Inbox

[skeletonkeay]

INBOX OF GERARD KEAY

Point of contact for Pumpkin Hollow. Gerry can be reached by phone, mail, or a visit to his shop during business hours. Pinhole Printing and Binding is open from 11am to 6pm every day except Tuesday, because fuck Tuesday, or unless Gerry deigns otherwise.

code

Comments

A visit to his shop

[graveling]

Hey, Gerry, there's a corpse slipping in the front door and glancing around to see if you're available. As you do.

[skeletonkeay]

Gerry's just standing at his desk, cranking a book-binding press tight. He looks up when the bell on the door jingles.

"Hey! Fire guy! Welcome back. Shop's not even on fire this time," he jokes. "What can I do for you?"

Early in the morning, at the shop

[theresalwaystheview]

Losing control of his amassed notes isn't a problem when he can put it all onto a single device, but here, that isn't an option. He'd heard about Pinhole Printing in passing while working on preparations for work at the clinic, and now he's waiting politely at the front of the store, looking around with open curiosity as he holds his notebook and myriad hand-penned pages that, at least for the moment, are loose under the cover as he uses the book as something of a folder to keep it all from escaping him again.

If there is a bell, it will be tentatively 'ding'ed.

This tag got lost in the sauce, I had no idea it was here until now and you have my endless apologie

[skeletonkeay]

There is, indeed, a bell, but it's on the door. Otherwise Gerry wouldn't be able to hear people come in over the printing press when it's running. So when it jingles, he looks up quickly.

"H'llo." Gerry gives a short nod. "Need anything in particular or are you just browsing today?"

[tisnotthehouse]

To make a budget, one must know how much one wishes to spend. Tarantulas's memory is good, but even Cybertronians know better than to rely solely on their own minds for sensitive data, and he does not wish to overextend his trust towards his new, mostly-organic brain. So, the print shop: he's here to window shop, and price-check the blank journals. One hopes they are of a decent quality.

Tarantulas himself is wearing his humanoid body, extra legs tucked decently under his coat. No covering up his six extra eyes, though; they survey the showroom calmly, as he decides where to start looking first.

[skeletonkeay]

The bell attached to Gerry's door jingles loudly, and he looks up from where he was working. He has a book tightly clamped in a wooden apparatus and is running an odd-looking blade over the top. There are shreds of paper littering his work station in little white coiling ribbons.

The minute he lays eyes on Tarantulas, though, he can see exactly what's up. Not only does the spider body fail to escape his notice, he can see the marks all over this guy. Ironically the most prominent among them is the Spiral.

Oh hell no. Nope. Absolutely not.

In an act of blatant defiance and incredible rudeness, Gerry shakes his head and goes back to trimming the edges of his book. He wasn't going to turn away a client, but no way in hell was he giving his barely-passable customer service to some wackadoo who was in here spidering up the place.

Apologies, for Losing my Cooling

[apocryphalarchivist]

A stern talking-to from a friend and a slap from the Christmas Devil is enough to finally get Jon's miserable arse in gear.

Yes, he knows, fuck Tuesday, but that's the day he picks, nonetheless. He didn't want to interrupt any business-as-usual or leave a workday tense, and it was partially because he wasn't too keen to wait around any longer.

Here goes nothing?

Knocking on the back-door, he waits patiently, trying to keep his words collected as he waited. And the second Gerry answers, he loses about half those mental notes. Oh well.

"Hello, Gerry. ...Is now a good time to chat?"

Re: Apologies, for Losing my Cooling

[skeletonkeay]

Gerry snorts from behind the partially opened door, trying to keep out the cold. But he opens it further to let Jon in.

"'Bout time you showed up. Well hurry up and get in."

[maskedstarbunny]

Ryja shows up promptly in the morning, at just the right moment for Gerry to be available. She's leaning on her talent, because she needs this made badly, if things are going to go the way they've been going.

"Hello! I am Ryja, and I am very much in need of your services." Bright and confident thanks to her mask, which is still not her best work but more refined and smoothed than it was before.

[skeletonkeay]

Gerry blinks in surprise, impressed by how early this woman is. She's also got rabbit ears and a mark of the Flesh cut deep into her. Looks fresh. Oof.

"G'morning," he says casually. "What can I do ya for?"

[graveling]

A corpse walks into a print shop one afternoon. As you do, right? As you do.

[skeletonkeay]

As you do, indeed. Gerry hasn't seen Angel in a hot minute. He nods in greeting.

"Afternoon," Gerry says. "What can I do for you?"

Sometime in early June

[misbegottendreamer]

Gerry doesn’t need to open his front door to know who’s knocking- the soft sound of jingling bells is a dead giveaway. And sure enough, there she is, standing in a slightly apologetic way that makes her seem for all the world like a gentle old lady.

september.

[decrypter]

Okay. She can do this. The printing and binding shop - she's practiced this in her head, and she thinks she has this down. The worst that can be said is no, but it's a concept that came to her - something that she can do, and it's as though her sister is squeezing her shoulder, saying you can do this, little bird.

So, during business hours, a young woman comes in, the bell jingling along with the tap-tap of her cane. Pausing as she comes in, she breathes in the scents - paper, ink, and the rest - and that tells her she's in the right spot now. Yes. She listens for footsteps first, and smiles when she hears them.

"Good afternoon. I'm looking for Gerry Keay."

[skeletonkeay]

Gerry looks up from his work. He's got a curved sewing needle in his mouth and a pair of scissors in hand. He cuts the thread and sets everything aside.

"Oh, hey. Yeah, that's me. Can I help you?"

[misbegottendreamer]

Towards the beginning of August, she decides to check in on Gerry again. She's got a loaf of fresh-baked potato bread with her, in a basket hanging from her arm.

[skeletonkeay]

The little bell on Gerry's door rings, and he looks up from what he's sewing.

"Oh, hey, Drelasa. Whatcha got there? Smells good."

In a dream...

[blindwatchersees]

Endless shelves stretch up to a crystalline ceiling, behind which hangs the backdrop of a grey sky. Grey robed figures pass by Gerry without looking at him, and from time to time, they will dissolve into a flurry of paper and text, taking their place between their fellow books. Their movements are deliberate, their eyes are pale and certain. Everything feels strangely sharp and precise, even the echoes reverberating off of the smooth stone floor.

givingstide.

[decrypter]

Wrapped up for Gerry with a tag that Gwen helped write, there are two parts to this gift. One is a bag of cookies infused with holiday spices, iced and on the sweeter side. The other is a blend of black tea, and when prepared according to the instructions, it comes out strong and slightly bitter. Combining the two, the flavors marry well and create a peaceful, tasty experience. He can share with Cecil, or not.

Read All About It.

[cyansoldier]

Pinhole Printing and Binding…

The sort of place you find information, right? She hopes so. The man who'd helped her off the boat— no, scratch that— tried to help her off the boat (and who nearly earned himself a whack in the process), hadn't offered any useful intelligence. Just nonsense. A boatman’s sea-sick drivel. She docked knowing nothing, stepped ashore knowing nothing, and now travels down a lonely path into town knowing nothing.

The white-haired woman wasn’t any help either, her earnest message about the futility of revenge falling on deaf ears.

Catherine Church Agent Carolina feels naked without her armor.

Like a crab with its shell pulled off, soft, gummy abdomen exposed. To be picked at by birds.

Focus.

Info, that’s what she needs.

This is just infiltration. Plans gone temporarily awry.

Carolina pushes through the door, marshaling her face and body into a shape that deflects from her own internal freak-out. The air smells of paper-pulp and fresh ink.

“Excuse me?”

[skeletonkeay]

There is a man at the counter of the shop, tying up bundles of newspapers. They are to go out to the newsstands around town, when someone comes by to pick them up. He's about to tie off the last stack of Pumpkin Hollow Gazette issues in brown twine when a woman in newcomer's clothes walk in with a look he's grown familiar with.

Like a trapped wolverine.

Long black hair showing blonde roots is tied in a loose ponytail as a man with charcoal smudge eyeliner and eyes tattooed on every single joint looks up from his work. He speaks with an English accent, though a bit nasally and not nearly as posh as the one she's used to hearing out of Wyoming. "Afternoon. Just make landfall?"

April 28th, Late Afternoon

[cyansoldier]

The bell above the door to Pinhole Printing and Binding tinkers, hailing another customer. This one has no interest in books, journals or the latest issued newspaper, but for the man meandering behind the counter.

And she, like the flame to set paper burning, walks in like she owns the place.

"Hey. You busy?"

[skeletonkeay]

Gerry is sitting at a work station beside the front counter, feet kicked up on his desk with a book-binding frame balanced on his gut. It's a ridiculous, awkward position to sew in, but it suits him somehow. He looks up. "Oh hey. Technically I'm busy, but I could be not busy if I wanted to. Whatcha got for me?"

Pinhole, early August.

[cyansoldier]

She has to say something, urge like a cramped muscle she can't ignore. Still reeling from her 'visit home' and looking for resolution; a problem to fix; a place to moor herself before she thinks and thinks and thinks about that house and finds herself back inside it.

She decides she hates her father, when all's said and done. The gold mirage falls away into bland, holy walls and a tousled bed. He doesn't get to control her. He doesn't get to drive his tears and his affections— his promise of a family brought together again— into the front of her skull. She won't feel sorry for him, and when she leaves this place she'll kill him and feel free.

But first, Gerry.

She has to say something. She's high on adrenaline. Doesn't know what exactly the words will be, just that they need to come out.

Carolina shoulders through the front door to Pinhole Printing and Binding, little bell tinkering above her head, and crosses to the front desk. She plants her hands firmly on the tabletop, expression like a clenched fist.

"Don't talk. Just listen for a second." Inhale. "I'm not good with people. I used to think I was before things got bad, and learned the hard way it isn't true. I mean, I've never— there's no time to get to know someone when you're fighting a war. That was fine for a while. A long time, actually. I didn't need anyone. I had myself, my accomplishments, my mission objectives and that kept me busy. Then I got close to someone who I held at an arms length so that I could disappear one day if I wanted to, and he'd never know where to find me. Not because he was a bad person— he was good, too good— but because I didn't deserve him. I didn't want to need anyone. I still don't."

Exhale.

"You see things other people don't, Gerry. If I put up a wall, you'll know it's there and that makes me feel like— like I can just be. You make me want to sit down. I could do nothing with you all day and maybe I'd complain the whole time, but I'd stay. I'm not good with people. My relationships have never amounted to anything. I can't promise I won't ruin this before it's gotten anywhere but I want to try."

A pause. Instinct toward regret— toward isolation. She strangles it.

"A relationship, I mean. If that's something you'd want. If not, that's okay— really, it is. I'm just glad to have... aired everything out."

[skeletonkeay]

Gerry is hard at work when his bell goes off, hand stamping the leather cover of a freshly finished journal. He starts to greet his visitor, somewhat distractedly, as she comes up to the front counter. Before a single word can leave his mouth, however, she silences him, and speaks fervently and at length.

She talks about war, past relationships, trauma, emotional baggage, a relationship. She spills her guts all over Gerry's counter. She is very clearly in love.

And Gerry Key has no idea who she is.

This happens sometimes, to newer people. They think they see someone they know from their own world, only to find out that this version has never known them. It happened to Gerry once already to a lesser extent, with Alice's Sam. But this... feels terrible in a way he didn't expect. For a moment, he can only stare at her open-mouthed like a confused fish held aloft out of water.

"...I, ah. I think there's been a bit of a mix-up. I don't--- I, ah." He's usually pretty articulate, but his words are failing him now. "If you knew a version of me from your home world, I'm, ah. I'm not him."