darkness; maybe that's all it needs to be."

He does grin at the other man, though. "There's significantly worse places I could've ended up. Here... yeah. I can work with this."