2022-06-06 - Espionage Aboard The Orient Express

Tourist season is in full swing, and that's been keeping Mikaere busy this week: so many yachts and sail boats coming in to the marina, so many people needing a skilled hand to deal with this thing and that. It's money in his pocket, which is no bad thing (finances are becoming increasingly tight with no more TikTok/YouTube/sponsorship money coming in), and aside from the occasional asshole, it's not bad work. It's not permanent work, not a long-term solution, but for now? There are worse jobs.

It's left the cupboards bare, though, and that's what sends him to the Safeway this evening, to stock up on all the basics. Between how long the day has been, and how distracted he is by the phone call in his ear ("Ma, I'm just walking into the supermarket. Can I call you back?"), he doesn't even notice the moment when the automatic doors open, and reveal not the Safeway, but a plush (if narrow) bedroom.

That becomes apparent only a moment later when, having stepped straight through without paying attention, he is suddenly... somewhere else.

Outside the windows, still clearly visible through the gathering dusk, the countryside streams past: a bucolic landscape that speaks to an earlier age. The bed is turned down; the gas lights flicker; Mikaere, still in his cargo shorts and t-shirt, freezes.

"Well, shit," he says.

The Orient Express weaves its way on through the evening, resplendent in perfect, late-Victorian splendour.

Just going to nip into Safeway, pick up some bread, cereal, and some fresh water for the Vagabond's little kitchen. Ravn Abildgaard is not paying a whole lot of attention either as he walks -- as so often before, the academic's mind is literally thousand of miles away, thinking about a student who's struggling hard to submit his work on time and having constant meltdowns about roadside bombs and rooftop snipers; or maybe he's thinking about some of those people moving in under the boardwalk in droves as the tourist season has begun, most of them able bodied but for various reasons unable to work -- there's a lot of overlap between the two, he reasons, given that many of those homeless people are also veterans. A lot of those people coming back from war broken -- their fate is determined largely by chance and by what amount of support they get (or, indeed, do not get).

He's in his usual jeans, turtleneck, and blazer ensemble because the evening air is chilly. He does not have the excuse of being distracted by a phone call -- sure, Ariadne sends him the most bizarre memes at times, and most of them are puns about the Count on Sesame Street. He's just plain not paying attention as he walks through the door, and then walks right into Mikaere's broad back.

A wince. An oof. Another wince. Nothing like the equivalent of hugging an electrical fence with your face, to wake you up. "The fuck?"

There's nothing like having someone run straight into your back to make a person un freeze: Mikaere lunges out of the way, turning around with his hands raised protectively except-- no, okay, that's just ('just') Ravn, so that's fine. As much as anything is fine, when you're suddenly in a moving train that is racing through the evening to somewhere unknown, and...

So that's not really fine, then.

He hesitates, catching enough of that wince to be aware of it, and drops his hands again. "Shit," he says. "Sorry. Are you okay?"

And also, while we're at it: "This is not the Safeway."

His Ma is going to have an absolute cow. Again.

Ravn groans quietly because bloody hell, that hurt. The pain passes as fleetly as it came, though, and he needs little time to recover. It helps a lot that he knows exactly what it is and what it means; under normal circumstances, pain means to stop whatever it is you're doing, pull your hand out of the fire, run away from the danger -- but to Ravn it usually just means, oops, sorry, glitch in the communication between spinal nerve and brain again, sorry about that.

He steadies himself against the framework of the door and looks around. "Train. Night. Old-fashioned from the looks of it -- going to venture a guess and say, Hercule Poirot is around, somewhere. And that we're both really awkwardly dressed for the occasion though at least neither of us are indecent by Victorian standards. Hey, it's something."

Mikaere sounds so woeful as he says, "I just wanted some beer." Hopefully his shopping list included more than that, but, well: priorities.

He pauses, peering out the window in an attempt to get a better look at the scenery, as if it might provide more of a clue. Ravn's reference to Poirot has certainly drawn out some kind of recollection, but he's slower to get the rest of the way: it comes as he spins back around towards the little desk that sits opposite the bed, and ah, yes, there we go: The Orient Express is monogrammed on the fine, creamy stationery. He plucks it from the desk and holds it up for Ravn to see: bingo.

"I really prefer it when Dreams give us the clothes to go with it," he admits, sinking down into the desk chair, which really was designed for someone a little shorter. "Uncomfortable as hell, but at least it's easier to blend in. So you think there's a murderer on board, and we're going to have to stop them? I know I saw that film, but I have no recollection of whodunit."

"I've read the novel ages ago, but I can't say I recall, either." Ravn hitches a shoulder. "Crime fiction is not really my thing though I vastly prefer Christie to modern Scandinavian Noir. That said -- that train was still running until 2009, so there are plenty little dramas that can play out. This thing goes from Paris to Istanbul -- I remember reading somewhere that they cut off the distance covered kind of one capital at a time until finally shutting the line down. My father rode it a few times -- at the end it was a kind of upper class adventure affair. In the Victorian era, though? I guess that from the looks of it we're on first class, and we should probably be very happy we're not on third. The real question here is, are we passengers? Or are we breaking and entering in some wealthy family's cabin, because in that case, I think I know what the drama will be."

He sticks his head out to look at the plate above the cabin door. Then he looks back at Mikaere. "I guess we're in partial luck. Abildgaard, Hastings, Pritchard, Chantenelle. Expecting any French friends I don't know about?"

Mikaere gets back on his feet, having at least enough sangfroid to register that simply sitting around is probably not going to help anything. "Okay," he says, frowning as he considers the information Ravn's gathered. "Well-- that's a start. We belong in here, so no one's going to kick us out. And presumably that means we have luggage. At least-- enough to get us through an evening, since I don't imagine this cabin has much by way of storage."

It doesn't, but there is a helpful wardrobe. Mikaere steps towards it, opening it and peering inside. Happily, there are indeed two suits hanging, pressed and ready (first class, where such things happen without you even noticing!). Less happily, they are both for significantly shorter men: Pritchard and Chantanelle, perhaps?

He holds a pair of trousers up, just to see: three inches too short. "Think we can convince them this is the latest fashion in New York?" he wonders, glancing down at his own less-than-snazzy ensemble. "Maybe the jackets will fit? Or are we hiding out here until we're forced into some kind of action?"

"I think we might prefer to not pick a fight with these gentlemen we're apparently sharing a cabin with," Ravn reasons, working through his impressions even as he voices them. How much time is there, to decide? If it's five minutes before those two gents show up then now is a bad time to stand around overthinking. "Maybe we should take advantage of the fact that neither of us are French -- or German, or anything else that will be on this train on a regular basis. You can probably convince people that what you are wearing is normal for New Zealand. I'll have to try eccentric Danish nobleman, maybe. If there's one thing I learned growing up it's that if you are rich enough, you're eccentric, not crazy."

He shrugs. "It's an idea, at least. Maybe somebody turns up with our suitcases in a bit and we can change into proper evening wear. Until then, we're two gents from exotic countries whose luggage has been displaced by this miserable excuse for a rail line, and people will have to forgive that we were not able to change into proper evening dress?"

Mikaere turns, catching his own expression, and features, in the mirror as he does so. He grins, wolfishly. "They'll let just anyone in first class these days," he agrees. "Even the noble-- but exquisitely wealthy-- savage, from the far reaches of the world, beyond polite society. I can work with that." Pritchard's (or is it Chantanelle's?) suit goes back in the little hanging space, and he considers the room again.

But not, it seems, for long.

Knock, knock, knock. It's a light rather than a firm sound, and from the other side of the door, a feminine voice. "Excuse me? Hello?"

"I apologise if that makes you sound like some kind of painted savage from some remote South Pacific Island village," Ravn murmurs. "I'll try to get into my best painted viking savage from some remote Scandinavian coast mindset to match. All we can do with this, unless our suitcases turn up, is play it wild enough that people find us interesting. Train rides are kind of monotonous."

He turns around and then opens the door. "Yes?" Because one of the languages Ravn Abildgaard does not speak? You guessed it, French.

On the other side of the door stands a woman, perhaps in her early twenties, in an evening gown. Despite the English she used for her initial query, however, Ravn's question draws forth a whole torrent of-- yes, actually, it is French, tumbling out of her mouth rapid-fire as she makes big, doe-like eyes at the Dane.

The thing about Mikaere Hastings, standing several steps behind Ravn, is that he only claims to know two languages: English and Te Reo Māori. That's probably why he blinks so dramatically as the woman speaks-- implores, really-- to Ravn.

Because he understood at least a quarter of that, and he really, really should not.

It's a good thing somebody does, because Ravn certainly doesn't. "I'm sorry, miss -- er, mademoiselle, I don't understand a word of French."

All he can do, really, is try to make a guess at who she is and what she wants -- and evening gown and doe eyes do not suggest that she's part of the train's wait staff. So does this mean she is accompanying either of them? Hopes to be accompanying either of them? She's unlikely to be the wife or daughter of Pritchard or Chantanelle -- because if so, surely they would be sharing a cabin.

"She says--" Mikaere hesitates. He's still looking a little dumbfounded, because no, this is weird. More weird than this whole Dream, more weird than anything else right now. "Something about her jewels have gone missing?" He peers at the woman and attempts, querelously. "Er... les bijoux? Volé?"

"Oui!" she insists, dramatically, reaching out as if she intends to grab Ravn by the hand, possibly to drag him off... or something, anyway.

"I'm very certain I did not steal them," Ravn murmurs -- and then quickly draws his hand away because bloody hell, no, some random person who doesn't know about his neuropathic issues does not get to drag him off by the hand, however gloved. "You understand her? Tell her we'll help but for heaven's sake, make her pull your sleeve instead of mine unless you want to see a grown man cry."

"Apparently I do. This Dream is weird."

The woman frowns, demonstrating no small amount of pique with the sharp little stamp of her foot. She doesn't chase for Ravn's hand, but there's something in her expression, now: something that's more than the frustration of being unable to properly communicate, even with the strangely dressed darker man.

"Uh," says Mikaere, pulling words together carefully. His grammar is probably appalling, but the words themselves come. "Nous allons vous aider, mais vous devez nous dire ce qui s'est passé lentement. Entrez et asseyez-vous." And to Ravn, as the woman accepts the invitation and sails straight past him and into the room, perching imperiously upon the edge of one chairs. "I said we'd help, but she needs to tell us slowly what happened."

Ravn nods slowly. "I'm glad one of us speaks French. I learned bits and pieces in school but definitely not enough to hold a conversation -- and I haven't used the language since. When I travelled through France, English got me by."

He studies the girl for any other giveaways to indicate her station and standing, not to mention role here besides victim of theft. "Well, let's start with telling her that if she wants the cabin searched we probably need to call for a conductor since you and I have no business going through the clothes or luggage of our fellow passengers." The Dane remains standing in the door -- in part to look for a train official and in part to serve as a look-out. We got the damsel in distress -- there's bound to be a villain somewhere too, whether he's a gentleman thief, a clueless betrothed, a treacherous uncle, or something else entirely.

"Except for the part where I really don't speak French," mutters Mikaere, who takes one more look at the woman-- she looks so tiny and fragile in her evening gown and fur stole, no jewels (which fits her story, at least) but certainly an implication of wealth and privilege in the softness of her hands, the fine cut of her gown.

Mikaere turns to the dresser to pour a glass of whiskey for the lady-- how convenient, that these first class compartments have their own supplies!-- and that's an unfortunate decision, actually, because no sooner has he done so than the woman speaks.

"Shut the door, Mr Abildgaard," she says, in perfect English. "Or I'll shoot you, and I would really hate to do that. Inconvenient, and bloody, for all involved really."

Where did that gun come from? Tiny, low calibre... but a gun, nonetheless, pointed right at the Dane.

"Why, yes, I really would loathe the inconvenience," Ravn murmurs and wonders where he finds the composure; maybe he's just lived in Gray Harbor long enough that somebody threatening to shoot him -- well, been there, done that, actually got shot several times. He closes the door though, because that's how it works. You do what the person with the gun says -- even when she'd have to be a right idiot to fire it because the noise would wake the neighbouring cabins, and there is no escape from a running train.

He makes certain the door is properly closed and then turns around, gloved hands visible to the woman -- no guns here, mademoiselle. "Now, since you do in fact speak English, miss, why don't you tell us what this is about? You know who we are, so obviously you have the advantage of us. You're probably also quite aware that we have not stolen your jewellery, assuming that any jewellery ever existed."

The woman makes a scoffing sound. The gun stays up, but she seems ever so slightly calmer now that the door is closed-- the pretence dropped.

"You idiot," she says, in a much quieter voice, turning pale blue eyes from Ravn to Mikaere and then back again. "Why we ever agreed to work with foreigners I don't, and will never, understand. Chantanelle is going to make the drop tonight, in the dining car." Beat. She gives Ravn in particular an appraising glance. "Unless you've already made the switch, and I can get the hell out of here?"

Mikaere is still holding on to the whiskey... and now he tosses it back, apparently out of lack of any other idea of what to do.

"Abildgaard, Mademoiselle Idiot. My pleasure." There's two ways to play this -- go along and pretend you know what you're doing, or go along grudgingly like you absolutely expected more from this lot. At the moment, the latter seems the safer bet to Ravn -- because his grifter's experience, while nowhere as deep as Perdita's, tells him that if you go along and act like you know what you're doing, then you better know what you're doing. And, well, he doesn't.

He cants his head slightly. "In fact, that will be Comte Abildgaard to you, mademoiselle. I am certain Msieur Chantanelle has many plans and great vision, but in his infinite French or Belgian wisdom, he neglected to give us anything beyond 'wait in the cabin'. Which is where we are. Now, are you going to give us a few more pointers, or shall I light a cigarette, settle by the window, and wait for this train to pull into a station somewhere so I can get on with my life?"

Mademoiselle whomever-she-is does not look much impressed. Not by Ravn's title (She's French! A hundred years ago or so her ancestors probably had a real thing about this!), and not by his explanation, either. It does, however, draw her to tuck that little pistol away once more, almost like magic: there one moment, entirely hidden the next.

"Fine," she says, standing up. "I curse your intransigence and-- Hommes! Vous êtes tous des idiots. Get out of my way, Abildgaard, and take your friend with you. Go and drink in the bar. Make fools of yourself. Leave the real work to me."

It's so hard being a woman, surrounded by such stupid men.

Mikaere sets the empty glass back down with slightly more of a clink than anticipated, enough that he looks a little sheepish. "Ah, right. Yes. Yes, why don't we do that." Flee. Flee.

"Why, certainly. Let us know if you need anything. We're quite good at distractions." Hell, look at them -- they'll be a distraction just by existing in the dining car. Which is probably exactly what this Chantanelle wanted.

Either way, Ravn tosses the girl a beatific smile and then tells his companion, "Shall we? I believe I hear a whiskey soda with my name calling and it simply will not do, to disappoint."

"Yesss," says Mikaere, extending the 's' sound without actually intending to. He seems distinctly unwilling to turn his back to the unknown woman, and instead sort of floats towards the door, and the passageway outside, keeping close tabs on her.

She just watches them both, rather the opposite of enigmatic: such fools, these men.

Outside, after he's closed the compartment door behind them back, he mutters, "Well, fuck this for a joke. Which way to the bar, do you think?"

"The opposite of wherever she is going," Ravn murmurs. "And if it turns out to be the wrong direction, at least we got some cars between us and her." Le Comte Abildgaard does not enjoy having a gun pointed at him.

He shakes his head as they make their way down the corridor in that special side-ways crab fashion you do in an old-fashioned train, squeezed between windows and doors and praying that no one going the other way is a cheerful eater. "What I want now? Is a drink. I'll be entirely happy to spend all of this story sitting right there, watching that girl do whatever it is she's doing, trying to guess which of the other sods are Pritchard and Chantanelle, and then wake up back on my boat later, whining about the hangover from too many whiskey sodas."

"Agreed," says Mikaere without hesitation. "I don't need to be the hero in some espionage train thriller, thanks. A drink, maybe even a cigar, just to fit in with the general ambiance, and then we fuck off back home again, spectators only."

The restaurant is the first non-sleeping berth car that they arrive in, and no, this clearly won't do. There are fancy people in their fancy clothes eating fancy meals, and-- pass. Thank you, but no thank you, especially when the low murmur of dismay sounds from the dining car's inhabitants.

Who are these under-dressed foreigners, and what are they doing in the first class dining car?

Mikaere plays it up, of course, sticking out his tongue and widening his eyes in a dramatic gesture that sets more than one woman to screaming.

(The wait staff seem very relieved when Mikaere keeps walking, pass onwards to-- ah yes, there it is: the smoking car, bar and lounge as one.)

Ravn probably could pull it off -- acting the aristocrat that he technically is. He has no desire to, though. Cigar, whiskey, staying out of trouble? That's the plan and he's all for it. He does glare at one waiter who approaches on a flight plan of Excuse me, this is First Class in a way that strongly communicates, I'm aware, and I will recite my ancestry at you back to the year 1180 if you dare comment; France may have had a bit of a head chopping party in the late 1700s but they went right on to form an empire after, and let's just be honest here, Europeans are silly about their gentry just about anywhere.

He's quite happy to murmur to Mikaere, "We're probably going to have to insist on having a tab. Because I don't carry contemporary French currency, and I suspect you don't either."

That glare? It's worth its weight in gold, truly. No hesitation: the waiter simply backs off.

"... must be in my other jacket," jokes Mikaere in answer to Ravn, which-- well. He's not wearing a jacket at all, is he? Oh well.

The smoking lounge is somewhat sparsely occupied, with a few men in evening wear drinking their whiskey over the paper, or smoking and chatting. The waiter here seems equally ready to cause a fuss, faced with the arrival of two men who definitely don't meet the dress code. But he's cautious, too: it's not easy to move from the lower classes to first class on this train, and he's probably seen a thing or two in his time.

"Puis-je vous aider, messieurs?"

If we're playing the part of <s>crazy</s> eccentric nobles from abroad, there's no tucking tail and apologising. Rule number one when pretending you belong? Make like you belong. Ravn heads for a comfortable chair and then sends the waiter a tired, if benevolently patient look. "I trust you speak English, my good man. I'll have whatever passes for a decent whiskey here -- single malt, soda, no ice. And by decent I mean old enough to sleep in my bed, not under it." He glances at Mikaere. "Will you be joining me, Mr Hastings?"

At least he has a packet of cigarettes in one blazer pocket. He takes one out and with it, the old zippo lighter he always carries -- the one that's embossed with the Abildgaard coat-of-arms. For once in its existence, the thing is actually useful besides, well, the purpose it was made for.

Mikaere follows, sitting in the chair opposite Ravn's in a way that suggests he's absolutely playing up his foreignness: cross-legged, jandals (yes, that's what they're called, damn it) flipped off so that his bare feet rest on the chair's unquestionably expensive upholstery. "Ka pena ano ahau, ae." he says, brightly. And then, mangling the word just a little: "Yes."

The waiter? He pauses.

He's a man in his fifties: a man who has probably shifted from being a steward, or some kind of waitstaff, on an ocean-going vessel, to one who performs the same function, but on the world's most decadent train. It's a step up, arguably, except... the things he's seen. He stares, exhausted and unwilling, at Mikaere's display... and then at Ravn and his lighter, and his obvious lineage.

Retirement has never looked better.

"As you wish, sirs," he says, in careful, accented English, and turns away.

"Very good," Ravn says in that tone of an aristocrat who has already forgotten who was talking to him because the only thing that matters is the whiskey he's going to be bringing in a moment.

Once the man is out of earshot he looks at Mikaere and lowers his voice a little because no one else really needs to be listening in, whether they speak English or not. "I have a feeling we're not going to be off the hook this easy, but let's give it a shot. I'm tired. The other night I was in Rome while it burned -- and as it turns out, he did in fact fiddle though the violin was not yet invented. The asshole took mine."

"Wait, wait, what?" Mikaere gives Ravn a dubious look, dropping his 'ignorant savage' look for something more serious-- though his voice drops distinctly as he leans in forward. "That's a hell of a Dream. And your violin is actually gone? Gone for good?"

Because. Well. Mikaere's no musician, but he knows this much: that fucking sucks.

"If I have any say in this, we're just sitting here and having a nice drink, and then wandering home. I'm determined now."

"Better to lose an instrument than your head." Ravn hitches a shoulder slightly and glances after the waiter. "I did not go hitch-hiking around the planet with an irreplaceable instrument. I'm annoyed, but I am not grieving the way I would be if I had last a precious instrument that was custom built for me, such as Rosencrantz' Limon. I make a firm point out of not owning anything that I cannot bear to lose, however -- and in a town like Gray Harbor, I'm tempted to say that that is a good lesson to take, because if you're attached to it? The dolorphages will figure it out and use it against you."

He looks back at Mikaere and hitches that shoulder a little bit more. "Truthfully? We shouldn't even get attached to one another because it can be used against us. I've told myself often enough that that was just another reason to be quite contentedly single. Of course now I've gone and fallen off that wagon hard, and I suspect that there will be a price to pay for it some day. If we'd gotten our drinks yet I'd offer a toast -- to hope that the good times are worth the bad. Because in Gray Harbor, there will be bad ones."

The thought clearly troubles Mikaere, but he acknowledges it with a slow nod. Things are, if you're careful, replaceable. Some are things that would be difficult to replace-- his boat's clearly on that list-- but others, others are always going to be okay. He sucks in a breath, though, and ultimately shakes his head: sucks, man.

Despite that, he can't help but let the corners of his mouth twist upwards at the rest of what Ravn has to say. "Ariadne seems like a great girl," he says. "Woman. I'd drink to that. I will drink to that, once he gets back here with our drinks. It's only been a few months," two months, is it now? It's hard to remember. "But I know that much. But you don't see me leaving, do you? So far, the good ones have outweighed the bad. So far, it feels like... well, maybe we're not winning. But we're not losing, either."

"I don't think there is winning or losing. But there's staying alive, and there's being miserable enough to end it or find some way to escape town." Ravn nods slightly. "And considering that people do keep on getting married and procreating in Gray Harbor also when they have the gift, the dolorphages must be possessed of some agricultural skill. They must know how far they can push the crop without losing it."

He glances after the waiter again and then shakes his head a little, sheepishly. "Ariadne is a great girl and to tell you the truth? I keep waiting for her to wake up and take a good look around, and realise she can do so much better than my neurotic self. But so far, she seems content with what she's getting. Nothing lasts forever and I intend to enjoy it while it lasts."

"That would make sense. I mean, I don't know anything about how this gift shows up, whether it's something that everyone holds the potential for, or if there's a genetic component, or if sometimes it's genetic and sometimes it isn't. But it would make sense that they'd want us to keep making more of ourselves, propagating the power, if there's any chance of it being genetic. They need us. That's the key, isn't it?" Mikaere can't see the waiter from his position, but he can see men across the lounge, smoking and drinking and having a lovely time. If their French-or-Belgian friends are here, it's difficult to determine where.

"I'd drink to that too," he adds, quietly. "Jules and me... I wouldn't even go so far as to say we're dating. Casual. But while it lasts, I'm in. I don't know Ariadne well, but she seems pretty content with you, and that can only be a good thing, right? She's not-- unless I'm missing something-- trying to change you. She knew you as a person before she chose you for this. So." He splays out a hand, evenly. "Don't question it too hard, my friend."

"We haven't actually talked about it." Ravn laughs softly. "Whether we're dating or casual, or even exclusive. It doesn't really matter to me, and there is something to be said for no promises; it means no promises get broken, either. It's not a big deal on my end because before Ariadne, my love life was pretty non-existent, and after her, it probably will be, too. Sometimes, you need to just take what you're offered, enjoy it while you have it, and keep yourself from being the one who sabotages it."

A small smile. "I'll give you kudos for daring Black's temper, though. She's pretty damn terrifying when she gets mad."

Mikaere gives Ravn a genuinely dubious glance, the kind that says: okay, keep fooling yourself, but come on here.

He's interrupted from whatever else he might say by the return of the waiter, bearing their drinks on a silver tray, along with a slip of paper that is presumably the bill... oh well, that's a problem for later.

"Mauruuru koe," he tells the waiter, with a smile that's all teeth. The poor man looks a little uncertain... and backs away quickly.

"To the women in our lives," he says to Ravn, lifting the glass in a toast.

And, more than a little smug: "She is glorious when she gets mad. That's how I noticed her in the first place, when she stole that lobster."

Ravn chuckles softly and raises his glass. "To the women in our lives, long may they continue to terrify us on a regular basis."

He samples the whiskey and, after a moment, awards it a nod; if nothing else, at least pretentious upper class Victorians know the difference between a proper single malt and some hodge-podge, barely-done-fermenting rye water. Then, philosophically, "Angry women frighten me. I don't like them yelling or throwing things. I'm very prone to getting right up and walking out when they do. Some women use their tears or their anger to control you, to guilt trip you -- and I have no patience for it. I'll discuss -- but I will not fight."

Probably a good thing he's not the one <s>dating</s> casually seeing Jules.

"I'll absolutely drink to that," grins Mikaere, before taking a sip of his own. No-- this'll do. As Dreams go... this could be so much worse.

"That's fair," is quieter. "At least, with Jules... she may yell, she may argue, but there's never any question that she believes it: she's passionate about things, so you can often track it back to something specific. That whole no filter thing she had going, this past week? I learned a lot about how her thoughts work, as a result of that. She's a lot of things, but she's not manipulative. But--"

He grins. "I can still see why a person wouldn't want that. Guess that's why you're seeing Ariadne, instead."

"I certainly appreciate not manipulative." Ravn nods slightly. "That's another definite no for me, people -- women and otherwise -- who try to get their way by subtly nudging people into doing what they want, or using your emotions against you. Truth of the matter? I don't really like people very much. Add to that that I am that bloke who never notices a girl is trying to get his attention until about five weeks after she lost interest and went for somebody who did notice. When I do notice, I usually decide I'm better off just leaving things as they are."

He raises his glass again to his lips again. "But, Ariadne's a quite determined lady, and quite prone to saying things as they are, which I appreciate very much. She told me she wanted to see what could happen. So far, I enjoy what's happening. But I don't need to tell you that things can go south fast -- I remember you mentioning an ex-wife."

There's a tiny pained little look on Mikaere's face when Ravn mentions people who nudge, so subtly, other people into doing what they want. It draws his chin slightly down, an abbreviated nod that lingers for a few seconds before it gets completed. "Made worse," he murmurs, "when a person has actual power to enable that kind of thing... and not enough of a moral compass to steer clear."

Easier, then, to acknowledge the rest of what the Dane has to say, and to confirm, "That's always true. Things happen. You never want them to, but-- people change. Or realise they're on different paths. Laura and I, it was a bit of both. She's a great person who wanted different things. Or maybe, I stopped wanting the things that she did; hard to know. So yeah, it's always possible. Of course," he lets the corners of his mouth turn up, just a little. "It helps that you're not keeping a secret from Ariadne, the way I was from Laura."

"I have many secrets." Ravn makes a little face. "But in a town like Gray Harbor, keeping secrets is dangerous. Whatever skeletons are in your closet can be dragged out and used against you at any given time. We did have that talk -- pretty much right away. The one where the skeletons get dragged out on the lawn to bask in the sunlight, unable to be turned into blackmail material. She knows I've bummed across Europe and then across the US, making my way as a small-time grifter and pickpocket. She knows about my fiancee, and how she died, and how for some time, I was suspected of being behind it. She knows where I'm from -- and even in spite of that, the Veil tossed her into a Dream about my home."

A chubby French-speaking person with a white handle bar moustache storms through the bar wagon, the young woman from earlier in pursuit. Ravn pointedly does not look but instead glances at the other man. "Do I want to ask what you were keeping secret from your wife, or is it the obvious answer: The gift?"

"Ouch," says Mikaere, sympathetically. He's got half an eye-- all very subtle, really-- on the chubby Frenchman and the woman in pursuit, his nod an ever-so-subtle confirmation: he's seen. The action, it begins. "And she didn't run from any of that, so that's you doing well, ay? Jules knows most of my secrets, because none of them are all that secret, really; her housemate, Della, googled most of them out before we'd even so much as gone on a date." This seems, mostly, to amuse him.

"The gift-- yeah, that. It didn't help that she was a little uncomfortable with me embracing my ancestry, either, and in the end, the two were pretty intertwined. Why did I keep feeling the need to go back to the marae of my ancestors? Why was I speaking Te Reo again? Why did I want to go sailing, again, instead of going to that party and meeting people of supposed importance? Because I was trying to get a better understanding of my own power. Because I was trying to understand more of me. But how can I explain that, to a woman who sees herself as a Kiwi, through and through, and almost a little resents the implication that there are New Zealand things that don't belong to her?"

"Or that she will have to work very hard to embrace at least, if she wants to?" Ravn nods his understanding. Being born in a country does not mean that you are a member of every culture present in that country -- and that's even without looking at the trenches dug by ethnicity and faith. Whatever he does with himself in life, he'll never be just one of the neighbours back in his own home town either, and that in spite of being the same colour and supposedly of the same faith. Divides are real -- and Laura is a decidedly English name.

He smirks a little and proceeds to pointedly ignore whatever is going on with the spy drama and the supposed drop-off until further notice. "Apparently, Della googles everyone whom she perceives as a potential threat, or in a position to become a threat. I'm somewhat flattered that apparently, I'm not a threat -- or a little disappointed I don't register enough to be one, take your pick. It probably helps that I'm not dating anyone who lives on Oak Five."

Yes-- Mikaere's nod confirms that, no hesitation. He sips again at his drink, then adds, "I don't like to gate-keep. There are some things I won't stand for, like... pākehā who decide to get our sacred tattoos, tā moko? That's wrong, same as any religious or spiritual belief that someone tries to co-opt. But there's other things, other ways to embrace it. She could have; she didn't. And that's fine, she doesn't have to."

His little snort of laughter, though, is for Della. "Who's to say that she didn't?" he points out. "Just because you haven't heard about it doesn't mean it didn't happen. I'd put money on her doing it for everyone she meets of any interest, and given you're right next door... I doubt you're safe, I'm sorry to say. Della knows all."

"Well, if Della googled me and decided that there was nothing there worth talking about, then no skin off my nose, I figure." Ravn chuckles. "I'm not actually a murderer, you know?"

He glances as a tall beanstalk of a man with a pencil moustache also runs through the bar. Not his business. Not asking. Not interfering.

"I won't pretend I understand about the tattoos. But then, that's not the point either, is it?" Ravn sips his whiskey. "The inuit in Greenland say the same thing. Some of them want to be Europeans -- citizens of Europe. Others consider themselves to be inuit, victims of colonisation, an oppressed people. Both points of view are valid. I want to think I could move to some small settlement on the ice and learn their ways -- and I probably could to an extent. But I cannot make myself having grown up in that land, immersed in that culture. Can't get the understanding deep down in my bones. And that's what you're talking about, isn't it?"

"My guess," says Mikaere, "is that Della only talks about it when she thinks it's something people need to know. And yeah-- you're not a murderer, so."

Clearly something is going down around them, but no: the Kiwi's not any more interested than the Dane is. Ho hum. Whiskey. Whiskey is nice.

"Exactly that, anyway, yes," he continues. "You can learn a lot about how things work, and why, but you'll never have that same connection. Not in the same way. That doesn't mean you could never be a Greenlander, of course, because that's different. Modern countries, we encourage-- most of us, anyway-- people to join, to embrace our culture and sense of identity. I think where it all really gets complicated is in the divide between racial and cultural, and that's the thing: European cultures and races don't have that same thing happening. When people imply that you can't be English because your ancestors came from somewhere else, we call them racist. But it is different."

"Well, there's also the little fact that Europe -- continental Europe and the British Isles -- have been engaging in an on-going cultural exchange since the last Ice Age. Indigenous populations such as the inuit, the Native Americans, and you -- haven't. So I can move to England and point out that while my passport is Danish, a quarter of their language is too. And I can move to Greenland and learn to live in a cottage on the ice and hunt seals, but I won't have that cultural background. It's not racism. It's a fact -- cultural exchange, cultural melting pot is the European culture that you in turn cannot adapt into, because just as I'm not Maori or inuit, you're not European."

He glances after the two men and the woman and makes no move to get up. "I realise how racist that sounds. It's not meant to. It's the very same thing. But the fact that I can't become Maori any more than you can buy into thousands of years of European history, doesn't mean we cannot exchange ideas, live as neighbours, learn from one another. It just means that yes, there are things you need to be born into, to grow up in, to truly have under your skin."

"That's true," allows Mikaere, casting another quick glance after the group involved in... well, whatever espionage it is. They're fine. It's hard to tell who is getting the better out of any of it, and really... does he care? Not much.

"It's... hm. The difference between being a citizen of a country, and being that deeply connected to it. If I move to Denmark, eventually become a citizen, have children there... they're Danish, because they were born there. They're also New Zealanders, because they have that connection to me, and to my culture. It doesn't mean they can't call themselves Danish, because they demonstrably are. And I think that's where we run into trouble, yes? Cultural ancestry. Somehow, it feels easier to make that distinction when we're talking about non-white cultures, particularly the ones that were oppressed by Europeans in one way or another."

He laughs, abruptly. "Of course, I'm half European, as it happens. My dad's parents were born in England. But that's still not my culture."

"But if you'd grown in England, you'd be English the way you're Maori because you grew up with your mother's people. And if I were to have kids here, they'd be Americans no matter how much their passports might say dual citizenship." Ravn nods. "It's not about blood or the colour of your skin. It's about whether you spent your formative years immersed in a culture or not. You can transplant to another culture as an adult, but you'll never go native. No matter how many years I live here, I'll always be a Danish expat."

He looks up at the beautiful ceiling; everything is beautiful here -- the wood paneling, the scrollwork, the brocade wall paper, all of it. "Sometimes I think I'm going to wake up on the Vagabond and look at my phone to see if Ariadne has texted me overnight. And then I'm going to discover that there is no Ariadne Scullins on my phone contact list. I'll go to her place, and there is somebody else living there. Because Ariadne Scullins never existed, and this is just a long Dream, or some trick like the ones the Revisionist pulls."

"And that," concludes Mikaere, "is why race and nationality and identity is so bloody complicated. I mean, some of the reasons, anyway. But I'll fight any white person to the death, no matter how many generations their family have been in New Zealand, who thinks they can wander up to any tattoo artist and get tā moko."

He hesitates over the rest, turning his attention more fully onto Ravn, rather than considering their surroundings, or the ongoing shenanigans that have almost certainly, by now, caught the attention of others in turn. "That's fucked up," he concludes, a little dubiously. A little concerned. "And all the more reason to make the most of it, now. I rather imagine it's too late for you not to care, so... lean in. Dream or trick or real, and hell, maybe all of us are figments of your imagination, and there's no Gray Harbor at all, make the most of it."

A beat. "But I don't think it is. You just don't want to believe, that you get something that makes you this happy."

"I don't know whether I agree with you on that. But I understand what it is you're saying." Ravn nods thoughtfully. "There might be ways a white person -- or any other colour of foreigner for that matter -- might earn something like that. But wandering up to the nearest needle jockey on the nearest boardwalk isn't it, no. Not any more than I can go get a tattoo of a blackfish and claim it makes me First Nations. Or an American incel can get a tattoo of a Norse raven design and think it makes him some kind of white superman -- oh wait, the last one happens on a regular basis."

Mikaere hesitates, swishing whiskey and soda around in his mouth for a few moments before he allows, "Maybe, yeah. But I'd expect it to be absolutely earned, and thus... offered, not taken. Because that's how it should always be done: a proper, traditional tā moko is bestowed upon you, not something you just decide to have." And that, perhaps, is why Mikaere himself has none.

He makes a face, acknowledging the rest of what's been said with a shake of his head. "The abuse of our cultures is pretty hard to take, ay? People trying to take it over and pervert it into something it isn't, making a mess of something that holds... well, maybe not always power. But tradition." He turns his glass in his hand.

"We can definitely agree on that, at least."

"It's the price we pay for the world becoming smaller -- people see shiny things, people want them." Ravn nods slightly. "Of course it's just a frustration to me -- fucking retarded right wing fascist nut jobs who think shaving the sides of their heads and getting weird Viking-themed tattoos turn them into supermen. To someone like Black it's a literal question of her livelihood and her culture -- and there is no comparison, because while I'm protective of my heritage, it's been a thousand years since that heritage was alive. There are revivalist Asatru people -- a great deal of whom are affiliated with those right wing whackjobs, unfortunately -- but the culture of the part of medieval times that we call the Viking Age now has been dead for a millennium. To her, it's her grandparents. And, I imagine, to you."

Mikaere acknowledges this with another dip of his chin. "Exactly," he agrees. "But we're neither of us going to convince someone who doesn't want to be convinced of any of it."

His glass is empty. He considers it. "Think they're done doing whatever it is they're supposed to be doing? They've disappeared again. I could go another drink, if we're stuck here a while longer. Or maybe we just sidle out somehow, and we end up back home again?"

"We could try sneaking back to our cabin -- that's the door we got here through, maybe it'll take us back home too." Ravn laughs softly and makes to stand up. "Worth a shot. I am tempted to just sit here and drink this excellent whiskey but it's probably not that smart to get wasted in a Dream. Particularly not when someone in it has already declared their willingness to put a slug in you."

"I still vote one for the road," Mikaere decides, as he, too gets to his feet. "I know it'll disappear when we do, but until then..." Which is what he does, heading for the bar to claim a refill (it involves waving his glass at the waiter: surely a universal symbol).

"And if we don't disappear, well." He laughs, on the way back through between the carriages. "At least we'll have the whiskey."

Man has a point and Ravn follows suit. When the waiter discreetly inquires, he nonchalantly tells him, "Msieur Chantanelle will take care of it," and saunters off with his glass before anyone can protest. He's got the walk down pat; the one that suggests that the very idea of questioning him and his intents is blatantly ridiculous -- don't you know who he is?

It's not a far walk back to the compartment -- and if they have to pass pencil moustache and handle bars on the way, well, all you can do is try to venture a guess at which one's Pritchard and which one's Chantanelle, and really, who cares? The two foreigners were clearly meant to be a distraction -- a conversation piece for others to wonder about, and pay less attention to the actual spies while they did.

That, or the Veil actually accepted them noping out. Who knows? Maybe in doing so they altered history and this is how the Great French-Russian War of 1890 did not come to happen after all.

Mikaere's glass is still reasonably full as they approach the compartment that has their names on the door. The door's open-- and oh look, there's a blood stain on the floor? Is that a body? Whatever it is, it's a mess.

It doesn't matter: it doesn't even need a single step closer to be taken, before suddenly Mikaere is staggering into the Safeway, a little tipsy, with a fabulously expensive cut-glass whiskey tumbler still clutched in his hand.

"Huh."

And behind him, the Dane, with a similar glass. "Huh, indeed. See you tomorrow on the docks?"

"... Yeah. See you then."