o b l i v i o n .

Past left Unspoken || Jamie & Zachariah

Location: Last Drop Bar Time: 23rd of November, 2019 @jbcnks​

As more days passed between his arrival in Blackrock and the present, his familiarity with the town seemed to grow. It was very different from most of the places he had lived. Manchester and London had both been big cities, very different as well, given their history. Seattle had been very American, big, obscene, yet not loud and busy like London had been. It look cleaner and less touristy. He had missed the old buildings, the tenseness of London. 

Blackrock offered something completely new. A quiet eery feeling that reminded him more of the backdrop streets of London on rainy afternoons. Something secretive and bold about the territory.

His meager coins could buy him something that resembled food at the Last Drop Bar, and he still had a little left to spend on food for Hutch. He did not feel bad about crashing on the couch, grateful yes, but never bad. This was and had been his life for so long that Zach almost expected some kindness of strangers. Even if at times it was hard earned. Perhaps his avid belief that the Commons should be more common spoke about his idea of shared goodwill and kindness. Not karma, but communism, lay at the base of humanity. Capitalism was just the dream of those few with enough luck to make it. 

He treasured the small cup of coffee and overly salty fries, when he looked up he saw a familiar individual walk in. Before he had discussed the matter well enough eternally, he had thrown up his hand in greeting. Because part of him yearned for familiar company, even if that company was the brother of a friend who had died. 

He’d been caught off-guard to learn that Zachariah also happened to be staying at Blackrock. They weren’t exactly friends, but they’d known each other for a few years through Brian. And of course, when Brian passed, the two of them naturally fell out of touch, and Jamie knew he was mostly to blame for that. Because for that little bit, he didn’t want anything that’d remind him of Brian. 

So he wasn’t necessarily resentful towards Zach for not showing up at the funeral -- everyone grieved in different ways, and it wasn’t even fair to ask anyone to grieve in the first place. But Brian had always spoken highly of Zach, and it was strange, to say the least, to see that face again here.

“I didn’t think you were much of a drinker.” He began, taking a seat near the other man. It was just another reminder of how much he didn’t actually know about him outside of what he’d been told. 

“It’s -- this is a weird coincidence, right.” And usually, he considered himself to be someone who was eloquent -- or at least someone who always knew what to say. But apparently, that wasn’t quite the case today. The cranberry juice in his hand suddenly felt very, very unhelpful at the moment. 

“I feel like I should ask you what you’re doing here. You know. In Blackrock.” 

Jesus, it smells like high school. Mercy shoulders the door open with poorly-concealed distaste. Like most of Blackrock, time has not been kind to the Ugly Mug Café, and the wound it rips open is cauterized like steam from the espresso machine. It’s horrendously easy to fall into old habits, like this – order the same drink and sit at the far corner at the same empty table; tap her foot with the same beat as the bell over the door and read the same notes slipped under the glass table top. 

She doesn’t get that far. She doesn’t even make it as far as the till before she sees him – stock straight as ever, looking like something ripped out of a Twilight Zone episode. This week’s titled, GHOSTS FROM THE FUTURE. 

“Detective Banks.” She recovers well enough to give him a two-fingered mock salute. “With all due respect, what the fuck are you doing in my hometown?”

Here is his qualm with Mercy Vascone. The woman is relentless. And normally, this is something he’d appreciate and admire in any human being – just not when that person happens to be a journalist who’s been on his ass for the past couple of years. The one good thing about coming to Blackrock had been being away from all that bullshit; but apparently, luck was not on his side.

There’s a distinct desire to throw the hot coffee in his hand at Mercy and run away, but he stands there, his narrow. For a moment, he wonders if she’s followed him to Blackrock, then checks himself quickly because he knows he’s not that important, even to someone like her.

“Your hometown?” He asks a beat later, incredulous. “I’m pretty sure I should be asking you that. Last I checked, you were working on some half-assed story about tax fraud.” 

Come to think of it, he supposes he doesn’t actually know much about Mercy. And if it were anyone else, he might feel bad. 

“I’m surprised you haven’t heard. They transferred me down here. Needed someone to work on the Addison Tarry case.” 

“So, where I come from, these babies aren’t illegal.” 

It probably is a little mean of him, the way he’d been watching Milo for the past twenty minutes or so before deciding to sneak up on him. But he can’t deny that he has a little bit of a flair for the dramatic. Milo may not be his main target, but he isn’t blind to a trail of smoke, and that very distinct smell.

“But I did do some research when my precinct back home decided to send me here. And turns out weed is still pretty illegal in Montana.” He continues with a sigh, reaching into his jacket and to pull out a badge, holding it up towards Milo. “And unfortunately, I happen to be an officer of the law.” 

From the moment he’d set foot in Blackrock, he’s always thought that the strangest thing about the town is that little cabin-house in the forest. It’s not illegal to have a house like that, of course, but it is somewhat unusual to see nearly ten people -- mostly unrelated -- living under the same roof. It’s a frat house for adults, and something about that makes him suspicious.

Even more unusual that one man can afford to buy the residence under his own name, because from what he’d seen, the other residents don’t seem to have much to contribute.

And today seems a good as any to start looking into what smells the fishiest, so he heads to the residence, knocks and asks for the owner. When he appears, he holds out his badge, then his hand.

“Mr. García. You’re younger than I thought you’d be.” 

“If they double my pay. Which isn’t going to happen.” 

“Neither? Because if I have to go on a camping trip with either of them, only one person’s coming back.”

“He cried a lot. Ever since he was a kid -- cried over everything. Broken toys, sad stories. He even cried once because he saw a butterfly with a chipped wing on the ground. Even when he got older, he used to call me on the phone to tell me about his cases and I could always tell when he was holding it in. I know it’s a weird thing to miss. But I do.” 

“No. No one in Blackrock is cool.” 

when: November 2019 where: the Sandoval House with: @jbcnks

Her house stood lonesome in the snow, as winter ate away at autumn. Only the evergreens remained alive in the woods, but Blackrock didn’t want for pine trees – the sleeping giants towered over the landscape in their mangled white gowns, wind blowing the powder-snow off their branches. 

She had neighbors, but it was less a cluster of picket-fence properties and more the vague idea of a neighborhood; scattered houses forming a strange constellation, inhabitants orbiting one another with the occasional smile.

(Mar had enjoyed the relative distance until Raine broke in. These days, sudden creaks had her holding her breath as she waited to hear footsteps. Knocks or the doorbell elicited the same reaction, but she hid it well.)

But it was just Jamie, out on her porch, checking in on her. It was sweet, she thought, and she got the sense that it had little to do with her and everything to do with how he was decent, which made it all the more easy to greet him with a smile when he showed up.

“Hey– c’mon in. You want coffee?”

When he’d first arrived at Blackrock, Jameson had made it his personal mission to read all the records in the office before he had a chance to go around to question the residents. And the records gave him plenty of good information, of course, but one case in particular had stood out to him.

So it had been a complete surprise to him to get the call from the Sandoval house only a couple weeks into his move -- a B&E, of all things. And when he’d questioned her about the security system at her place, he’d been rather appalled to find that there was virtually none. 

Which was why he found himself outside Mar Sandoval’s house this morning, a heavy bag in hand.

“Morning, Ms. Sandoval. I hope I didn’t scare you.” He greeted her, “coffee would be great, if you don’t mind. I’ve brought some things for you here.” 

Stepping in, he made sure to wipe his shoes out at the front and headed inside, and followed her into the kitchen before he placed the bag on the table. “You’re lucky I brought an extra security camera from the city because I don’t know where I would’ve gotten one around here. Uh -- you have a smartphone, right?” 

location: blackrock police dept. for: @jbcnks​

the squat, sprawling police building had almost come to be like home for clover. it still put her on edge, but then again, so did her actual home. she found herself relaxing as she passed through the doors even as her muscles felt the urge to tense. this was where she found out violet had died. but this was also where she met sam.

she’d gotten off of her shift a little early and didn’t feel like lazing around on the couch all day, so she figured she’d make the quick walk to the station to see what sam was up to. maybe they’d get to go on a patrol or look through files; she’d even brought him cruellers.

but someone else was where sam was supposed too be.

“excuse me, that’s not your desk,” she blurt out.

The strange thing about this town is that he still can’t decide if the people are welcoming or unapproachable. He’s only been here a few weeks and each day has its ups and downs -- and he’s only reminded how much he hates small towns.

So when the young woman approaches his desk, rather bluntly, he raises an eyebrow at her and turns the name plate around. Det. Jameson Banks.

“Kinda seems like it might be, ma’am.” He offers her a smile, “can I help you with anything?” 

date: november 22nd location: the last drop closed: @jbcnks​

She slips inside, scanning the environment. It’s not her first time in this particular bar, but with so few in town, she already expects the night to lead directly to Last Drop’s reputation: bar fights ending a mediocre open mic event.

The rumblings of patrons catch her attention; one-by-one, she memorizes faces in quick snippets, keeping her ears open for mention of what she seeks. Expectations remain low; there’s a reason why a dead wolf in a town’s square is a rare occasion. But there’s always a chance, small though it may be.

It isn’t until she reaches the bar that she senses something missed. As she settles, she casts another glance around, until her eyes land right to the person beside her.

“Here I thought you’d be getting more practice in at the range.”

The sentence drops from her mouth before she can stop herself and think. But there it is, hanging there, and she tilts her head and smiles, acting as if it’s merely a tease. “Detective Banks, right? Kara. From High Road. I wasn’t expecting to see a — somewhat familiar face tonight.”

There’s something that looks like a cranberry vodka in his hand. And it’s exactly that -- minus the vodka. His coworkers back in Seattle would probably make fun of him for it, but he did not come to Blackrock to hang out with the locals and get drunk. Still, he can’t deny himself the joy of catching the game on a big-screen TV, especially since the tiny little antiquated box they gave him with his new apartment made all the players look like ants. 

Given that he’s not here to socialize, it surprises him a little to find someone talking to him. At first, he has to rack his brain to figure out who it is, until she says the words gun range and it all clicks rather quickly. 

“Usually not the best idea to be around people with guns in the middle of the night. Even if it’s at a gun range.” He laughs, and holds out his hand for her to shake. 

“Jamie will do just fine. I find that the term detective seems to make a lot of people skittish around here.” A smile, and he leans back into his chair. “So...you come here often?” 

The coffee at Ugly Mug, in a sense, is questionable. It’s not that he’s a coffee snob, but compared to the cafes he used to frequent in Seattle, this place is -- well -- unique. He tries not to complain about Blackrock too much, because he’s stuck here and he won’t be able to leave until his case is closed, but it’s difficult. 

And he’ll be the first to admit it -- he misses Seattle. So much that he’s apparently started hallucinating and seeing some familiar faces around town. 

Except -- he squints his eyes -- the hallucination seems to be moving and moving towards him. A moment later, he realizes he’s not imagining her at all: Mercy Vascone, standing as tall and proud as ever.

"Oh, you have got to be shitting me.” 

 Every single day at work, Jameson reminds himself that he is technically the guest, even if he’d come all the way to Blackrock to help. And because he is, indeed, the guest, he tries not to judge how things are done around here. He tries, mostly, not to judge the sheriff sitting across from him at this very moment, for the gaping inconsistencies and general lack of professionalism he sees around the place.

“Morning,” he tries anyway when he sees Sam, raising an eyebrow. “You got time for coffee?” 

BASICS.

Name: Jameson “Jamie” Banks

Gender / Pronouns: Cis male  / he, him

Species: Human

Age: Thirty-four (34)

Occupation: Consulting detective for Blackrock PD

Personality: Determined, fair, enthusiastic, bossy, stubborn, abrasive