Encounterlogs
Caseys Odd Encounter Sr Luke 240124
On a cold night along Elm Street, Casey found herself following coordinates that led her to the northern end of Haven's beach. The evening air was quiet, filled only with the sounds of distant fog horns beckoning her to an uncertain meeting. Upon arrival, her eyes were drawn to a solitary figure standing by the ocean—a seasoned man, graying and sturdy, enveloped in deep contemplation. This man, a retired member of her faction, was seemingly waiting for Casey's approach. Despite the initial belief that she might be walking into danger or oddity, she discovered only his silent company. However, the gravity of her task became clearer as they exchanged words. The aging warrior spoke of his past glories and current weariness, hinting at the heavy weight of experience and loss, while Casey listened to his questions about the purpose of fighting when the end seemed inevitable.
Casey, optimistic as ever, sought to bring him back into the fold, offering both humor and insight. She weaved tales of their exploits, highlighting the digital modernization of their ghostbusting adventures. They discussed everything from the novelty of her group's college-aged composition to the prospects of utilizing their online presence as a worldwide support network. Skeptical but intrigued, the man expressed his wonder at the scale of their influence, and Casey sensed an opportunity to rekindle his hope. Ultimately, she persuaded him to reconsider his retirement and meet with the Captain to explore the idea of re-engagement with their cause. Grounded in her vision and persistence, Casey's encounter with the old sailor on Haven's beach might just have sewn the seeds of renewed commitment to their battle against the supernatural.
(Casey's odd encounter(SRLuke):SRLuke)
[Tue Jan 23 2024]
On Elm Street
It is night, about 4F(-15C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. There is a waxing gibbous moon.
(Your target and their allies have been tasked with convincing a retired and burnt out faction member to come back to the fight.
)
Casey was lingering outside of her apartment, an exchange on her cell phone leaving her rattled by the seem of it, the normally optimistic young woman becoming a little more grouchy as she starts to stride off. Apparently, she wanted a walk, the sight of the Institute looming in the background.
Elm Street is strangely quiet at this time of night, that hour well past when most things go bump in the night and people have not quite awakened to start their normal work day. A cold chill is in the air, but fairly normal for New England in January. Casey gets a notification that simply gives her coordinates for the northern end of Haven's beach. Not the shop nearby, the beach, specifically. No other words about what it might be, no explanation. Some times, cold war shenanigans really take the fun out of trying to get information, but at the same time, if anyone else intercepts the communication, all they get is a GPS coordinate with no idea what it means. Still, it leaves Casey six blocks from where she supposedly needs to be according to someone, somewhere surrounded in red tape.
A fog horn sounds in the distance, like it is beckoning Casey to take action.
Casey glances down at the phone. She wasn't exactly the most militant of the type in her little group, but Casey heaves a sigh, glancing to it and looking up at the area she needs to go to. And go there she does, tugging her jacket a little tighter around herself as she goes along the deserted streets of Haven. At least - deserted as they are this time of night, occasionally snapping her eyes to her phone to evaluate her place in the world.
While it is less than half a mile as the crow flies to get where she needs to go, there are other considerations, like walk ways and lights and stuff. If she cuts through some grass, she can probably trim it a bit. As it is, regardless, unless she kicks up to a run, it is still probably a ten to fifteen minute trip depending on speed.
Still, she makes decent enough time, and arrives at the beach, ready for who even knows what, given the context of the GPS coordinates that led her hear. What does she find on the beach? Buried treasure? Nope. A fight in progress? Negative. Someone getting kidnapped? No, and the Syndicate certainly would not give someone ten minutes to catch them in the act either.
What she sees on arrival is an older man, maybe in his early forties, looking out at the moonlit ocean from Haven's beach. He is wearing a long, pea coat, a scarf, jeans, and heavy work boots. He has black hair, graying around the temples and a short, well-kept beard. He does not seem to notice Casey as she gets close enough to notice him, lost in his reverie as he is.
Casey's own position in the spears was a bit of an arcane one. A ghostbuster, in common parlance.
She did fight spooky ghosts more often than not. The Daphne in the group, optimistic, knowledgeable, and a little silly from time to time.
And the best looking in a miniskirt.
Not that she was wearing such fashion now. A breath out, and Casey approaches the old salty seaman, looking to him, before Casey glances out to the ocean.
She was comfortable with silence, even though she does take a minute to check her nails, too. Still fab.
"I was curious when they'd send someone. They always seem to notice," the man says without looking over at Casey. He keeps his gaze out on the ocean, still drinking it in. From her vantage point, having gotten closer, she might be able to see that his eyes are sea blue when the lighthouse light sweeps across his face. "Usually they send a stripper with rum. So let's get this over with. What ya wanting tonight, lass?" he asks her in a weathered voice. someone someone As he stands there waiting for her answer, he breaks out a pipe and adds some tobacco, then lights it and takes a puff. Once he has gotten a good pull from the pipe, he exhales it away from Casey, then turns those deep blue eyes toward her, taking in her form.
"Not a stripper, I wager. Definitely no rum," he observes astutely.
"I was curious when they'd send someone. They always seem to notice," the man says without looking over at Casey. He keeps his gaze out on the ocean, still drinking it in. From her vantage point, having gotten closer, she might be able to see that his eyes are sea blue when the lighthouse light sweeps across his face. "Usually they send a stripper with rum. So let's get this over with. What ya wanting tonight, lass?" he asks her in a weathered voice.
As he stands there waiting for her answer, he breaks out a pipe and adds some tobacco, then lights it and takes a puff. Once he has gotten a good pull from the pipe, he exhales it away from Casey, then turns those deep blue eyes toward her, taking in her form.
"Not a stripper, I wager. Definitely no rum," he observes astutely.
Being of the college persuasion, Casey's experience with salty sailors was getting disturbingly more common as her life cycles on. "Not yet," Casey admits to the last thing he says. "It's the age of OnlyFans, though. I could probably get you a following," Casey says, holding up her hands, framing the lighthouse in the distance with that motion.
"The ocean breeze, the rustle of waves, lapping against the beach. The rugged, warm hands of Sea Daddy nestle you close," Casey says.
Her hands draw down. "All they had to do was ask," Casey says. "So. I actually just got these coordinates, but you really look like the usual Spears customer. I'm assuming you might have gotten a sight of some spooky seafaring spirit, or...?" Casey pauses.
"Or this might be the third most embarrassing blind date I've been on," Casey admits.
"If it is the last, you'd be in for the night of your life, lass," the salty sailor tells Casey, even as a smirk crosses his cracked lips. He studies her for an uncomfortably long time, then tells her, "They usually send someone to try to hook me back in. Tonight's your night to try, I guess." He shakes his head slowly, his dark beard rustling gently against the scarf around his neck.
"I'm not fight worthy any more. They should know that. Let my ego get too big, bit off more than I should have. It bit back, and I leaned to heavily on power to compensate," he says, regaling Casey with a history she did not even know was going to be on the next exam.
He puffs on his pipe for another moment then asks her, "What's even worth fighting for? All ends in less than twenty years, right? If that wasn't a wake up call for world peace over night, I honestly don't know what it would take."
(Repost for disconnection) "If it is the last, you'd be in for the night of your life, lass," the salty sailor tells Casey, even as a smirk crosses his cracked lips. He studies her for an uncomfortably long time, then tells her, "They usually send someone to try to hook me back in. Tonight's your night to try, I guess." He shakes his head slowly, his dark beard rustling gently against the scarf around his neck.
"I'm not fight worthy any more. They should know that. Let my ego get too big, bit off more than I should have. It bit back, and I leaned to heavily on power to compensate," he says, regaling Casey with a history she did not even know was going to be on the next exam.
He puffs on his pipe for another moment then asks her, "What's even worth fighting for? All ends in less than twenty years, right? If that wasn't a wake up call for world peace over night, I honestly don't know what it would take."
"So is that how it goes now. They don't even send me a text like 'this guy, he's pretty great, try to talk him back in," Casey heaves a sigh, bringing her hand to her hair. She had a habit of brushing her hair over her shoulder, letting the hair flutter back down in a fan.
"And this Haven chapter is all college kids, anyways," Casey says. "Did they even livestream the occult smashing in your prime?" Casey says to the sailor. "I think that's the big change the Captain put in the whole process," Casey says. "We have an online presence that the big three can only drool over," Casey says.
"But there's still ghosts aplenty, that's for sure," Casey says.
"And, well..." Casey pauses. "If you're old, tired, and ready to retire, I'm not the one to try to stop you," Casey says.
"But I can tell you, I can see you've seen stuff," Casey says. "And I've seen stuff, but not half as much stuff as you've probably seen," Casey says.
"So even if you're not in fighting shape, you're the wisest and smartest you've ever been. That'd be useful, because I'm not fighty *or* smart, but I got enough wisdom to make it all up, you know?"
"Got spirit. That's certainly a new method of appealing to me," the salty man says as the crows feet crinkle into visibility near the corners of his eyes, even if he is not quite smile yet. "My daughter'd be about your age now," he tells her after that, and the crow's feet fade. He lowers a hand to the leg of his jeans and pulls up the bottom of his jeans enough to show the prosthetic leg stuck in the boot.
"I've given a lot for the cause, lass. And you're sure as hell right, I've seen some shit. But I've also lost more than you can know," he tells her before looking back at the sea and puffing on his pipe. He lets out a sigh and shakes his head then, closing those sea blue eyes.
The wind blows across the beach, and waves lick at the sand at the pair's feet before retreating back down the way. "Even if I wanted to come back, I can't. The fuel of power is the only thing keeping me going, lass. If I let it go, I might crumble to nothing," he says, clearly having wrestled with the idea, clearly having reached for something to fill a void. And the world gave him what it does in moments of weakness: Corruption.
Right on the heels of that daughter comment, Casey gaaaaaaaaaaaaasps out, "And you wanted to call me a stripper at first," Casey says. Although she does quiet down for the moments that follow, letting the sea and the gulls provide the backdrop for their talk.
"Well, like you said," Casey says. "World's coming to an end," Casey says.
"Why not make it an end you can be proud of, right?" Casey says with a wink to him.
"And you *know* if there's any way to stop it... I want to be on the front lines of it all," Casey says.
"If you call me daddy, I'll make you regret it," the old sailor barks at Casey, though the crow's feet return, with a genuine smile. "You're right though," he tells her after a few moments devoted to his pipe. He is silent for a long time, mulling it over, thinking it through. "But I can't be on the front lines any more. And I'm not sure I could actually make a difference. Even if I could, is it even enough?" he finally asks, but it becomes clear he is not talking to Casey.
He draws in a long, deep breath through his nose, then sighs with a shake of his head. After his 'talk' with the ocean though, he turns his eyes to Casey. "College students? That's all you've got in this chapter? How do you maintain any kinda discipline that way? Aren't college kids just like navy men on shore leave ninety percent of the time?" he asks her in a serious tone that has to be a joke, given the context.
He crosses his arms over his chest, but keeps one hand holding his pipe and able to move it to his lips for occasional puffs. "And what is this online presence you speak of?" he finally asks for good measure, eyes half closing with curiosity as he scrutinizes her further and deeper than before.
"Oh, no, what will we do with another person who can't really fight and is just there more for looks than anything else?!" Casey says, swiftly going past the daddy comment to other subjects. "Don't know about all that," Casey says. "If I had a crystal ball, this whole thing would look better, and all the people with the crystal balls think they know how it's going to go," Casey says.
A tap of her fingertip against the side of her nose.
"But what if they don't know either, and this is a whole 'this is how it should go' propaganda arc?" Casey says.
"Well, we have an old lady now, but she lets us run around," Casey says. "And that's the neat part! We don't maintain discipline," Casey says, lifting a finger in the air.
"And somehow, we manage to get it worked out. And it's part of the new plan, you know. Livestream our ghostbusting and stuff, build up followers, attract online support from places we never thought of. You don't have to linger in dusty old taverns spreading tales of woe - we can livestream that to millions of aware computers everywhere," Casey says.
"And people in the know will see what we do, and lend whatever help we can, so..." Casey considers. "Think of it like building a worldwide fanbase and support network."
"World wide? And the Venetians allow this?" the haggard warrior asks Casey when she finishes her comments, not returning to the subject she skipped either. He studies her for longer, working out perhaps where he fits in this new anarchy. "I always thought there were thousands, maybe tens of thousands aware. You say there are millions?" he asks, revisiting a point that might have swung past his head. The grief haze is likely strong with him, as surely the average computer person in the world knows there are millions (billions) of computer people in the world.
The old sailor looks back out at the ocean. "What do you think? I'm already dead on the inside," he says, once more not talking to Casey, or at least not directly. He uncrosses his arms to rub at his beard thoughtfully as if considering what the sea has answered back to him.
"I don't do much with ghosts though, so bear that in mind, lass. What possible use could you have for a washed up sea shell like me?" he finally asks Casey, point blank, getting to the powder room of the ship in question.
"Well, you have to be careful. But there's a certain computer network that's only available to the aware," Casey says. And his number may be more accurate, but if he could not tell - Casey Fairbanks was a dramatic person.
"I mean... you can always talk to the Captain," Casey says. "She knows where the wind blows," Casey says. "I know I myself wouldn't mind having someone older and wiser to listen to," Casey says. "And I joke about the old lady on our team, she's old, but not *that* old," Casey says.
"She just *acts* like she's from the 1920s," Casey admits.
"Possible she is from the nineteen twenties, and who would even be able to tell," the grizzled veteran tells Casey in support of that comment though. "Would you actually listen though?" he follows up with almost immediately, giving her that stern, analytical gaze of his that he has probably fixed on hundreds of potential recruits in the past.
"Let's go talk to this captain. Last time I was here, everything devolved into more debauchery and feeding than I would care to admit. Maybe there's a way to keep some power and hack away at the source to diminish it. We'll see. No guarantees," he finally tells Casey, giving her a nod as he prepares to follow her, though he does not stop with the pipe. When he does start walking, the slight limp is fairly noticeable, especially on the beach.
Only time will tell if the old sailor will make a good re-recruit for Casey's organization. But at the very least, she managed to get him to open his mind to the possibility. And some times, the possibility is all it takes...
Casey, optimistic as ever, sought to bring him back into the fold, offering both humor and insight. She weaved tales of their exploits, highlighting the digital modernization of their ghostbusting adventures. They discussed everything from the novelty of her group's college-aged composition to the prospects of utilizing their online presence as a worldwide support network. Skeptical but intrigued, the man expressed his wonder at the scale of their influence, and Casey sensed an opportunity to rekindle his hope. Ultimately, she persuaded him to reconsider his retirement and meet with the Captain to explore the idea of re-engagement with their cause. Grounded in her vision and persistence, Casey's encounter with the old sailor on Haven's beach might just have sewn the seeds of renewed commitment to their battle against the supernatural.
(Casey's odd encounter(SRLuke):SRLuke)
[Tue Jan 23 2024]
On Elm Street
It is night, about 4F(-15C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. There is a waxing gibbous moon.
(Your target and their allies have been tasked with convincing a retired and burnt out faction member to come back to the fight.
)
Casey was lingering outside of her apartment, an exchange on her cell phone leaving her rattled by the seem of it, the normally optimistic young woman becoming a little more grouchy as she starts to stride off. Apparently, she wanted a walk, the sight of the Institute looming in the background.
Elm Street is strangely quiet at this time of night, that hour well past when most things go bump in the night and people have not quite awakened to start their normal work day. A cold chill is in the air, but fairly normal for New England in January. Casey gets a notification that simply gives her coordinates for the northern end of Haven's beach. Not the shop nearby, the beach, specifically. No other words about what it might be, no explanation. Some times, cold war shenanigans really take the fun out of trying to get information, but at the same time, if anyone else intercepts the communication, all they get is a GPS coordinate with no idea what it means. Still, it leaves Casey six blocks from where she supposedly needs to be according to someone, somewhere surrounded in red tape.
A fog horn sounds in the distance, like it is beckoning Casey to take action.
Casey glances down at the phone. She wasn't exactly the most militant of the type in her little group, but Casey heaves a sigh, glancing to it and looking up at the area she needs to go to. And go there she does, tugging her jacket a little tighter around herself as she goes along the deserted streets of Haven. At least - deserted as they are this time of night, occasionally snapping her eyes to her phone to evaluate her place in the world.
While it is less than half a mile as the crow flies to get where she needs to go, there are other considerations, like walk ways and lights and stuff. If she cuts through some grass, she can probably trim it a bit. As it is, regardless, unless she kicks up to a run, it is still probably a ten to fifteen minute trip depending on speed.
Still, she makes decent enough time, and arrives at the beach, ready for who even knows what, given the context of the GPS coordinates that led her hear. What does she find on the beach? Buried treasure? Nope. A fight in progress? Negative. Someone getting kidnapped? No, and the Syndicate certainly would not give someone ten minutes to catch them in the act either.
What she sees on arrival is an older man, maybe in his early forties, looking out at the moonlit ocean from Haven's beach. He is wearing a long, pea coat, a scarf, jeans, and heavy work boots. He has black hair, graying around the temples and a short, well-kept beard. He does not seem to notice Casey as she gets close enough to notice him, lost in his reverie as he is.
Casey's own position in the spears was a bit of an arcane one. A ghostbuster, in common parlance.
She did fight spooky ghosts more often than not. The Daphne in the group, optimistic, knowledgeable, and a little silly from time to time.
And the best looking in a miniskirt.
Not that she was wearing such fashion now. A breath out, and Casey approaches the old salty seaman, looking to him, before Casey glances out to the ocean.
She was comfortable with silence, even though she does take a minute to check her nails, too. Still fab.
"I was curious when they'd send someone. They always seem to notice," the man says without looking over at Casey. He keeps his gaze out on the ocean, still drinking it in. From her vantage point, having gotten closer, she might be able to see that his eyes are sea blue when the lighthouse light sweeps across his face. "Usually they send a stripper with rum. So let's get this over with. What ya wanting tonight, lass?" he asks her in a weathered voice. someone someone As he stands there waiting for her answer, he breaks out a pipe and adds some tobacco, then lights it and takes a puff. Once he has gotten a good pull from the pipe, he exhales it away from Casey, then turns those deep blue eyes toward her, taking in her form.
"Not a stripper, I wager. Definitely no rum," he observes astutely.
"I was curious when they'd send someone. They always seem to notice," the man says without looking over at Casey. He keeps his gaze out on the ocean, still drinking it in. From her vantage point, having gotten closer, she might be able to see that his eyes are sea blue when the lighthouse light sweeps across his face. "Usually they send a stripper with rum. So let's get this over with. What ya wanting tonight, lass?" he asks her in a weathered voice.
As he stands there waiting for her answer, he breaks out a pipe and adds some tobacco, then lights it and takes a puff. Once he has gotten a good pull from the pipe, he exhales it away from Casey, then turns those deep blue eyes toward her, taking in her form.
"Not a stripper, I wager. Definitely no rum," he observes astutely.
Being of the college persuasion, Casey's experience with salty sailors was getting disturbingly more common as her life cycles on. "Not yet," Casey admits to the last thing he says. "It's the age of OnlyFans, though. I could probably get you a following," Casey says, holding up her hands, framing the lighthouse in the distance with that motion.
"The ocean breeze, the rustle of waves, lapping against the beach. The rugged, warm hands of Sea Daddy nestle you close," Casey says.
Her hands draw down. "All they had to do was ask," Casey says. "So. I actually just got these coordinates, but you really look like the usual Spears customer. I'm assuming you might have gotten a sight of some spooky seafaring spirit, or...?" Casey pauses.
"Or this might be the third most embarrassing blind date I've been on," Casey admits.
"If it is the last, you'd be in for the night of your life, lass," the salty sailor tells Casey, even as a smirk crosses his cracked lips. He studies her for an uncomfortably long time, then tells her, "They usually send someone to try to hook me back in. Tonight's your night to try, I guess." He shakes his head slowly, his dark beard rustling gently against the scarf around his neck.
"I'm not fight worthy any more. They should know that. Let my ego get too big, bit off more than I should have. It bit back, and I leaned to heavily on power to compensate," he says, regaling Casey with a history she did not even know was going to be on the next exam.
He puffs on his pipe for another moment then asks her, "What's even worth fighting for? All ends in less than twenty years, right? If that wasn't a wake up call for world peace over night, I honestly don't know what it would take."
(Repost for disconnection) "If it is the last, you'd be in for the night of your life, lass," the salty sailor tells Casey, even as a smirk crosses his cracked lips. He studies her for an uncomfortably long time, then tells her, "They usually send someone to try to hook me back in. Tonight's your night to try, I guess." He shakes his head slowly, his dark beard rustling gently against the scarf around his neck.
"I'm not fight worthy any more. They should know that. Let my ego get too big, bit off more than I should have. It bit back, and I leaned to heavily on power to compensate," he says, regaling Casey with a history she did not even know was going to be on the next exam.
He puffs on his pipe for another moment then asks her, "What's even worth fighting for? All ends in less than twenty years, right? If that wasn't a wake up call for world peace over night, I honestly don't know what it would take."
"So is that how it goes now. They don't even send me a text like 'this guy, he's pretty great, try to talk him back in," Casey heaves a sigh, bringing her hand to her hair. She had a habit of brushing her hair over her shoulder, letting the hair flutter back down in a fan.
"And this Haven chapter is all college kids, anyways," Casey says. "Did they even livestream the occult smashing in your prime?" Casey says to the sailor. "I think that's the big change the Captain put in the whole process," Casey says. "We have an online presence that the big three can only drool over," Casey says.
"But there's still ghosts aplenty, that's for sure," Casey says.
"And, well..." Casey pauses. "If you're old, tired, and ready to retire, I'm not the one to try to stop you," Casey says.
"But I can tell you, I can see you've seen stuff," Casey says. "And I've seen stuff, but not half as much stuff as you've probably seen," Casey says.
"So even if you're not in fighting shape, you're the wisest and smartest you've ever been. That'd be useful, because I'm not fighty *or* smart, but I got enough wisdom to make it all up, you know?"
"Got spirit. That's certainly a new method of appealing to me," the salty man says as the crows feet crinkle into visibility near the corners of his eyes, even if he is not quite smile yet. "My daughter'd be about your age now," he tells her after that, and the crow's feet fade. He lowers a hand to the leg of his jeans and pulls up the bottom of his jeans enough to show the prosthetic leg stuck in the boot.
"I've given a lot for the cause, lass. And you're sure as hell right, I've seen some shit. But I've also lost more than you can know," he tells her before looking back at the sea and puffing on his pipe. He lets out a sigh and shakes his head then, closing those sea blue eyes.
The wind blows across the beach, and waves lick at the sand at the pair's feet before retreating back down the way. "Even if I wanted to come back, I can't. The fuel of power is the only thing keeping me going, lass. If I let it go, I might crumble to nothing," he says, clearly having wrestled with the idea, clearly having reached for something to fill a void. And the world gave him what it does in moments of weakness: Corruption.
Right on the heels of that daughter comment, Casey gaaaaaaaaaaaaasps out, "And you wanted to call me a stripper at first," Casey says. Although she does quiet down for the moments that follow, letting the sea and the gulls provide the backdrop for their talk.
"Well, like you said," Casey says. "World's coming to an end," Casey says.
"Why not make it an end you can be proud of, right?" Casey says with a wink to him.
"And you *know* if there's any way to stop it... I want to be on the front lines of it all," Casey says.
"If you call me daddy, I'll make you regret it," the old sailor barks at Casey, though the crow's feet return, with a genuine smile. "You're right though," he tells her after a few moments devoted to his pipe. He is silent for a long time, mulling it over, thinking it through. "But I can't be on the front lines any more. And I'm not sure I could actually make a difference. Even if I could, is it even enough?" he finally asks, but it becomes clear he is not talking to Casey.
He draws in a long, deep breath through his nose, then sighs with a shake of his head. After his 'talk' with the ocean though, he turns his eyes to Casey. "College students? That's all you've got in this chapter? How do you maintain any kinda discipline that way? Aren't college kids just like navy men on shore leave ninety percent of the time?" he asks her in a serious tone that has to be a joke, given the context.
He crosses his arms over his chest, but keeps one hand holding his pipe and able to move it to his lips for occasional puffs. "And what is this online presence you speak of?" he finally asks for good measure, eyes half closing with curiosity as he scrutinizes her further and deeper than before.
"Oh, no, what will we do with another person who can't really fight and is just there more for looks than anything else?!" Casey says, swiftly going past the daddy comment to other subjects. "Don't know about all that," Casey says. "If I had a crystal ball, this whole thing would look better, and all the people with the crystal balls think they know how it's going to go," Casey says.
A tap of her fingertip against the side of her nose.
"But what if they don't know either, and this is a whole 'this is how it should go' propaganda arc?" Casey says.
"Well, we have an old lady now, but she lets us run around," Casey says. "And that's the neat part! We don't maintain discipline," Casey says, lifting a finger in the air.
"And somehow, we manage to get it worked out. And it's part of the new plan, you know. Livestream our ghostbusting and stuff, build up followers, attract online support from places we never thought of. You don't have to linger in dusty old taverns spreading tales of woe - we can livestream that to millions of aware computers everywhere," Casey says.
"And people in the know will see what we do, and lend whatever help we can, so..." Casey considers. "Think of it like building a worldwide fanbase and support network."
"World wide? And the Venetians allow this?" the haggard warrior asks Casey when she finishes her comments, not returning to the subject she skipped either. He studies her for longer, working out perhaps where he fits in this new anarchy. "I always thought there were thousands, maybe tens of thousands aware. You say there are millions?" he asks, revisiting a point that might have swung past his head. The grief haze is likely strong with him, as surely the average computer person in the world knows there are millions (billions) of computer people in the world.
The old sailor looks back out at the ocean. "What do you think? I'm already dead on the inside," he says, once more not talking to Casey, or at least not directly. He uncrosses his arms to rub at his beard thoughtfully as if considering what the sea has answered back to him.
"I don't do much with ghosts though, so bear that in mind, lass. What possible use could you have for a washed up sea shell like me?" he finally asks Casey, point blank, getting to the powder room of the ship in question.
"Well, you have to be careful. But there's a certain computer network that's only available to the aware," Casey says. And his number may be more accurate, but if he could not tell - Casey Fairbanks was a dramatic person.
"I mean... you can always talk to the Captain," Casey says. "She knows where the wind blows," Casey says. "I know I myself wouldn't mind having someone older and wiser to listen to," Casey says. "And I joke about the old lady on our team, she's old, but not *that* old," Casey says.
"She just *acts* like she's from the 1920s," Casey admits.
"Possible she is from the nineteen twenties, and who would even be able to tell," the grizzled veteran tells Casey in support of that comment though. "Would you actually listen though?" he follows up with almost immediately, giving her that stern, analytical gaze of his that he has probably fixed on hundreds of potential recruits in the past.
"Let's go talk to this captain. Last time I was here, everything devolved into more debauchery and feeding than I would care to admit. Maybe there's a way to keep some power and hack away at the source to diminish it. We'll see. No guarantees," he finally tells Casey, giving her a nod as he prepares to follow her, though he does not stop with the pipe. When he does start walking, the slight limp is fairly noticeable, especially on the beach.
Only time will tell if the old sailor will make a good re-recruit for Casey's organization. But at the very least, she managed to get him to open his mind to the possibility. And some times, the possibility is all it takes...