2022-06-28 - Please Don't Tow

So, one afternoon as tourist season continues to ramp up (how many disappear through the wrong Door this year, only the Veil knows), there's a text for Robin: it's Della (from way back in March, she says, it was pouring that day) and how's his bike treating him these days?

It's that simple.

Only a few minutes pass from when the text is sent, to when it is answered. He waits a respectable ten minutes or so before sending back a text in response. "All fixed up. Thanks for lending the tools. Really saved my butt."
A short pause, then another text. "How're things?"

"Happy to. I miss tinkering."

For the rest, "Depends on whether you like cats. Kittens, really. How's the finding?"

"Kittens are cool. Never had a pet. Strays?"
...
"Found a wedding ring in the bay. Not much this week, though. Weird week."

"Strays, right. They just showed up at our door and like they say, the rest is history." Especially given strays from Pompeii. "No more fleas, so that's a relief."

"Nice find. But, weird? It's been kind of strange here too."

Some time passes without a text, though the little dots keep spinning away, indicating that a response is being composed. Finally, an answer shows up.
"What kind of strange? Shadow shit?"

There's a dots-free pause, longer than with her replies of earlier, but considerably shorter than his. "Along the lines of thinking you're going one place and winding up another."

This time, the response comes fairly quickly. "Same here. Thought it was just me." Then, "You ok?"

"Absolutely not just you. I'm okay, but there were some close calls. Listen, you want to meet up? Or is this better?"

"Sure. But is it over?" After a pause, there go the blinking dots again, though it sure does take him time to get it done. Finally, the follow-up arrives. "I've been home for like a week. Doors."

"I don't think it's over. I mean, I don't know, because it could be and I just haven't noticed because it hasn't happened, but I don't think it is. So if you want to stay there that's fine. But, where are /you/ on okay or not okay? That's why I texted to start with, just in case."

"I'm ok." It's a quick response, followed by a series of short additions.
...
"Stir-crazy, I guess."
...
"Overdue for a supply run."
...
"Not a prepper. lol"
...
"Last time I tried to go out, it was bad."
...
"Does it reset when you shut the door? What if it gets opened from the other side?"
...
"I should wait. It can't go on forever. Right?"

"I would be too." Especially if she didn't have housemates, or cats. "Ha, preppers. I have a secret stash of macaroni bc my one housemate doesn't believe in boxed macaroni (she's the one who bakes a lot, she's amazing)."

...

"I'm sorry that last time was bad like that. It sucks. We should be able to at least count on real doors (housemates and I call them Doors too, like you did). The ones we had would have been super hard to go through alone. IDK exactly how it resets all the time because it seems to change and also we can't always choose (like that time there was a lady getting mad that we were in her shop), but propping the door open seems good."

"So (1) it can't go forever, or at least housemate2 will put the slam on it if it tries, but (2) being stuck sucks in the meantime and (3) you want some coffee or TP or macaroni to hold you over, lmk and I can drop you some by when I'm out. No kittens tho. 🙂"

There's another long pause. Longer than any so far, and for a good bit, there aren't even the telltale dots.

Finally, "I can't prop the door. Doesn't work that way. Does a window count as a door if you climb through it?"
...
"I've been through weird shit alone before. It sucks though. I can drive somewhere. Can we meet?"

The reply comes in much the same rhythm as before. "Good question. I... I wouldn't be surprised."

"It's a threshold either way."

"Come to 5 Oak if you want, or I can drive somewhere and we can both roll our windows down and talk through them like spies. <- I hope that's actually funny. But pick the place and as long as it isn't the sawmill or the pond I'm probably game."

"Haha. I will come to you."

And that's it for a while. But after an appropriate passage of time, a van rolls up at 5 Oak, hand painted in a geometric pattern of dark and light blues. Robin is in the driver's seat, but he doesn't venture out at this point. There are shadows under his eyes to suggest he isn't sleeping well. He rolls his window down and peers up toward the residence, waiting.

It isn't long at all before Della pops out, her hair braided back, a tall glass in one hand and a sack slung over her shoulder. The van's paint job gets a long, interested look along the way, but when she pulls up to his window, those dark eyes are looking at him. The glass has ice in it. "Weird shit first or cold drink first?" 'Getting out' doesn't appear to be on the list.

If there's a hesitation there, it's softened by a smile with a self-conscious, slightly ironic tilt. "Cold drink, I guess," Robin answerd. "Weird shit will still be there when the ice melts." He starts to reach through the window, then eyes the sill with a little frown. "If a window can be a door, does reaching through it count?"

"Mmm. I've reached through a Door a few times and it hasn't yanked me over, if that helps? If it helps you feel better, I can reach in your way, or hold the glass halfway over so you can take it from your side." Would Della, would any of them ever have said this seriously before Gray Harbor?

In the meantime, he has one job: "Pick. Water's cold, but so's the soda," and it has calories for someone who hasn't been going anywhere for a while, even if there aren't any other nutrients anywhere: root beer or lemon-lime. If he dithers, she'll handle over both, done.

Robin digs a finger in one eye, and gives a self-conscious half-smile. "I sound like a lunatic." He still hesitates taking the glass, but only for a moment before he pointedly reaches out the window to take the glass and a lemon lime. "Thanks."

He cracks open the soda and has along drink of it. He finishes with a little sigh. "Seems like you're always helping me out. Someday you are going to have to let me repay the favor, you know."

A lift of one shoulder shrugs those worries away; "Figuring this out is important." If they can. Her dark eyes track his movement, and her smile flickers into being when he gives it a go.

"Welcome." The other can hisses as she opens it, but she ably controls the bubbles. "One of these days, maybe," but she shrugs that away too, because she can.

Della also gives him a little while longer with the drink before checking, "The other thing, you called it Shadow?"

Robin fidgets with the glass, drawing lines at random in the condensation. "Shadow. Shadows. Sorry, that's just how I always thought of it. I haven't talked about it much to others... But I hear some people here call it a veil. I guess that's as good a name as any? I like Shadows better..." He lifts a shoulder, then glances up at her. His usually cheery disposition is a bit strained, to say the least.

"I figure it's all connected. Dreams. Doors. Veil. Shadows. Fey. Call it whatever you want." He has a drink of the soda and then leans his head back on the seat. "Thing is, I made a door back, once. Just once. But I don't even know if I can do that again. Maybe it wasn't even me, you know? Maybe they just let me think that."

"You did? That's amazing." Her voice stays quiet, the more so for his concerns, but still: she's impressed. And probably has questions, but for the moment she sets them aside in favor of, "Also, 'Shadows' seems as reasonable a name as 'Dreams.'"

Della sticks to shallow sips, careful of how the root beer likes to foam. "Reminds me of The Princess Bride, if you ever watched that, the bit with the iocaine powder? It can tie us all up in knots."

"For all we know, we live in a Shadow too."

That reference actually gets a little laugh out of Robin. "I know that you know that I know that we're screwed." Maybe a bit dark, but there's a sparkle of humor back in his eyes, at least.

"They've done /that/ to me too, you know. Made it so real I thought I was in the real world. I gave up trying to figure out if I was crazy years ago." He has another smaller sip of soda, and taps once or twice on the door. "I know I have to get out of here sometime. I just /hate/ that place."

He laughs, she laughs, pleased; "Exactly."

Not that that lasts. Because, "That sucks." Her brows have drawn in; Della checks her side of the van for heat, then cautiously leans a hand against it, careful of the paint but companionable. "For very long? I've heard of people getting Lost out there; it's bad enough dealing with a night's worth."

She adds wryly, rather than quickly encouraging him to go or stay, "You'd think there'd be more therapists in this town."

"Not sure," Robin admits. "Time is funny in there sometimes. It could feel like weeks, then you get back and it's the same night." But the mention of therapists just earns a rolling of eyes. "Are you kidding? You think I would step foot in a therapist's office? They'd have me locked up. Throw away the key." After a beat, he adds, "Or at least, they'd try."

Della's nod is slow; it carries recognition.

She consciously lightens it, arching one brow for that eyeroll; "If there were some here, who go through this too, who could be trusted... but it's hard enough to find a compatible therapist at the best of times," and she makes a face as though she has. Anyway: "So, all right, no throwing away the key. We'll plan for that. No getting lost with this Door thing, if it can be helped. ...Easier said than done, I know."

"The way you find things, could you always do it? Can you do anything else that's," she gives it air quotes, but not mockingly, "'unusual'?"

Robin shrugs, back to fidgeting with the cup. "Not really. It's not the first thing I figured out how to do." He slants a speculative gaze toward her, then gives a little wiggle of his fingers and sets his glass floating in the air, droplets of condensation spinning in orbit around it. "What about you?"

The glass and the condensation -- Della doesn't say anything at first, breath caught, as though she might startle him into its all crashing down. When she does, there's flagrant wistfulness in her voice. "Nice control. I mean, I've seen things move, but not controlled like that." She adds after a moment, still staring at the not-quite-Saturn, "For me it only started pretty recently. Half a year ago? After I moved here for real. Apparently the thing that I do that's odd is bring things back from Dreams. Things other than bruises. Souvenirs, if you will."

She reaches out a finger, trying to snag one of those droplets out of orbit without messing up the whole thing.

Robin gives a pleased little half grin. "I practice a lot," he admits. "When I'm bored..." He pauses to concentrate while she snags the droplet, keeping the system spinning without it.

Her revelation breaks his concentration, and he catches the cup before it can fall, letting the droplets fall where the may. "For serious? What sort of things? I didn't know it was even /possible/..."

Della sniffs the droplet, as though telekinesis might have meant transmutation... but it's just water. She smears it between thumb and forefinger, though she doesn't taste it -- and then all at once she glances towards the back of the van, never mind that she can't see anything from this angle, and smiles.

But his surprise leads to a wry shadow of a shrug, her eyes back to the caught glass before she looks up. "It started with sand, from a Shadow -- I didn't know it was a Shadow then, Shadow or Dream -- when we were in the desert. A desert. Usually something comes back, but it isn't usually important. A bridle. A knife, but just an everyday knife. There was a dress that was all magical in the Shadow and really lovely -- filthy, I spent forever cleaning it, but lovely -- but not magical on this side. I'm told things like that don't stay. And that we can't just go and make off with Queen Elizabeth's crown, because of the whole 'Shadows protect themselves' bit. But it's... sort of fun? Even if the Shadows themselves aren't great, and one was all glittery and gave me the most awful headache."

It's enough to drive a woman to drink, and so she does, though it's root beer.

Robin's head tilts, suddenly alive with curiosity. "/Interesting/. I don't think there's ever been anything I wanted to bring back." The line of thought meanders as he sets the glass up on the dash, but suddenly he sits up a little straighter, giving Della a more curious look. "Do you suppose you could bring back something that was alive? And would it change to something normal, if you did?"

"I don't know," Della admits. "I haven't tried. But then I haven't tried for most of these; they're just things I've been holding... and then they're just there, when I'm awake. I'd like to be more conscious about it but a lot of the Drea -- Shadows don't give me a lot of room to think."

"The weird thing about the Doors is that everyone's bringing things back. Glasses -- the drinking kind, not the seeing kind -- bread and cheese, even, and a... stone statue, a little one," something that brings humor to her eyes. "So maybe you can too. It's just... not every Shadow has things somebody'd want."

And because she's curious too, "When you hold up the glass, and then the bits of water rotating around it, do you have to think about each individual bit or just... as a group of them? How was it when you started out?"

Robin actually gives a little atavistic shudder at the idea of bringing something back. "Yeah, I don't think I want souvenirs... It's just, there used to be this dude I met sometimes. I haven't seen him in a while, but I thought if I ever did, maybe I'd try to bring him back." He lifts a shoulder to dismiss the idea, and focuses instead on the subject of powers.

And on this, he actually gets almost enthusiastic. "No, no, you can't try to think about them individually. You don't think about the /thing/. It's more like..." He hunts for words to describe something he doesn't often talk about out loud, then suddenly brightens. Warming to his subject, he continues, "You have to think of them in relation to each other, right? /That's/ what you can manipulate." He wiggles his fingers and sends a few droplets dancing back into the air, twirling around each other. "How they relate to each other, to the van, to me... It's like reverse Finding, right? Instead of going to the thing, you bring the thing where you want it to be."

He lets the water splash back to the dash again. "The way out was kind of like that, too. I didn't try to make a door. I just... thought of something in the real world, and I Found the way to get there."

"Oh? Good dude, I take it." Della might ask more, but Robin-as-teacher...

She's fascinated, and then murmuring under her breath: in relation to each other. In relation to each other. No more leaning: she straightens enough to have a hand free, to wiggle.

(Did one of those droplets drop out of line, right before they splashed?)

"That makes total sense. It's all spatial. And clearly it works." For him. "Finding the way to get to the thing. Robin."

A little pause. "Does Finding normally show you the route to get there, or just the straight line 'as the crow flies'?"

The change of tone locks Robin's attention on Della, his attention snapping back to her and away from the impromptu lesson. A crease appears on his brow as he considers it. "Neither. It's more like... Think of it like radar, I guess? Except that the farther away it is, the fuzzier it gets, until it's just a vague sense of direction." A beat, then he suddenly grins as a thought amuses him. "Like radar that needs glasses. Why, are you trying to find something?"

"You know that now I'm imagining green circles around your head and," Della lifts her fingers, wiggling them together to mimic something flying, "blip blip blip sounds." Her smile is wide. She adjusts invisible glasses.

"Not trying to find anything right now, no, but I'd love to learn how. How to move things, but Finding sounds especially great."

"If you can move things, you can Find them," Robin proclaims, with a vague wave of his hand. "They're /practically/ the same thing. You can't move a thing if you can't sense it, right? So you just do that... but like. From a distance. The only reason /everyone/ doesn't do it is because they haven't figured out how to move things."

He gives a lopsided grin, leaning against the window. "Listen, figure out the spatial thing. You can do all sorts of cool shit, not just Finding. Hang on a sec, I'll show you..." He withdraws, ducking back into the hidden interior of the van for a moment, through a curtain meant to separate the cab from the living area. After a few seconds, he returns carrying a small tool kit. It looks like any toolbox you might find at the back of someone's garage. A little too small to be useful, with rust stains and other signs of neglect. It's unremarkable in the extreme, until Robin starts pulling tools out of it and lining them up on the dash. Way more tools than ought to fit in that tiny little box.

When he's made his point, Robin gives a broad grin. "Mary Poppins's tool box. I only figured this one out a couple months ago."

"'Just' do that." Della's grin is lopsided; she takes the opportunity to cool off with more root beer in the moments he's gone and then...

She looks at the tool box with interest, despite the shape it's in, because tools. But then. Then! "That is fantastic. Now I want one that's pocket-sized," and that she can actually lift, minor details like that. "What else? Not like that's not enough."

Robin grins at that thought. "I bet you could do that. But I haven't figured out how to get anything in there that can't fit through the opening... But yeah, you could have like the world's deepest purse, if you want. It's harder to explain how to do that one, though." He starts putting away the tools as he talks. "Those are the things I use the most. For the rest... Sometimes I make lights. I don't do it unless I get caught out with a dead battery and no hookups. Not worth the backlash. I can open locks, if they're not electronic. I can stop people from hitting me." The last bit pops out without thought, but once it does, he shifts a bit with some embarrassment and sets the toolbox on the floor between the seats. "Use your imagination. It's all just different ways of moving things around."

'Backlash' takes her a second, but then Della nods, and it's swift and firm enough that she must have heard something like it before. "Being able to stop people from hitting you is great. We could all use it." That's firm too. "How do you stop them? And... I don't know if you can teach me to move things, to even get started -- another friend's tried too, so maybe it's just me -- but if you could..."

"Same way you move things," Robin answers, so helpfully. "Except the opposite. You don't realize it because the air moves out of your way so easily, but air is a thing and it's all around you. Which means you can move it. So if you make it so the air /doesn't/ move out of the way..." He shrugs, eloquently.

The last request sobers him up a little. The nerd-high passes, and he regards her with a bit more seriousness. "I'd like to," he replies, slowly, "But I've never taught anyone before. No one taught me, either. And I don't think I can teach you the way I learned." A beat, then he adds, "Mainly because I learned by getting punched a lot. But maybe we can try finding a different way?"

So helpful that Della's lips prim together, one brow arching up, but at least it's mostly in humor.

"I am all for a way that doesn't involve getting punched a lot," she does assure, and that has seriousness to go with the humor too.

And before it completely slips aside, "Manipulating air is interesting. I'd thought you'd just yank on their belt or something. I've imagined people flying that way, moving their belts or something else attached. But yes. Start small. No pushing me off a roof, either," she teases.

Robin gives a mischievous little grin. "Oh, forget the belts. You can move whole people if you practice enough. But it's a risk-reward calculation, you know? Backlash, obviously. But also, apparently the more you use this shit, the more likely it gets you attention from the shadows." The grin fades, and some of his previous anxiety returns. "But it's worth it. It's one of the best tools you can have against them."

"Right, right." Della, absolutely undeterred. "Come to think of it, maybe the glitter headache after bringing back the dress was backlash for that, not just for the whole thing," and she starts to frown but just can't, not all the way, because possiblities.

"So first thing to Find: glasses to help me with my radar?"

"Could have been either," Robin answers, with a sigh. "I'm lucky, mostly. I can pass mine off as cool tattoos, at the worst. "

His eyes get a glimmer of amusement at this last, and he points out, "You've got a captive audience, you know. I'm not going anywhere, unless you tell me to leave, and I owe you a bucket of favors already. Wanna try some things?"

"I do want to try some things," says Della, surprise surprise. But -- and here's the suggestion, the question, at last -- "Are you going to stay in your van to do it? We also have an actual toilet. Not to take away from TK practice," and there's that lurking smile, the one that had faded at the thought of bruises, of marks, of whatever leaves its trace that way.

A ghost of that haunted look returns at the question. He lingers over it a little longer than he should, then shakes his head. "Yeah, no. I really shouldn't, I guess? I have to leave sometime. I can't stay in here forever." But he still doesn't make an immediate move to leave.

He stares at the door frame, brow lowered, then he finally takes a deep breath. "Hold on." It's a quick motion to fetch the toolbox and drop it out the window. A little wiggle of his fingers ensures it lands without /too/ hard of a thunk. "All right. Here I go." He grabs the door handle, but still hesitates. "Dammit."

Does Della look away for just a moment? Maybe she was looking at the toolbox he just dropped on the ground, or the creative paint job on the van. Maybe she just wanted to give him some privacy to have his little minor freakout. Whatever it is, when she looks back, the driver's side door of the van is open, but Robin is gone. Oops!

Della surely doesn't rush him; she stands, sack over her shoulder, can in hand, like she'd do it all day. "Whatever works for you," in fact.

But she does look away -- the paint job's a good excuse for privacy and the toolbox's bound to draw her eye, why have one reason when you can have three -- and...

"...Robin?"

"Robin."

"Robin, don't prank me."

She reaches for the toolbox but it's heavy. And then there's the door -- she doesn't close it, she only sets it barely ajar, and then she's on her phone. Calling.

It takes a second for the signal to bounce through the cell towers, but then there's a tell-tale ringing from inside the van. She could probably look in enough to see a cell phone lying on the passenger seat, no doubt where Robin discarded it after their last text conversation.

Well, shit.

Della cuts the call, staring.

He's gone. She'd encouraged him, and he's gone.

Deep breath.

Photo time. She gets herself that distance, that record, from a few different angles; she confirms that, no, he didn't happen to conveniently leave the keys; she confirms that yes, the toolbox really is that heavy. Really, really heavy. Maybe she can use her foot to nudge it just a little further under a plant or something, but that's about it.

So then she gets the little pen and paper out of her bag -- things she usually carries since that Oak get-together -- and writes a note: 'R: So sorry. Have your phone. D.' And then comes the tapping: a text to her housemates with her location and plan, followed by a picture of the van that shows its license plate and, 'Do not tow!'

And then -- she doesn't have to go lock her front door, she always does -- Della puts that plan into action: slide that door open; without getting in, get his phone if she can and leave the note in its place, and take care of everything that looks remotely steal-able and try to cram it into the glove compartment. Get in, cautiously. If nothing peculiar happens, roll up the window and put away anything else that needs it, locking the far door and in fact all the doors... and look out the door she'd entered.

To 5 Oak, or wherever Robin wound up, or somewhere else altogether.