Sound of Metal (2019) dir. Darius Marder
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open

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@jericho-chapman
Sound of Metal (2019) dir. Darius Marder
"Um... sure." She could agree to that, if only because it was easier than arguing, and Jericho's passion kind of scared her. Gabbi knew he was speaking in hypotheticals, but burn a whole city down over one person? When that person's death was so clearly in the goddess's will as to be marked with a sigil? It felt like the kind of preference to people that the twelve often warned Gabbi about. But she wasn't like this.
Nonbelievers were strange.
"I do appreciate the help. with the door, and the window. If there's anything I can offer you, please don't hesitate to reach out. I'm a hop skip and a roll away."
Jericho nodded, humming a small tune to himself. He was many things - and perceptive was one of them. He had overstayed his already tenuous welcome. Though, to be fair, she wasn't a paying customer, so he wasn't too worried about losing her future business - but regardless. The time had come.
He scooped up his bag of tools and and headed towards the front door. "Of course, happy to help," he mused. "And similar. I'm just down at the Baker Inn most times, or just... around." He waved his hand generally in the air. "Lemmie know If you need anything else later. Spring is coming, after all." And with a small smile, he exited.
Jericho awoke earlier than usual. The sun hadn't even thought of peeking over the horizon. He rubbed at his eyes and stretched in the bed that Thomas had so kindly let him take for the evening. The mattress was so much better than his cot.
He sat up and blinked in the darkness. A pattern seemed etched into his sight - and the remnants of a dream fought to remain relevant in his brain. He shook his head to clear it, though that pattern remained etched in his mind. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and in two quick motions stripped the sheets. He'd remake it later; no one would be checking into this room for many hours to come.
Jericho gently got dressed and padded out into the bleak morning. He strolled aimlessly, relishing in the chilly air. There was no meaning to his ambles. But just as the sun cracked the horizon, he looked up and was shocked to find himself at the church of the faithful. It wasn't as if he didn't know the building - he was just confused why his feet took him here.
His eyes found the side, and his memory jogged. A red streak ribboned across the wall, reminding him oddly of... Jericho's feet were on the move again. They brought him to a back alley, where he had ditched an expired can of paint from a previous job. They brought him back to the church.
He pried open the can and plunged his hand into the paint, not caring about the rancid smell or murky texture. As if unbidden, Jericho's hands pressed against the coarse wood and flecking paint, working in near meditation and silence as his memory placed his impression on the wall.
Thomas shook his head, "You know we have plenty of empty rooms, if you want one its yours Jericho. Just make sure you switch out the sheets in the morning after you wake up." Waving a hand to his other assurances about the window. "It's no rush, I promise you. That window has had issues since I was a kid."
Thomas kept telling himself that by this time next year, he'd finally have enough supplies for that big renovation, more rooms, more space in the tavern, a proper stage for Jericho. It'd be like those big inns he'd heard about in Portsmouth. "I mean it though, you're more than just the odd jobs guy, you're a part of the family, I wanna make sure you're taken care of."
Jericho found a small, wry smile. “Well, I appreciate it,” he said gently. It was an odd emotion, to be sure. After years of traveling and running, to trip into a place that was equal parts welcoming and distancing. How had Ridge Harbor become that place for him? Perhaps it wasn’t his place to question it; he was grateful nonetheless.
“Still - ” Thomas cut him off before he could finish his thought. With his smile growing, Jericho ran an anxious hand through his hair. “It’s the least I can do for you and Leo. Keep my word and all.”
He raised his eyes from the bar, finally, at Thomas’ comment. He didn’t dare bring his gaze all the way to meet the innkeeper’s, of course, choosing instead to cast it sideways at the shelves of alcohol behind him. It was truly a mystery, the Baker kindness. Jericho tried to voice some form of appreciation, but it came out as a half-chuckle and his signature cynicism with:
“Eh, we should be fine, right? If those marking on that guy’s back were a warning ‘for the Veiled Ones - ’” He threw some air quotes around the phrase - “then us nonbelievers are exempt from the terror. In theory.”
Thomas sighed when the person didn't take the bait and decided to go instead. He'd been hoping to get a late check-in in, but evidently, that wasn't in the cards tonight. He started to go back to wiping down the bar when Jericho came over. Thomas liked him; he didn't seem to have much or have many people, and Thomas....Thomas liked giving people somewhere safe to be.
"Yeah, you're right. Still didn't hurt to try; maybe he didn't wanna walk it." He folds his arms over his chest. "Speaking of a place to stay, what about you? You for anywhere or are you going to need a room? Gotta make sure my star singer is safe. I think half my business is because of you these days."
Jericho hummed to himself lightly. While he had a perfectly usable cot in the broom closet next to the kitchen, sometimes he would spring the money for a proper room upstairs if there were some to spare. Unfortunately, that was not in the cards tonight, given the paltry sum of money he had raised in tips.
"Not tonight, nah," he said. "Thanks though. And I know I still need to work on the window upstairs for you. It's on my list for tomorrow, I promise."
"Cress." Gabbi corrected, on habit. And yet, his point was misguided. Few remembered Eugene Miller anymore, but Gabbi did. He'd died the same way the stranger had, all those years prior. He was known- beloved- by the goddess's community. And his death had not lead to any capture, any lead. It had just been a veiled child left with no father. A good woman, too.
but if he didn't remember, she wouldn't remind him. The town didn't need the fear of this being a serial event. Even if it was shaping up to be. "I happen to quite like cress. I should hope she lives a long time. She is destined to even be our high priestess one day, and it would be a real shame not to see that actualized." Which was, of course, evasive once again. Gabbi, when she needed to be, was an expert at speaking passionately and saying nothing. "I suppose if anyone else is taken the same way, it will be the goddess's will, known or unknown. And you and I will just have to deal with it."
Jericho's eyes narrowed slightly in consternation. "Deal with it?" he challenged lightly. "Easy enough, I guess, as long as it's folks we don't know. But I'll tell you, if someone gets one of my friends, I'm burning this whole town down to figure out who it was." He shrugged. "But I suppose we all have different views on action."
He shrugged and pushed off the counter. "But!" he said, clapping his hands together lightly. "That is neither here nor there, and we can both agree we hope it all wraps up speedily, yeah?" There was no annoyance in his tone, only light bemusement.
She dug her toes into the sand, though it was cold and damp, caking and cracking where she wished it would crumble. Cressida stared down at the grey, lips pressed together tightly. The man had been found here, with that terrible symbol carved into his back. She crouched down, hand lingering over the sand, as though afraid to touch. What if it stirred something? Something ancient and hungry? Something that was not her goddess and not her friend?
But Cressida took her pointer finger and drew the shape, carving slowly through the sand. When she finished, she paused, holding her breath. A moment passed. Then another. Nothing. Cressida exhaled, shoulders sinking in relief as she stood. "Ridiculous," she murmured, peering down at it -- that horrid, cursed sigil in the sand.
The ocean air was simply refreshing. There could be no other way to describe it. So here Jericho was, with the laces of his shoes tied through his beltloops and his socks tucked into the pockets of his rolled up jeans. He smiled slightly to himself as his toes pressed into the unyielding sand, with only the faintest of footsteps left behind.
His eyes eventually found themselves on an unusual sight. This woman was known around town, but Jericho had never had real reason to interact with her. Cressida, he had heard whispered, when people dared say her name. His lips pulled into an unimpressed frown, but he dismissed the emotion behind it quickly. Who was she to him? No one bad.
"Iunno," he replied to her one word statement. "I think the evening air on the ocean is rather pleasant. But to each their own, I suppose."
Riz Ahmed photographed by Ryan Pfluger
“There you go, sounding like Eve again.” Gabbi chuckled, not meaning it in a cruel way. But it was funny, how desperate outsiders were for ways to make sense of the world. There was a simple one, a woman with every answer, and twelve conduits to share it. But they didn’t want to listen. How strange. How short sided. How human. “I think I like everyone in ridge harbor. Even all of the nonbelievers- no offense meant. I shouldn’t like anyone we know to be next.”
Jericho shrugged. There were worse people to be compared to, he supposed. He chuckled at her comment. "None taken," he assured. "But you see my point, yeah? Like here, take this: would you rather a new, unknown person arrive dead on our doorstops... every month. But we never know who is doing it or who the victims are. Just body after body, forever." He leaned forward conspiratorially.
"Or, would you rather it be just like... one more person we do know. Like -- that one lady who draws sigils in the sand everywhere. Tress? I think?" He shook his head. "If it was just her, dead. But as a result, we find out who the killer is, and we arrest him and that's it. No more killings." He raised a questioning eyebrow. "What then? Which is the better scenario?"
"I don't know." Gabbi admitted, because once they got into the rhelm of hypotheticals, it was okay not to know. The goddess knew for her, that was enough. "I think I would be very sad to lose someone I know, under any circumstances. And we do know just about everyone in ridge harbor. So... likely that would be worse." She was only human after all. Delilah often chastised her for her attachments to the other residents in town. She knew she could do better about it, but she couldn't help it. She loved this holy town.
"What do you think would be worse?"
Jericho tilted his head side to side. "I suppose that's not a bad point. But there's a difference between knowing everyone and liking everyone." He leaned back against the counter, pressing his hands into the cold countertop. "Plus, if we know whoever pops off, there's more of a chance we can figure out who's doing the offing, you know? Like, there's no way someone from Ridge Harbor doesn't know something. When it's just randos from the outside, there's absolutely nothing to work off of."
Riz Ahmed at the Variety Studio during Comic-Con International 2018 at Andaz San Diego on July 20, 2018 in San Diego, California.
"I didn't get to see the body." Which was both a non-answer and a lie. Delilah had allowed her access, but she hadn't noticed the symbol as anything anyone in the community had drawn. She'd never seen it before, and neither had anyone else. But that was the kind of admission that just stoked more fear, so she didn't mention it.
"My aunt says they will reveal more as our goddess declares it necessary to be known. All in due time. But all will be known, I can sense it. For now, we must wait." Although perhaps patience was simply something that escaped non-believers. "You'll see."
Jericho raised his eyebrows at her overly formal commentary. "So... no," he replied, finishing off with a shrug. "I suppose that's just as good an answer as anything, though. I guess I just hope it's an isolated incident. I don't want any more bodies popping up."
He tilted his head to the side. "Though I guess I don't know what would be worse if more did pop up - if we recognized the bodies or not." His mouth furrowed. "Which d'you think would be worse?"
"Band?" Cormac could feel his chest expanding, each rib dislocating itself to accommodate the way his curiosity bloomed. He felt full of it, the seams coming undone, heart in his throat and attempting not to show it. "I've...never left Ridge Harbor. Honestly, didn't think there was much of anything left out there anyway--" It was what they'd been taught: that the rest of the world had succumbed to destruction, that the Cailleach had protected them, that this was the only land blessed and whole. Indeed, there had been...cracks in that thinking. How could that be true if their families had come from away to this place? Most of them, anyway. And what did it mean for the rare (but non-zero) few -- like Jericho -- who passed through?
His curiosity shifted as Jericho's eyes fluttered shut. It took new shape, sinking lower, though Cormac was no less affected. Fingers curled over the edge of the countertop, tensing, his other hand pausing as he cupped the bowl of stew. "Family recipe," Mac murmured.
But Jericho seemed unphased, clueless of the effect of his presence, of the turmoil he was putting Mac through. "Not quite an, uh, issue--" He shrugged, smiling more naturally, for any mention of the Cailleach seemed to sober him, to ground him (or was he tangled in her mysterious roots?). "We worship late," he said, as though that were explanation enough. Jericho didn't seem like the type to be terribly interested in knowing more, and Mac wasn't sure he could provide it without dancing a dangerous line of devotion. "When you come back, just, uh--" Brigid would be home, and there was no way she'd let an outsider into their house. "Knock on the..." He gestured down the hallway, to the left, to a room they hadn't passed yet, "the window, yeah? I'll let you in."
Jericho spooned more stew into his mouth, the corner of which quirked up in continued delight. He didn't mind the slight scald his mouth was garnering; he was more than willing to endure the heat for the deliciousness. It didn't stop the occasional break he had to take, however, to breathe out his mouth in an an attempt to lessen the burn.
"Yeah," he replied around a mouthful of stew. "Coupla buddies and I toured around a bit. Nothing big. Played here, actually, probably what... ten-ish years ago? Can't say the town took to us too kindly, though." Jericho shrugged at the memory, faded as it was. "I still play, but I'm the only one of the lot of us."
Jericho nodded along to Cormac's comments, but his head tilted sideways at the instruction. "You want me to... knock on the... window?" A spark of curiosity and amusement sprung to his eyes as he glanced up at the man sitting on the counter. "Do I need to take another look at the door? I'm pretty sure it works now."
Surely, she was being punished. Yes, that's what it was. A test to pass, or a toil to endure; this outsider was sent to deter her, to see if there were limits to her faith, or...
Or...
"Is that of interest? The way my mind works?" Brigid felt the heat of her palms radiating against her chest, proof that there was energy coursing, completing her metaphysical circuit. She thought to snap again, to recommend he bother Zelda then (for a tincture to soothe the itch, or for something stronger, that might hopefully rid the world of him), but she merely watched him sidestep. A foot farther without any reprieve.
She swallowed, feeling smothered, choking on the odd, twisting vines of his energy. It slithered over her, up her thighs and around her torso, snaking higher until her neck was encircled in its grip. And all the while, he sat there nonchalantly. Placid on the surface, and yet beneath... She could feel it: the storm in him, having been long eager to brew--
Abruptly, Brigid stood.
"Fine," she sputtered, backing away unsteadily, fingers at her throat. "Stay. Pollute the--" A gasping breath, "the ocean. I'll go."
Jericho raised his eyebrows in response. "Not particularly, but hey. I'm just here for the conversation." His face belied nothing, remaining stoic. He took another sip of the soup, glancing sideways at her. It was a distraction, if nothing else, in this town. It wasn't that Jericho reveled in her discomfort; he just simply could not be bothered by it. Her feelings were hers to have.
He dipped to place the jar on the sand, the cold water lapping around it. The chill was just right for his mood, wavering on the line between interest and apathy. As he raised himself back up to standing, his fingers caught the hem of his shirt and he pulled it up and over his head in one fluid motion. He tucked into the waistband of his jeans and stretched high into the wind. He closed his eyes and a small smile reached his lips as the comforting chill bit into his bare skin.
"Aw," he mused as she stood. "No, don't leave on my account. Beach is plenty big enough for everyone."
She listened to his thought process, tracking it. It made sense for a nonbeliever, she guessed. She couldn't imagine living without the omnipresent weight of the entity's gaze on her back, but somehow plenty managed.
They weren't as loved as her. they didn't know any better. what a crying shame.
"a message." Gabbi offered. "It's got to be." it did beg the question, what message, but Gabbi wasn't going to get into that today. "Oh, bless you. It's fixed."
Jericho slid back off the counter, picking up the offending bit of metal. "I don't even know what this is," he muttered, sliding it over to Gabbi for inspection. "Could be just about anything, though. These older buildings are always revealing random bits of wood and metal. Probably nothing, but if suddenly the window starts giving you trouble again, might need replacing altogether."
He lounged against the counter, considering her point. "Suppose so," he murmured. "But that doesn't answer as many questions as it brings up. From who? And what are they saying? The weird mark on his back - was that... something you all recognized?"
olivia cooke and riz ahmed for 'sound of metal' (2019)