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*glares at Muse* - Diary of a Necromancer
Excuse me, I'm making perfect sense, you're just not keeping up
*glares at Muse*
OK, well then, now that we've got the runup to Halloween, or as Inner Trevor calls it, "Let's All Be Racist To The Bloody Vampires Now Why Don't We Month", out of the way (there's a panel idea in that somewhere about the evolution of Acceptable Targets, I think), Muse has, sort of, showed up to work -- this was originally supposed to run into the next part of this scene, but in the interests of not sitting on what's at least half of a coherent thought for another three months, I've made the executive decision to run with this bit now as-is. So.


His name's Mick. The lighthouse doesn't need a keeper, everything's automated and satnav and barely a shipping-lane anymore as it is. But they don't mind a volunteer living here to look after the grounds. The keeper's house is squalid in an unremarkable way, like a familiar old shirt that ought to have got cut up for dusters years since: various worn settees give the one large downstairs room the earnestly threadbare air of a church basement, and it's difficult even to say what the pattern on his neatly-hung tea-towel might originally have been.

I don't think Mick entertains much. "Get some lighthouse groupies," he says, shuffling through cabinets with an air of faint bewilderment as if he can't quite recall whether he ever owned any china that was fit for company in the first place. "But they're mostly all 'excuse me, could you move your truck out of my shot'."

"This is nothing like what Moominpappa At Sea would have led me to believe," Jason remarks. "What the hell do you do out here?"

Mick shrugs. "Y'know. Read. Paint. Smoke weed. Want some?"

Which would appear to be how we've ended up nude on the granite slab of the beach, passing a joint back and forth. Between hits Mick has been reminiscing about his experiences in the life. "First few times you think it's just some really weird trip, y'know?" (Brown acid, Jason murmurs with a nudge.) "And then when you start asking yourself what the hell is going on either you get hassled for sounding like you're hopped-up on peyote or they start in with the skinwalker bullshit. This scene is embarassing enough."

To host an alien legend within his flesh, I think he means. "Is that ever how this works, though?" Jason asks. "Taking your skin off?"

"Selkies," I conjecture, though I'm not entirely clear on the mechanics myself. "Suppose you'd get something like that round here, yeah?"

Mick pulls a face. "How the hell should I know? I'm from Tulsa, only came up here to get out of going to 'Nam." (I should have thought, he's about Max's age.) "Might try asking somebody at the res down the road, if you can convince them you're not just a couple of asshole white boys." There's a tooth missing in his grin. "Warn you, they still pretty much think I am."

On balance I'm not certain if these saltless waters host any large enough mammals to inspire even rumours of our sorts. Ultimately it's not important, not an answer to anything that helps. Jason's blinking. "Not as white as him," he protests, flapping a hand in vaguely my direction.

Mick looks me up and down, and sprays smoke in a laugh; "Well, yeah, nobody's that white."

"And either of you'd grown up in Swansea you'd have got bloody rickets," I say.

Jason's still giving me a look. "...You are white, though."

"Why am I naked? No, why am I even naked?"

The weres exchange a look, and Mick glances down at the blurry remains of a tattoo that might once have said Amber. "Peer pressure?"

I'd go back up, if I thought I could find my legs.

Thankfully we've rather got past a point where we're inclined to idle conversation. Even the dog seems distinctly mellow, though he'd not been any particular credit to his breed's unjust reputation to begin with. Jason's raptly watching a dragonfly, wolf dreaming he's a man. Out on the water a cormorant struggles against the currents, the clouds above gathering into leaden suggestions of mischief; "Welcome to crash here, I think one of the couches still folds out," Mick offers.

feeling: aggravated aggravated

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