2022-06-13 - A Win For Team Humanity?

The sun is out. On a day like this, Gray Harbor can feel almost -- normal. Tourists weave in and out among each other on the boardwalk, heading to or from the marina, the ice cream shop, the concession stands, and other attractions. Children chase each other or stop to stare longingly at the windows of Sweet Retreats. A dog is barking somewhere. Seagulls are stealing fries from inattentive eaters. The air is warm but not stifling, and the breeze smells of the brackish water of North Bay, with a whiff of the salt of the Pacific beyond Damon Point. A white sail glides past every so often -- and sometimes, a smaller, colourful one because while this is hardly Hawaii, the wind surfing is pretty good around these parts, at least for people who don't yet brave the wild blue yonder.

Ravn Abildgaard has found himself a bench near the piers where the wind brings the occasional whiff of sea salt. He's got himself a nice big cup of coffee and a book, and he's really quite content. Could he do this reading on his boat too? Of course. Could he make instant coffee there too? Of course. Maybe he's just in a mood to watch the life on the boardwalk, get very little actual reading done, and sometimes exchange a few words with people passing by.

After a night of unsettled sleep, there's nothing like some fresh air to clear the head, especially when served in conjunction with a a night-on obscene amount of black coffee. Una's got one of those enormous takeaway cups of it, and nurses it between her fingers as she ambles through and around the crowds, her usually easy-to-identify red hair hidden beneath the brim of her floppy woven hat, protection against the sun. There's something to be said for existing amidst a crowd, part of it but also not part of it; alone but also not alone.

She dodges a small child apparently determined to run into any knees he can find (and simply lifts her brows and smiles, a little tired and a little bemused, at the accompany parent, harried and inclined to find fault with everyone else for getting in the way), and then sidles further out of the way. It's as she does that that she spies the book-reading Dane, and angles her path towards the bench in question.

"Hey," she says, on approach. "Good morning."

"You look like you had an interesting night and not necessarily in the fun way." Ravn looks up and gives the redhead a look-over. She doesn't look like she's injured and she doesn't walk like she's concealing large amounts of bumps and bruises; it's something. Plenty of ways Gray Harbor can give somebody a work-over without leaving physical evidence, though. He quirks an eyebrow. "Bad Dream?"

"Weirdest dream I ever had," admits the redhead, dropping herself into a seated position at the other end of the bench, her frown deepening with the admission, the 'd' in dream carrying a certain hesitation to it, as if she's not entirely sure how to characterise it. She rallies herself with a sip of her coffee, then turns her head to consider Ravn sidelong. "If it was a Dream," capitalised, "then it's the first time I've ever had one where I wasn't actually a participant: just observing. And if it was just the normal kind... well, I don't tend to have normal dreams about Gray Harbor Things."

Ravn cants his head and inserts his bookmark before closing his book and laying it down; Danske Folkesagn i Folkemunde -- a foundation work from the late 19th century for his field, and probably not read by a whole lot of people who aren't in his field. Heaven only knows why he's re-reading it. He steeples his gloved fingers and muses, "It's rare for Dreams to not put you in an active role. Usually, there's some kind of story, some kind of decision you need to make. Though I suppose there are no rules set in stone. Sometimes it's just a scenery for no apparent reason -- the strangest I've been in like that, I was a teenager back home and it was just dodging my parents, smoking pot in the green house, and waiting for it to go away."

"That's what I thought," agrees Una, with another frown, one that furrows her forehead distinctly. "This one... no pot. Just a courtroom, with a kangaroo and some monkeys with popcorn, and I think Ava and Aidan were representing the prosecution against the Vivisectionist and what I think was, like, the avatar of the healing powers?"

By light of day, the whole thing may have stopped feeling quite so immediate, but it's clear she remembers enough of it to still be weirded out and uncomfortable.

"It was really weird."

"Monkeys. With popcorn." Listen to the excitement in Ravn's voice. Listen to the enthusiasm. It's the anticipatory glee of somebody heading to their doctor to have a toe nail removed with a spoon, without anaesthetics. "The macaques. White monkeys, kind of big, yellow teeth, chatter and laugh a lot, make bets about popcorn in red and white striped bags like some kind of whacked drive-in movie audience?"

He's seen them before all right. "I had a Dream with Scullins, about them. We were in some kind of Japanese dojo during the cherry flower festival. There wasn't really any narrative. I got the distinct impression they were there to watch me flail and feel awkward about crushing hard on her while thinking she was interested in someone else. That they were there for the misery."

Oh, Una can absolutely hear that enthusiasm, and none of it does anything to release that frown from its grip upon her features. If anything, her frown deepens, and she blinks: once, twice, and then a third time. Not, in this instance, a silent plea for help-- just a natural reaction to the information on offer.

"Well, fuck," she says. "Those things. But did you, or Ari, mention the macaques to me ever? Did my imagination scoop up the idea from you and just throw it in, or was that... a Veil manifestation of something that absolutely exists out there. Fuck. Because," she adds, more slowly now, "the conclusion to the whole thing was a change to healing. Which seems kind of important, if it was more than just a normal dream."

"Hrm. I can't speak for her, but I'm pretty certain I didn't." Ravn frowns, trying to remember. "I was embarrassed as hell about that Dream. I was miserable in it, and I really haven't felt like talking with anyone about it. I am glad Scullins talked to me about it after, because the message of it to me was -- romantic setting, right girl, wrong bloke. And she addressed that when we talked after, and told me she'd be up for seeing if there's something between us. It may be too early to start sending out wedding invitations but so far, I'd say there definitely is."

There's a more thoughtful cant to Una's head, and line to her expression, too, as she considers this information-- though its ultimate result is a shake of her head. "Well," she says. "No, I can't imagine you would have spoken about that to me. No. And I am also glad that Ariadne talked to you about it, because..."

Look at that smile, creeping in across her mouth. "Well. So clearly something good came out of the macaques anyway. That time, at least."

"It was probably not intentional on their behalf." Ravn smiles wryly. Then he circles back to something else Una said previously. "You came face to face with the Vivisectionist in that Dream? Or, people did? I'm curious about that. Brennon was all gung-ho crusade about her until she suddenly turned to Veil fruit instead. I can't not be curious since it all began with the so-called gas leak explosion at the clinic when she wanted to try to heal my neuropathy."

He laughs softly. "I kind of expected Brennon to end up face to face with the Vivisectionist, not going to lie. I just thought she'd end up convincing me to brave a trip to the Other Side, to march into her office and demand changes."

"Good," says Una, not without another twinkle of amusement. "Serves them right to be thwarted on occasion, I'm sure."

Twinkles, alas, are not destined to last, because she has to continue with a short nod of acknowledgement and a much more serious, "Mm. Yes. I'd've thought that would be more her style, too. But, no-- at least, not in the dream I had. The Vivisectionist... there was something off about her, like she didn't all fit together? In an old fashioned nurse's uniform, mask over the face. She ended up getting a lot of her power drained," she recalls, twisting her mouth up slightly to one side.

Ravn nods slowly. "I've never seen her. But that does match the descriptions I've heard from people who have. Like a bombshell nurse from the 1940s but one that's gone through a chain saw and got put back together with duct tape. Or like her body is really balloons full of water under the clothes. That she's some kind of construct. The only one I've interacted with face to face is the Revisionist. She looks like a very old woman with the kind of leather skin you get from too much artificial tan. She's dressed like an 80s lawyer and she smokes like a chimney -- which is very distressing to watch given her throat has been slit and the smoke comes out through it. Apart from that, though, she still seems -- well, human."

Troubled, Una is silent for a few moments, taking a few careful sips of her coffee as she, presumably, gives this some further consideration.

"I'm not sorry to have failed to meet either face to face thus far," she says. "But I don't know that I'd heard a description of the Vivisectionist either, before now. So that's putting a lot of points into the 'this was a Dream, even if it wasn't one I was an active participant in' column. I wonder if it was an actual Dream for the people involved. And if so... does that mean healing has actually changed?"

"I haven't got a hair of healing talent," Ravn murmurs. "I don't feel any different but I wouldn't expect to. Maybe we need to talk to others who can do those things, find out if they've noticed anything different? I don't want to just dismiss this as some random late night fantasy -- not when it's got the macaques and the Vivisectionist. Experience tells me that anything featuring an -ist needs to be taken very seriously."

He taps his lip thoughtfully and then reaches for a sip of his coffee -- black and nothing but, thank you, Sweet Retreats. "What did you mean exactly when you said, 'the avatar of healing'? I remember people making vague references in the past, about people who were also books -- but I never managed to get a straight answer out of anyone about them. Something about only communicating in music."

Una purses her lips, turning her attention out towards the water rather than focusing on Ravn. "To be honest, I think any dream around here needs to be given some serious consideration, I think. But... I think you're right, too, that the specifics of this one do ask for much deeper analysis. It sounded like-- I think-- it was supposed to become easier. Not how much you can heal in terms of severity, but more... how often? I'm not sure." It's hazy, some of it banished by the brightness of the sunshine.

"They called him Ash," is one thing she does remember, absolutely. "And I think there was something about books, too. And I had definitely never heard of these books before. Something about hymns? The details are fading."

"I don't know enough. I remember hearing about it but I did at a time where things were blowing up on my end, too. Something, something, Conner Hawthorne, August Roen, a few others. Not everyone is very talkative about these things -- I'm sure you've noticed that to a lot of people in town, Veil things are shared on a kind of need to know basis." Ravn shakes his head lightly. "The Veil probably wants it that way -- encourages us to not pass knowledge on to each other lest we gain the upper hand by figuring out something important, put the pieces of the puzzles together."

Ravn sips his coffee again. "I recall that at the time people were murmuring in corners about it, my attention was taken by Hurricane Cimaron and the things that followed in its wake. I think it had something to do with people stealing the eyes of the carousel animals in Addington Park, maybe. But again, the people involved are very tight-lipped, not prone to wander on down to the Pourhouse and tell the rest of us what they were up to."

He looks out at the Bay and then hitches a shoulder lightly. "Books. Music. Something about corruption. And it's literally all I know. Sounds like we ought to talk to Brennon and Kinney though? Of course that's easier said than done in this town -- hell, I live with Kinney, and we still manage to miss each other most days."

"And Leila-- the vet?-- and the chief de la Vega," recalls Una. "If there was anyone else there, I don't think I recognised them."

She's slower to respond beyond that, taking a moment to take a few more sips of her coffee, lips pressing together tightly after each sip. "I want to know more, though, yes," she agrees. "It seems important. I wish people volunteered information more often. It drives me crazy when... well, how much do we simply not know, because it hasn't seemed relevant to someone to talk about it? I get you can't talk about everything. But it's frustrating, too, particularly at moments like this."

"I am going to maintain my theory that the dolorphages encourage us to not share." Ravn nods firmly and takes another sip of his coffee. "It's so very beneficial for them -- and it's been their tactic through a century and a half, that much is obvious. Look at how many people here know things -- and just keep quiet. Your own mother, not wanting to discuss the strangeness of Gray Harbor. The ones who do talk a lot right away are usually outsiders like me who did not grow up knowing that the more you talk about it, the more you do about it, the more attention you attract. Keep your head down, don't interfere, don't get singled out. It's a classic tactic of oppression."

A long, slow nod from Una this time, acknowledging this reality however little she cares for it. "And now, because that's the example you're setting, it seems like... well, people around you, at least, are talking. Granted, a lot of us are newcomers, but not all of us. Though, we do, between us, attract a fair amount of attention, I think, so there's probably something in the whole 'keep your head down' mentality."

She pauses, sipping at her coffee. "I'm not particularly interested in keeping my head down, though. I want to know, because I'm not sure I trust not knowing."

"It's a choice. Three options. Ship out. Be a good cog in the machinery. Or fight back." Ravn nods. "I'm not going to shame anyone for picking either because people don't always get the luxury of making the morally superior choice. In your mum's case -- well, she had you to look after and keep safe, for one. A friend of mine regularly reminds me of that -- that sometimes, there's a high price to pay for sticking your neck out. And given he's been in St Mary's Cemetery since 1920, I figure he's got a point."

Una frowns, abruptly, at that mention of her mom, as if this particular interpretation has not quite so cohesively been laid out for her before. Her nod is slow and thoughtful, but she doesn't (immediately, at least) have any particular comment on it. More coffee, then, and finally, "What got your friend in the end? Something Veil-related?"

Perfectly normal, really, this whole 'my friend who has been dead for a hundred years' business.

Ravn shakes his head. "He never said. But he stays around to keep an eye on his granddaughter, and I've met her -- she's got a tiny bit of shine. He's not very old so I'm going to guess that a Dream got him. The injuries are real, after all."

Una's shudder is unfeigned; there's a chill running down the back of her neck, setting her to shivering despite the relative warmth of the morning. "I can't imagine-- dying in a Dream. I know it's possible, of course it is, that's the logical thing to know. If the injuries are, then of course it's possible for them to be that bad. But it... does your body return, and you're just there, in bed, dead?"

She doesn't entirely seem to expect an answer to that. "Can the granddaughter see him? That'd be... a way to have a grandparent."

Ravn shakes his head. "I don't think so. I have -- you know, offered to take a message. Maybe even find a way to make her visit. He starts talking about something else when I do -- and I want to respect that. I met her in a pretty bloody awful situation -- she and her family were being held hostage by that litter of too-many-teeth kittens that wasn't friendly. And the way she didn't know anything -- she has this ability to see and remember the weird, but she doesn't understand it, and she doesn't want to know about it. It's just the way things are here in Gray Harbor, and the less you talk about it the better. That made me realise, if anything, that we really do need to keep sharing. Otherwise we end up like that -- dead, or completely at the mercy of demon kittens."

Una's brows knit unhappily, but she acknowledges all of this with a nod. "I can respect that," she decides, finally. "On both his side and hers, though I certainly personally take your view of it."

Her mouth twitches slightly, though it's really not funny. "'Completely at the mercy of demon kittens'. There's a mental image and a half. I'm going to ask around, everyone I run into, see whether anyone else had the dream I did. If something has changed, if there's more context we need here, that'll be the way to get it."

"Talking to other healers is a pretty obvious first step," Ravn agrees. He steeples his fingers again in what he's probably unaware is a classic supervillain pose -- fret not, Mr Bond, he is not about to give a speech about his own genius. "But, let's assume that your dream is real. That you saw something that actually happened to the people involved -- then it's good news, I think? The Vivisectionist is not a nice person. She's experimented on people in town on several occasions -- and then the whole mess with blowing up Brennon's clinic and whatnot. If she was -- drained? Rendered powerless, at least for some time? I'm going to call that a win for humanity. The Revisionist and the Exorcist aren't malicious as such. The Vivisectionist doesn't give a fuck about human life."

"Yes," allows Una, a little cautious about it, but with slow and careful confirmation nonetheless. "Unless there was some nuance I missed... yes, it seems like it was a win for the good guys for once. It was definitely only temporary, though. Maybe long-term, but maybe... not. I mean, wasn't she supposed to be dead, too? But yes, yes, you're right: I think this counts as a win. And if it really does mean we can heal people more often? That's important too. Though,"

She hesitates. "I bet it means healers end up using their power more often. I suppose that's arguably a win for Them, too."

Ravn opens his mouth -- and then closes it. Then he nods. "Maybe that's why. Not all of Them feed on suffering. Many of them just want us to use our power. And well -- yes. Healers will. I remember Kinney complaining about it -- the fear that if he helps someone out in the morning, what if someone gets more seriously injured in the afternoon? If healing becomes less draining, then more healing will happen. And for once, the symbiotic relationship is mutually beneficial?"

Then he sobers and nods, because that other question at least he knows the answer to. "The Vivisectionist was killed, before I even came into town. A woman named Isabella Reede offed her, in some kind of strange Veil factory where people were being turned into kibble. I don't know all the details -- and I only ever met Reede once in passing. Those post-its are kind of her trademark, though. Vydal dealt with her in the past too -- and he confirmed that to Brennon and I. So I guess it really is true -- the only thing that can permanently kill a supervillain is bad sales."

That last remark? That earns a little snort of laughter, though Una has otherwise maintained her serious expression-- turned sidelong so that she can look at Ravn as he speaks-- throughout. "The possibility of someone who allegedly used to be human being... unkilled? That makes me nervous. How did she get better? Why did she get better? The unknowable."

She shakes her head, but adds, "I know when I was injured, when I was Squirrel, I was reluctant to ask anyone for help, because... exactly that. What if someone else needed it more, later? So this really does help. I'd rather people don't need healing at all, but if this is actually real-- and I guess I'll have to try and test it out? Though of course I'm not the strongest healer out there-- then... well, a good thing."

Ravn nods his agreement again, and sips his coffee; seagulls circle overhead and if this is all true? It's really good news. It feels good, knowing that at least sometimes, humanity wins. The already bright day got no less bright for it. "I've decided against help with bumps and bruises and cuts. Because hey, somebody might wake up with a bullet in their chest like I did once. Or a meat cleaver stuck in one arm, like I had once. You don't want to sit there and having had your ingrown nail treated while somebody else bleeds out because you couldn't just see a doctor about it."

"Necessity, rather than convenience," agrees Una without a moment's hesitation. "That's exactly it. And I don't think that should change, even if we actually can heal more people than we used to be able to; it's still not something you do frivolously. I'd be more likely to ask for help, maybe, but it would still be for serious injuries only."

She smiles, crookedly. "The fewer times people end up going in to hospital the better, if it can be avoided. I know the hospital staff don't even blink, just... completely forget. But I still hate it."

"If this is true -- and let's hear it from more healers before we assume that it is. If it is true? Then yeah. We shouldn't start asking our healer house mate to treat every splinter or headache we get. Same as I shouldn't use my power to hold my coffee while I get another book." Not that Ravn would do that. Ever. At least not until next time. Okay, fine, he does it all the time.

He smiles a bit nonetheless. "Still, it's a thought to inspire more thoughts. Does this mean we can drag the -ists to court? Where is this court? Where do I send my letters?"

"If," Una agrees, without hesitation. She knows the Dane well enough to lift one eyebrow in gentle askance, too, but aside from a slightly smirky smile, she lets that comment go. How many of them have not fallen into frivolous uses of their power? Don't think for a moment that those geoducks-- for instance-- came into being without a certain amount of extra-curricular shaping help.

"I hadn't thought of that," is a little slower. "But you're right. It raises all kinds of possibilities, doesn't it? How do you lay charges against them? And... how many times has it happened in the past?"

"And who sits in judgement of them?" Ravn nods. That's the big one. The sixty four thousand dollars question. Who watches the watchmen?

He leans back on the bench and looks up into the blue sky. "No wonder it's been so -- quiet. Everything has been deceptively normal for me the last couple of weeks. No clinics blowing up. No demon cats. No big dramatics of any kind. Maybe the whole Veil was just busy watching something unfold? Hell, even Haggleford seems to have gone to ground, may he stay there."

"Isn't it just," agrees Una, fervently. It's not a question she's comfortable trying to answer: she may have watched the scene unfold, but she's not sure.

It draws silence of her own, slow and thoughtful, and finally, punctuated by a shake of the head. "Yeah," she agrees. "Well-- I wish it would stay like that, even with this. Nice and quiet. Let us enjoy our summer in piece, aside from not-too-bad jaunts to Rome, or doors into the past."