hybriddick | (no subject)

Finding this guy was far from easy. Oliver gave up more than once, thinking it just the concocted fantasies of a junkie unable to cope with his friend's death. Try as he might, Oliver never seemed to catch the seemingly impossible broadcast. All of his research said nothing had ever been on that particular channel in the area, or even the region. Dead air between channels. But Cooke was always insistent about it, in that way that was always a little difficult to deny as truth, even from a junkie.

Then one night, Oliver heard it. He'd left the radio hissing in his office as he'd fallen into other work. And there it was. The fast-talking DJ with eclectic tastes. He was actually real. This gave him something to work with.

In the end it took multiple favors owed and cashed in to get something solid. And what he had seemed utterly ridiculous. A radio spirit. At least that's what it was referred to. Something that wasn't quite tangible. Unreachable. A friend of his was able to dig out and interpret some literature on it. To contact this guy required genuine magic. Even in a world of vampires, Oliver found that difficult to believe.

That was how he'd found himself in the middle of nowhere. Up in the hills where two roads intersected near the base of a radio tower. On the old, cracked pavement he'd used chalk to draw out the intricate pattern of symbols around the crude circle. From a bag at his side, he gingerly pulled out something sealed in plastic. A record more than eighty years old. This wasn't the first time he'd tried this little ritual, but this was the item he'd apparently been missing. The first time he'd tried an old iPod he'd picked up for cheap at a pawn shop, but it apparently didn't have the sentimental resonance required. The record certainly fit the bill.

The record had belonged to his father, Harvey, who'd died when Oliver was a kid. He'd barely played it since then, but it was something he knew well. He always knew he needed to do his best to cheer up his father when he heard the old, scratchy recording of the crooning voice. One of those voices that even under the poor recording quality, you could tell was rich and beautiful. It wasn't until he was an adult that he knew what it really meant. The man on the record was the one person his father truly loved. Completely and deeply with all of his heart. He still loved Oliver's mother, but in a different way. It was the 1930's. Times were different. Harvey and his love couldn't be together, but they did what they could. So the record was as sentimental as could be. It was a piece of his father.

Carefully, he removed the plastic disc and brittle paper sleeve from the plastic it had been stored in. "You'd better work," he muttered as he settled it in the center of the circle. He focused as best as he could, pushing doubt from his mind. He felt ridiculous, but at least he was alone. Taking a deep breath, he focused on what he wanted. He had nothing to visualize, but he could focus on the ideas and feelings involved.

As he uttered the necessary words, he drove a pin into the pad of his thumb. Activating the circle, it was apparently called. As he said the final words, he let a few drops fall onto the drawn symbols. And he braced himself for absolutely nothing to happen.

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Oliver gave a slow nod. He was trying to sort through something that didn't sit well with him at all. He could see the emotions playing across Jairo's face, even the ones that were there for a single heartbeat. But he couldn't smell anything. In a room like this, with just the two of them, he shouldn't even have to try. He should be able to smell something. Sweat, the last food he ate, whether or not he preferred coffee or tea, his general emotional state. Even neutral emotions had a subtle scent. There should be the tang of his excitement, or the bitter scent of anxiety from a lie. But there was nothing. Even vampires smelled of these things. Why didn't Jairo?

He needed to push that sincerity. Sincerity could be faked, so could subtle expressions. "An overdose. She was nineteen." Even he'd been shocked to find out how young the girl had been, investigating after Cooke dragged him out at two in the morning. He'd never seen the kid so distressed. Knowing how poorly Cooke handled stress, he ended up with him sleeping on the couch of his office for a week. Which led to further obsessions with this radio station, and Oliver's finally hearing it.

"Shit," Jai says, voice soft and surprisingly normal. It's void of bounce or its usual peppiness, but he isn't upset in the least. Just sad.

He supposes he'd be more sad if he wasn't aware of those lists, what they did, and how if he thinks back, he can hear his own name.

That's foggy, though, and there's no point in remembering it if he has to concentrate on the now and also the fact that Oliver probably wants him to do something about it.

He winds up scratching at the side of his face, murmuring something in Spanish about resting in peace. That's the least he can do for the person--the girl. The 19 year old girl.

"Those are the answers you want, aren't they? About the girl. And the names."

He's finally deciding it's alright to talk about it.

He could see it all on Jai's face. Things that should have been so strong they'd make Oliver dizzy. But it was as if he'd lost the sense entirely. No, not entirely. It was more like when his ears popped and the outside world went away but he could still hear himself breathing. He could still smell himself. Those subtle things that were just barely on the edge of awareness because they were ever present. But they were still there. He could smell the ancient paper sleeves on records, reminding him of old books. But he couldn't smell the DJ.

He nodded again. This is why he'd come here. The list. But he found himself distracted by a notion that passed before him like a lazy moth. Not invasive, but difficult to ignore. It was something to do with the way Jairo seemed to fold into himself, the sudden quiet and lack of energy.

"Were you ever on that list?" Until he said it, he wasn't entirely sure of the picture he'd put together. But it made a weird sort of sense. There were few things that didn't carry some scent he could pick up on. Even the breeze itself was scented with flowers or smoke or dust. But there was a pervasive almost-scent that he'd been dismissing since he'd arrived. Assumed it to be part of the process or the room itself. That not-quite-scent of ozone, the prickle in his nostrils of energy.

It's a loaded question. It's fully loaded, and the words hit him like a freight train, even if he doesn't show much emotion beyond it.

Were you ever on that list? Oliver asks, and Jai's teeth scrape over his lower lip. It's rare he looks perplexed, looks like he doesn't have proper control over anything. There's no jovial tone, no bounce, no smile. It's not sadness, or anger, or any other emotions, either. Jai's face is quiet and impassive, like he'd just been listening to some sort of philosopher think and didn't want to ruin their process.

He can smell, vaguely, the smell of rotting corpses if he thinks about Oliver's words. He can hear someone very close to him, huddling and speaking Ukranian and fiddling with a radio. It slips out of his hands the moment he thinks he can hold onto it.

He exhales, sharply, and claps his hands together loudly.

"I don't think that matters, hombre," He speaks and it's with earnesty. "All that matters is I read 'em now."

That look held more meaning than either of them probably knew. It spoke volumes to Oliver, and he barely understood the introduction. He'd found himself in a world without context, where magic and ghosts were real. Well, maybe not ghosts, but spirits, apparitions, illusions. Something that wasn't alive in the same way electricity wasn't alive. Perhaps he'd been a person once upon a time, or he could have been conjured out of nothing. A construct created to run this place. A program of the aether. No matter what he was, he knew Jai wasn't living. Not in the sense that vampires were living, but beyond even that. Really, it came down to the question of whether or not he'd ever been alive.

He needed a better sense of him. Touch rarely did anything to enhance his senses, but there were hybrids out there who were said to have such abilities. A touch gave them glimpses of minds, or of emotions, or futures. Oliver might not have such things, but touch could still be powerful in it's own right. So with a look of the utmost sympathy, a creasing of his brown that told of a great weight he himself kept hidden, that he somehow knew what Jai was going through, he reached out to settle a hand on the DJ's shoulder.

"It does matter," he said, his tone soft and gravely serious. Urging Jai to talk without asking. "More than you know."