going under

wes folayan / 45 / he

[osvaldo-rivas023-deactivated202]

“Do ya now?” He didn’t take Wes for the trash talking type but after that previous display he had to admit it was a ribbing well earned, “I’ll keep that in mind.” Osvaldo thanked the attended as he exchanged tickets for another round, handing the next set of rings over to Wes, “Best two outta three?”

Osvaldo takes his time, measuring each toss and switching up techniques after each failed one. He decides on the frisbee method on his last ring, leaning over slightly as he flicks it at the closest bottle. The ring spins on a neck for a second before the momentum sends it flying off. “Hijoeputa!” The curse word escapes him through clenched teeth and his hand flies to his mouth as he quickly looks around, checking for any small children in the vicinity. Fortunately there are none and he watches as Wes breezes through the second set, each ring landing without trouble. “Hell of a streak you got goin’, Dr. W,” Osvaldo comments after a long exhale. For the third time, he goes to the attendant to fetch another set of rings. Technically he already lost , but it was about getting at least one bottle scored at this point. “Are ya tryin’ to pull a Fast Eddie on me?" Osvaldo re positioned himself, leaning over as he held the first ring up, "Here we go, fast and loose. One ball, corna’ pocket.” His Paul Newman impression was only slightly better than the toss, with the ring being overshot and landing behind the table set up. “C‘mon.”

[doctorstrangebun]

Okay, so maybe the trash talk was a little bit intentional... however, his current streak very much is not. Despite his coordination and balance being less than stellar most of the time, it almost feels as if he'd have to work harder in order to miss. It's just simple physics, really, and Ozvaldo's talents simply lie elsewhere. He truly doesn't mean to patronize, though, so when the fellow running the stand offers to pick out a prize, he thinks it probably wise not to offer it to Oz and instead gives the chance to Ernie and Andie across the way. The two of them are clearly already neck-deep in their attempt to swindle a teddy bear, and besides, he likes to think he knows Oz well enough to say for certain that it's not about the prize.

"I'm not a fan of billiards," Wes replies, back straight and position static as he continues flinging rings towards the bottlenecks, each one catching around the top and spinning beautifully all the way down until it can't anymore. He's not smiling— he never does— but there is an undeniably satisfied aura surrounding him, enough to make his lips twitch, even if just for a split second. "...Best seven out of ten?"

[doctorstrangebun]

A knock at your door, followed by the sound of slow, retreating footsteps. There's a grunt, followed by the rustling of branches, but pay no attention to that. On your doorstep sits an alarmingly small, dented box with “D.SCAMMAHORN INDUSTRIES” written in black marker — the D’s are backwards. Shockingly, a soft, clean scent drifts upwards from that tiny package. Pick it up…only for the bottom of the box to flap wide open. Sparkles or, rather, what looks like a mix of craft glitter and blue soap shavings, flutter into the air before ceremoniously dropping to the floor by your feet. A piece of paper falls out, folded about eight times. Unfold to read, “Congratulations! Here’s your Magik Dust, courtesy of D. Scammahorn Industries. P.S; Ran out of tape.”

Mr. Scammahorn,

I was sorry to hear about your Sea-Doo accident. Your absence among the late-night infomercials was notable. Be that as it may, I must admit, I expected more from you with this one. It seems during your sabbatical, you forgot my advice about the 'do not eat' label, which remains pertinent. But I see you did not forget your unwavering dedication to glitter, which I hesitate to recommend putting anywhere near an open wound. Unfortunately, I myself am not currently wounded, so I cannot say for certain; however, this experiment could easily come about sooner rather than later. I was forced to repot the lima bean plant I've been tending to, due to its rapid mutation (for lack of a better word), and I could've sworn it hissed at me. Strangely enough, I encountered the same issue with some spiders I recovered recently, though they're still too polite to bite.

Regards, Wes Folayan

[osvaldo-rivas023-deactivated202]

Rain of Petals parade @ Town Square / @doctorstrangebun

Osvaldo squints his left eye as he gets poised to toss the first ring at the glass bottles. With a hefty stack of tickets, he’s aiming to win as many woven bracelets as can from all the festival games starting with the ring toss. Just before he flings the first one he spots one bespectacled doctor in his eye line. “If it ain’t Wes the bes’ t,” He calls out, grinning at the pleasant suprise. “Takin' a break from all that tinkerin’, huh? I swear, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were the first to find a cure for the Monday Blues." Osvaldo gives him a lighthearted pat on the shoulder before handing him a stack of coaster sized rings,“No shop talk today. How’s about a round?" Before Wes can reply, he's already exchanging more tickets for his own set of rings, “Loser buys drinks.” With the new element of competition, Osvaldo turns his baseball cap backwards, getting back into the zone. His was a more casual look that the rest of the springtime outfits around town square , but the faded Creedence Clearwater Revival band tee had a floral pattern around the lettering so he was on theme at least.

Miss. Miss. Miss. Each ring he tosses ricochets off of the glasses with sharp clinks. The last ring gets thrown and lands impressively in between two bottles. 0 for 0, he turns to Wes, checking to see how he fared against the game.

[doctorstrangebun]

Wes had honestly forgotten it was a festival day, only venturing from the studious afternoon he'd had planned holed up in the clinic for a trip to Thistle & Thread for... well, some thread. (He's alright on the thistle for now). And what did he find instead, but sprawling booths, food, drinks, and merriment. And of course, all of the shops closed. Not the first time this has happened; at least the project he'd left at home this time around is nothing more than a sock that needs mending and not some reeking concoction left simmering on the stove.

He's not one to deny taking advantage of walking all the way down the hill, and he's holding a stick with a mass of cotton candy at the end, fluorescent blue and bigger than his head, when Oz is catching his attention at ring toss. "Monday Blues? Harder than it looks," he sighs as he approaches. "But I'm getting pretty close on the Sunday Scaries."

Wes is not competitive. In fact, his dedication to avoiding carnival games, and games in general, could be considered a feat to some— but here he stands, free hand lobbing one ring after the other onto the bottles with damn near unwavering precision. "Oz, I don't mean to be presumptuous, but I recommend using your dominant hand."

[rxlinquo]

"You're kidding." He looks in the direction of where the fertilizer sits, piled off to the side and very untouched. And it looks like it'll still be that way. "So like the guys name says... it's a scam." Even a small town like this has scammers, the only difference is that the scammer is someone who will sit next to you at a diner.

He blinks as the seeds are shoved into his hands, taking in the different types of vegetables that the Kim siblings will grow. It's more than the few packs of potato and carrot seeds that Haerin bought. "Thank you, though, you didn't have to give us these." It's such a kind gesture that swells his heart. It makes him happy that they moved here.

However, as the topic shifts to the spiders and if the other can keep them, Minjun is reminded that while kind, the townspeople are very different from him. "... Please, take them all. I don't want them." Better yet, Haerin wouldn't want them, they'll make her scream if she were to see them when she does start maintaining their backyard. "I didn't think spiders were beneficial like that," he says. "How are you going to catch them? With a jar?"

[doctorstrangebun]

"Not necessarily," he says. Scammahorn's products certainly exist, they just don't typically work as intended-- but Wes is more than willing to take the rest of it off Minjun's hands. He'd be remiss not to run at least a few more experiments with it, anyway, just to note any consistencies or discrepancies. Any notice he might've paid to the other's reactions is quickly squandered as he approaches the side of the cottage, leaning in and squinting as he notes the spiders crawling across the boarded foundation. There's too many of them for them not to be babies, and they're rather large for babies; all he can assume is some rendition of wolf spider or tarantula. But, upon further inspection, he realizes they're a bit off.

"Most arachnids prefer the warmth of a human touch," Wes replies, crouching down and allowing a couple of them to crawl onto his bare hand, bringing it to eye level and examining closely. Blue. He's never seen a blue spider before. One of them bites him immediately. "Hm," he frowns, following what looks like a trail, all the way over to Minjun's semi-discarded Speed Gro fertilizer bag, where it seems a good amount of them have been living for the time being. "Your problem might be more dire than I thought..."

[ameliahiatt]

Molly nearly snorts with laughter at his reply. It was so very... Wes. "Then I guess neither of us are feeling unwell." She offers a shrug as she points out the obvious.

Molly never had much issue falling asleep, she actually had a steady routine with her tea and books. She hadn't really considered taking anything, not unless she was sick and even then she preferred to tread lightly. Though she could appreciate Wes' offer she wouldn't take it, even if she needed. Molly knew she didn't need a sleep aid. She didn't really want to sleep last night.

"Thanks," she offers, her tone genuine, she doesn't ever want to brush Wes' experiments off. She know he works hard, and though she's not entirely sure he'd admit it, he does care at least a little bit about them. "I think I'm good though. And counting sheep.." She nods, though can't help but make a face as he continues to explain his predicament. "I'm not really one for counting before I fall asleep, but I do have some books on hand for nights that I do struggle." Actually, they were probably books Wes would find interest in, probably ones he already had found interest in. So, she pivots, "Really boring romance novels, no spice, nothing interesting. Those put me right to sleep." A grin tugs at her lips as she watches him, "Maybe you could try one sometime, and then you can tell your dream self to think about those instead and see if that might help."

[doctorstrangebun]

With all due respect, Wes needs a book recommendation from Molly the way she needs a slumber tonic from one of his dusty old cupboards. He's been looking for the same things here since Miss Hannigan was manning the counter before her, and Mrs. Hill before that, though he prefers Molly among the rest. He knows what judgment looks like; Molly may be tickled by his eccentricities, but it's never that.

However, his expression doesn't falter, the rumple between his brows steady as he listens anyway. He's sure he doesn't need his dream self throwing spice-less novels at the inside of his head. "I can't go mixing up my nighttime studies with the likes of fiction again. I'll start thinking it's real," he says, entirely missing whatever implications her suggestion might have as he wanders back over to the table, still close enough to chatter as he begins gathering all the books— some open, others bookmarked with papers, pencils, other books... The semi-chaotic result of a day well spent. "If I may suggest doubling your chamomile for the evening, then," he says, pausing only to send her a momentary glance as he smoothes out a couple of pages (not his fault). "If it's too strong, plugging the nose helps."

[ameliahiatt]

Molly shifts her weight as she watches Wes. He's examining her behavior, she just knows it. And it's true, she hadn't been herself today. She had been in the clouds, but it was just so nice to feel good about something again, about someone. She was reveling in her sweet little secret.

"Feverish?" She repeats, she expects him to question her but to ask as if she were sick was not something she had expected. Though, with Wes, perhaps she should've. She shakes her head, "No, I'm not feverish. It's quite comfortable in here and I'm even wearing a sweater." Molly's style could've been summed up in two words: cottagecore chic. She was often found in dresses or skirts with soft floral patterns and earth tone accessories. Sweaters were a staple, cardigan and traditional, and she wore them year round at work. "Why? You're not feverish, are you?" she asks, quirking a brow. "Because if you are I may have to kick you out because I'm not about to be taken out this close to summer."

She knows he isn't sick. He is up to something, though, perhaps trying to identify why she'd been so off all day. Molly could just tell him. Of all people, Wes Folayan wasn't quite the first person to come to mind when she thought sharing such intimate details about her personal life. Then again, Molly wasn't really sure who might come to mind first in the Springs at all. Would anyone want to hear about it? It wasn't a big deal - well, it was a big deal to Molly. It was huge, really. This would warrant an emergency girls night in Nashville complete with champagne. Though even there, there weren't many people left she felt she could confide in. Too many people there shared roots with the marriage, not so much the individuals.

At the mention of his memory concoction, she scrunches her nose. "Mhm, I think I'll pass, but I trust your research, of course!" She adds, "I do appreciate the offer, I'm just not really struggling with my memory." Not in a way that warrants a strange potion, anyway. "I've just been a tiny bit forgetful today - I didn't sleep much last night." And for the first time in at least six years it wasn't because of insomnia. Just the thought has her cheeks flushing pink. "But I plan to head to bed early tonight." Why the hell she felt the need to explain this, she had no idea.

[doctorstrangebun]

Well, now she’s definitely onto him. The way she throws his question right back, he’s inclined to square his shoulders a bit, setting the book against the counter so that he’s no longer obligated to feel its weight, and wonders briefly if he shouldn’t’ve said anything at all, and just arrived back again tomorrow, attempting to compare behavior without interference or small talk, which he is… well, not bad at. He knows how to talk to people. Right?

Wes is, as per usual, clad in a black turtleneck and black slacks. Certainly not feverish, and even if he were, she wouldn’t be able to tell— he’s got ways of working around that sort of thing. Methods she’s never even dreamt of. “I’m a perfect 94 degrees, thank you,” he promises, and the silence that lingers between them persists headfirst through awkwardness all the way back around to amicable again.

“Oh. Well, I have something for sleep, too, if you’d prefer that. Though, I am still working on the dosage of it…” Last time he’d tested it out, he passed out in his lab chair and dozed for twenty hours straight, and by the time he’d woken up, his mouth was as dry as Golden Hills, doomed to chug energy tonic all day. He’s sure Molly has better things to do, but the offer still stands.

“Have you ever tried counting sheep?” He suggests, hands wringing together as he speaks. “I rarely get to ten before I’m out like a light. However,” he sighs, “I’m not sure how to get my dream self to stop counting sheep for me to wake up again. I’ve written him a letter, so.” Here’s hoping putting that letter under his pillow tonight might catch him a couple extra hours of shuteye.

[rxlinquo]

"Yes, that's me." He smiles awkwardly and hopes that it looks natural as he meets another local. Though, he has to remind himself that no matter what, no one would judge him for being awkward or so quiet, it's to be expected. "Uh... no? Was I... supposed to?" It was delivered to their home randomly and the name alone made Minjun wonder if it was an actual scam. It had to be with a name like that. "Because if I need to, I can go get it."

[doctorstrangebun]

“No,” he insists firmly. “In fact, I’ll take the rest of it off your hands, should you forget not to use it.” He’s sure this poor fellow doesn’t need a spider problem and oddly mutated crops, though Wes is now curious to see which might come out on top. “Hardly makes plants grow any faster, anyway. You’re better off with good old water and sunlight.”

He sets his case down on one of the back porch steps, glass jars rattling inside as he clicks it open. “Oh— before I forget,” he says, sticking a hand into one of his pockets and tugging out a handful of seeds of varying size. Mostly beans, with a few pepper and tomato seeds scattered throughout, and he unceremoniously shoves it into Minjun’s hand in lieu of a handshake. “Just a few questions about the spiders. You don’t mind if I take a few, do you? They’re good to have around, especially if you want to start a garden. Carnivorous gems, really. So I understand if you’d like to keep them.”

His interest in arachnids may be the only reason he’s here, but that won’t keep him from yapping about it. Besides, he’s not even sure what he’s dealing with yet. This could range from a harmless case of daddy long legs to a family of tarantulas. It’s best to ask permission before mentally preparing.

[rxlinquo]

where && with whom : : the kim's cottage and OPEN (0/3)

Haerin has done so much for Minjun, from helping him with starting up happymugs inc to moving to Bleeding Springs-- he owes his younger sister so much. Which brings him to this: starting a garden in their backyard. During their move, Haerin made it her goal to start a garden and later become a farmer. Like any proper older brother, Minjun supported her desires and wishes. He got her books, found videos, and even got all the materials. It just... never happened because of how busy Haerin became with her job.

It's okay, oppa, I'll get to it when my schedule opens up. That's what she told him, three weeks ago. And from the heavy eye bags and Haerin sitting at her work laptop 'till late at night... Minjun figured that his younger sister won't be able to start the garden anytime soon.

And that brought him to the bulletin board and requesting from some help. It's the perfect opportunity to meet others and get some help with the garden. After all, the people of Bleeding Springs love to talk and help their neighbors.

"Thank you for taking up my offer," Minjun says, leading the other around the house and to the Kim's backyard. "I don't know much about gardening, just the stuff that I've read in books and seen on Tiktok. So, I'm glad to get some help today."

[doctorstrangebun]

Wes has never even heard the name of the person who's responsible for the most recent bulletin in the town square... But the mention of spiders rings a bell. In a sprawling row of older cottages on the side of town, some vacant and others less so, the spiders essentially own the land; it makes sense they would graduate to the empty houses, too. Seems this house hasn't been occupied for long.

So, as he approaches the suspected properties carrying a wooden suitcase with the word 'SPIDERS' etched into it, he's relieved to find who he assumes is the bulletin poster already rearing to go, blathering on about tick tock. It's true, there's no time to waste.

"Minjun, is it?" He asks, squinting over at the cottage before back to the stranger in front of him, adjusting his glasses as he trails after, assessing the property with a vigilant eye. It doesn't look like there's that many spiders at all; perhaps he just needs to get closer. He skips right past formalities, turning instead to the patches of dirt that may very well soon be a garden. "You haven't used any of Mr. Scammahorn's speed-gro fertilizer, have you?"

[doctorstrangebun]

Left at the reception desk of Bleeding Hearts Clinic, a partially smushed cardboard box sits with a ripped piece of paper stapled to it with “FOR DR. WESBERT FOLAYAN, DM,” written in black sharpie – the D’s are backwards. Inside, nestled amongst a heap of ripped up newspaper sits a plastic baggie full of….chocolate lumps? Upon further inspection, or rather, if one were to take a bite out of one of the lumps, it can be deduced that it’s at least ‘chocolate adjacent’, with a note of cilantro. Amongst the mess of newspaper is another ripped sheet of paper, 

“D. Scammahorn Industries would like to thank you, WESBERT FOLAYAN, for your loyal customership with our compannie this Heart of Confections Day. Enclosed is Dick’s classic chocolate substitute, MOCK-O-LOT – for those wanting the taste of real chocolate but none of the calories!

X.O.X.O,

D. Scammahorn”

Mr. Scammahorn,

Your gratitude is unnecessary but welcome. I enjoyed the mock-o-lot alongside my afternoon coffee. Some news on the fertilizer: as expected, the third pot has seen the speediest growth thus far, therefore a tablespoon per quart of soil should be the recommended amount. However, the plant appears to get stranger by the day; all visible leaves are entirely blue at the end, and the imminent bean pods are looking rather flytrap-esque. The smell has also persisted, which in some cases could be considered a feat. I will keep you updated in the coming weeks.

Regards, Wes Folayan P.S.— In the future, please feel free to refer to me as Wes, which is short for Wesley, and not Wesbert.

[ameliahiatt]

At work Molly is quite possibly one of the most professional people you could meet and she has her parents to thank for that. While in school, they stressed the importance of discipline and doing your best because it was what you wanted to do, not because it was the right thing to do. It didn't take much convincing on Molly's end. She gained satisfaction when people were pleased with her efforts and she made that discovery at a young age.

She remembered her third grade teacher, Mrs. Carpenter and the first time that she displayed gratitude for the work Molly had done on a science fair project. Though Molly had never partook in recreational drugs, and certainly hadn't at the age of eight, she figured that feeling was pretty similar - and she never stopped chasing that high.

Her sister called her a people pleaser (derogatory). But Molly didn't care. She just wanted to do a good job and help people along the way.

What Molly Hiatt wasn't at work was lazy. Careless mistakes were not her style. Mis-shelved books and unfinished tasks at the end of the day were unheard of! But tonight Molly's mind was on a little side quest through another galaxy. Three books had been mis-shelved and two unfilled hold request slips sat staring back at her on the desk. If they had eyes they'd be rolling so hard. Where are ya, girl? They'd say.

Wes' voice seems as though it's booming through a loudspeaker when it breaks through the clouded thoughts in her head. It was more of a sweet spring mountain morning fog instead of a cloudy day, though. And all because of one person.

"Vol-volume?" Her eyes had made it to the request slips and for a moment she was lost again, "Volume what?" Shit. The word almost tumbles out. "Volume One, yes." Clarity strikes, finally! As if she's suddenly remembered that she's got a library to finish locking up for the night, she pushes herself out of the chair and glides around the desk, smiling at Wes. He was gonna say something because this was not normal. "Wait-" she stops herself, standing before him. Her eyes zero in on the book in his hand. "You know exactly where The Complete History of the Ferngill Republic, Volume One lives..." Wes new better than Molly, truly. "Did we move it and I forgot about it?"

[doctorstrangebun]

Rats. She’s caught on already, which is a good sign, but he’s not convinced they’re out of the woods, yet. Her somewhat frenzied response doesn’t feel warranted; there’s about as much excitement here as there typically is, which is very little. Perhaps she also fell victim to Mr. Scammahorn’s goo and is too embarrassed to say anything. Maybe it’s a gargantuan hangover and she’s simply on her way for some hair of the dog.

“Er— nevermind.” He squints. “Are you feeling alright?” He asks almost begrudgingly. “Not feverish, are you?” Whatever it is, it’s something he doesn’t quite recognize. She might just need more rest; Wes hardly sleeps at all, but for some it’s a necessary evil. The clouds of Spring bring on a drowsiness that is often hard to battle.

For what it’s worth, Wes likes Molly. It’s not that he doesn’t want to ask, it’s just that… Well, asking questions like this outside the context of the clinic comes with the threat of this turning their usual polite and businesslike chatter into something closer to comraderie, which in the plainest terms, Wes is notably bad at. He’s almost less nervous about her feeling feverish than anything else. Grand Plague quarantine protocols? He’s familiar with those, much more than the intricacies of small talk or friendly check-ins. “You know, I have something I’ve been working on that’s supposed to improve memory. There have been complaints about the taste…” He shoves the bridge of his glasses up. “But you’re welcome to it.”

[calicoegg]

“No, no, and…. no.” She rattles her answers off with speed as she starts heading around the counter toward his open office. Although…

A quick pause, “ahhh,” and a downward glance at her tongue reveals that it is a normal shade of reddish-pink. Whew. (Would’ve been kinda sick to have a purple tongue, though, even if it meant making the trek out to Grampleton.)

“Mostly just weird stomachaches. And, like, everything tastes sour. And I’ve been havin’ super freaky dreams about….“ She cuts herself off at the sight of him fist deep in green muck, with loud, wet handfuls being shoveled into an awaiting blender. She points a singular finger. “Do I gotta drink that?” A simple “do not eat” label will clearly not be enough to stop her from consuming mysterious goos.

[doctorstrangebun]

"Well, actually, I was doing this before you walked in," Wes says, ferociously locked in as he scrapes out the rest of what he can of the seaweedy muck. "Blending it just makes it easier to work with later... I'm trying to power a— well, hopefully you’ll just see it when it’s done.” He doesn’t like revealing too much about his plans before they’re complete. Besides, he’s still pretty green on the whole biofuel front.

Freddie’s description of her current ailment, however, has piqued his interest. Perhaps he should’ve also sampled the goo, just to know firsthand… It’s too late, now, crusted up into a doughy sculpture on his desk. From stress ball to paperweight, the false advertisement versatility of Mr. Scammahorn’s deliveries remains unrivaled. Stomachaches? Sour taste? Freaky dreams? This sounds like a job for one of his many elixirs.

He shucks off his gloves into the trash, immediately moseying over to a locked cabinet and rummaging through his keyring for the right fit. Smallest silver key on the right. Click. Myriad shelves hold an army of jars, all with near-illegible labels and varied contents. “When you say sour, I’m assuming you mean in an unpleasant way…”

[doctorstrangebun]

location: the library status: closed @ameliahiatt

It’s both a privilege and an honor to be able to haunt the library after hours; everyone who works there knows he’s only a couple steps away from having his own key (if only he’d stop writing in everything). Until the last person is out, he mans his station, scribbling annotations only he can decipher, and occasionally even glancing at the time.

Tonight, it’s Molly, and she seems uncharacteristically lackadaisical— spending more time distracted by her own thoughts than she is closing up for the evening. Incessant daydreaming. He’s fairly certain that’s an early sign of the Grand Plague, which he’s always on the lookout for making its grand return. He should probably ask if she has a fever, or if her tongue has changed color; can never be too careful.

He shuts his current book with a thud— The Complete History of the Ferngill Republic, Volume Two— and picks it up, ambling over to Molly’s desk and clearing his throat, standing a good few feet away for good measure. “You wouldn’t happen to know where Volume One is..?” Not a very apt title for a multi-volume situation. He’s also well-aware of where Volume One is, he’s just testing her; mangled memory is also a prevalent symptom to look out for.

[calicoegg]

location: the clinic status: closed, @doctorstrangebun

She’s felt all kinds of wrong ever since she ate that Scammahorn goo.

Flavors have tasted slightly off, with sweet foods tasting sour and salty foods tasting sour and sour foods tasting even more sour. (Okay, everything has mostly just tasted sour.) All the food that goes in her stomach just sloshes around, creating excess acid and making her nauseous. Her dreams have also been super freaky—wandering through a deep, dark wood, seeing the disembodied head of Laney floating in the mist, saying something distant, slightly discordant, about avoiding purple pebbles or not buying carrots on Tuesdays.

(She'd avoided any and all carrots on Tuesday, just to be safe.)

And so she drops her bike by the entrance, stumbles out of the bright sunlight and in through the clinic door, into the dimly lit interior, the bell sounding out a light ting.

“Weeeeees!” She calls out, far too overfamiliar. “I don’t think the meds are workin’, man! I need something…..... stronger.”

[doctorstrangebun]

The door is jingling. Wes slowly leans over to assess, through the doorway of his little lab behind the counter, and— it's deja vu. Or, should he say, deja goo. Scammahorn had really done a number on the neighborhood, and Wes is anxious to see the 'do not eat' label on the incoming fertilizer. Only time will tell. All he knows for sure is that the one walking in is someone who needs it most.

"Freddie." He's clearly in the middle of something, a gloved hand deep in a jar of algae from his most recent lake excursion. "What are your symptoms? Fever? Ears leaking? Has your tongue changed color?" He scoops the algae into a nearby blender, safety goggles strapped to his face over his glasses. "Anything more than that and you're better off in Grampleton. But I might have something." Another scoop. "I'm almost done with this, if you'll give me a moment..."

[wldngmn]

Hiro isn't sure what he was expecting from the town clinic but decides he was expecting a lot more of the usual flavour of country welcome. More small talk and how do you do's. Instead, he's faced with a very pragmatic and straight forward response. No fluffing about with anything unnecessary and it jars him ever so slightly so he lags behind a touch, limping through the door a few delayed seconds after it is opened.

Inside the exam room, he lingers awkwardly with his helmet tucked under his arm. Lights overhead flicker occasionally in time with thunder, enough to make him a little worried the lights might go out entirely and then where would they be.

The doctor seems to be answering his own questions quickly, before he can get a word in. He sets his helmet down on the counter off to the side and hobbles toward the exam chair, perching himself on the edge. "Uhm," he looks down to his rain and mud damp jeans, torn on the left around his knee where the fabric is frayed to tatters and flapping down to his calf, exposing the slight tan of his leg underneath and the blood. Rainwater makes it look paint-like. His stomach churns uncomfortably at the sight. "A six? I guess? I'd like to keep my pants if at all possible, but, uh, if you have to cut them then it's fine." He braces his hands further back on the seat behind him and eases himself more comfortably onto the chair, hissing through his teeth as his leg bends and the skin crackles painfully.

[doctorstrangebun]

Wes tuts, shaking his head. Might do this stranger better to just bite the bullet and turn them into cutoffs, especially with the hot summer ahead. Six is a bit of a steep rating, anyway. Still, he relents. “I know someone who will sew them for you,” he promises, nudging over one of the little step-stools for Hiro to rest his leg upon as he tugs out his trusty miracle spray— a tediously studied mixture of alcohol, saline, aloe, and lemon juice. “This is not going to be comfortable,” he warns. “It’s best to imagine an oncoming train, or something else much worse.” Perhaps crashing a motorbike in a storm, even.

The spray nearly sizzles against the wound, and Wes grimaces, dabbing away what he can with a fresh cloth and reassessing the wound. Swollen, no doubt, with plenty of work left to do, but it doesn’t seem as profoundly trapped within the denim as it was before. A painting within a frame. “You’ll want to use frozen meat instead of ice to help with swelling, if possible. If the pain persists too long, you’ll have to take the next train to Grampleton for an x-ray,” he babbles on, retrieving a tray that clatters with little tools and picking out a pair of tweezers.

Just then, a massive whoosh and a clap of thunder shuts the power out for good, and Wes inhales sharply, using the back of his free hand to click on the headlamp without a second thought. Hiro’s distress now has its own spotlight. Should he be comforting the other right now? He’s aware it’s not a very doctorly question to ask himself. Perhaps he’s just excited to have something to do. “…Don’t worry. This happens all the time.”

[doctorstrangebun]

A knock on your door, followed by the sound of something…wet hitting your porch. Twigs snap in the near distance, but don’t worry about that. On your doorstep sits a brown paper bag with what you can only hope is grease stains haphazardly polka-dotting it. ‘D. SCAMMAHORN INDUSTRIES’ – the S’s are backwards – is scrawled in black marker, with ‘DO-NOT-EAT’ written much smaller in blue ballpoint pen. What’s that smell? Grassy and…sulfuric? A rotten egg smell wafts off the bag. Be brave and open it up to find a ripped piece of paper sticking out of what you can only hope is fertilizer and not an amalgamation of dried hay and various farm animal’s…excrement that reads, “Congratulations! Here’s your Speed Gro Fertylizer, courtesy of D. Scammahorn Industries. Happy gardening!”

Mr. Scammahorn,

While I am pleased to see you’ve added a ‘do not eat’ label, I regret to inform you that your fertilizer lacks the necessary balance required to work as intended, not to mention the absence of exact directions. Upon receiving the Speed Gro, I planted four separate pots of lima beans, each with a differing ratio of your product. While advised to ‘sprinkle’ for results within a week, there was no specified amount. Potted plants also tend to thrive better with a water soluble fertilizer, should you consider that in the future. Pot 1: A sprinkle of fertilizer. No sprout in sight. Pot 2: A teaspoon of fertilizer. There is a tiny, but visible vine. The color is ghastly. Pot 3: A tablespoon of fertilizer. A few small tendrils, almost blue. I will keep you updated on this in my next letter, as this test seems the most promising. Pot 4: Two tablespoons of fertilizer. In some instances, over-fertilization can result in scorched plants, but in this case, it seems to have solidified the soil completely, rendering the bean un-growable. I will admit, I was hesitant to believe this was a decades-old formula, but you’ve got me scratching my head. As it currently stands, I won’t be recommending this to any of the farmers I know.

Regards, Wes Folayan

[justabaddog]

At the sight before him, Caps first reaction is to raise a hand. As if somehow he could reach the other in time for the fall, but once he settled Kallan was quick to put the ordeal behind them. The hand quickly lowered, reaching for the cig that hung between his teeth. There was no need to presser the lad, if anything it would only feel like picking fun.

"It's tha bait I'm usin' right now!" He responded with a grin, dropping the cigarette away to step out the flame. It was an action done out of respect for the other, Cap didn't really like to smoke on others often, even more so the doctor. So he would give up the bitter taste for the moment, making it really an action without thought and more of a reflex by now, "So far, it ain't been bad! Yer real good at that kinda stuff, huh?"

His gaze moved to the suitcase, one he had seen many times by now. Enough so that The Captain would even go as far to say he never sees Wes without the case, but knew that would only be a fib in the grand scheme that was the other man, "I see yer here again on business" He nods to the wooden case, his attention turning back to the line in the water, "Still got that fish oil you asked fer too."

[doctorstrangebun]

Ain’t been bad. That means there’s still room for improvement. His worm-to-salt ratio is likely still off; he’ll have to experiment later. He pushes his glasses back on before cracking the suitcase open, the slight clinking of glass jars strapped inside nearly harmonizing with the breeze.

Wes typically prefers to be alone. Sometimes it feels as if everyone in this town is fantastic at small talk and cheery dispositions; his talents lie elsewhere. Still, the Captain is far from a malignant presence— friendlier than himself, for certain, and much easier to talk to than some of the city slickers around here, but not without a certain edge that separates him from everyone else. A willing isolation, and one that Wes can relate to. Even if he wanted to mind the company, he couldn’t.

That being said, he’s aware he’s already talked Cap’s ear off about the epic highs and lows of algae and its benefits, but the rambling is about as second nature as him pulling on his gloves. “The storm did most of the work for me,” he says, unveiling a scraper with a robust shink as if he’s a knight unveiling a sword from its scabbard. At the mention of fish oil, however, he looks back up towards the other, shoulders rising with enthusiasm. “Oh— I almost forgot,” he admits, eyes widening. “It’s the last thing I need for my new project…” He goes back to the task at hand, uncapping a jar as he descends to his knees, immediately dipping the scraper into the water and unceremoniously slapping the algae into the jar. “The benefits of fish oil were allegedly even helpful during the Grand Plague," he says as he works. "Did you know Bleeding Hearts remained untouched through it all? Most will tell you it’s the Goddess’s doing."

[justabaddog]

OPEN STARTER

What a muggy day. As heavy gray clouds lay overhead, hiding any idea of blue for the day. It was a day that left everything feeling ... wet. Even without rain, it was as if the wind could cut through and chill the bone.

If he was being honesty, The Captain loved these days. Was accustomed to the really. You couldn't live on the water without being okay with the idea being wet at least ninety percent of the time.

So there he stood in front of The Fishing Post, watching over the water with fishing poll in hand and a cigarette to warm him. Today was a good day for fishing, with drops of rain even now and again hitting the lake it would be enough to lure fish into curiosity.

Quickly shoving the cigarette between his teeth to free his hands, Kallan tossed his line into the water, watching as the bobber dipped and pulled with the water. Until he heard the approaching steps, easy steps over the wood behind him. Without looking he called, "Careful! Dem planks get awful slick in weather like this!"

[doctorstrangebun]

There's bustle to be found in the humidity of a storm that's mostly passed. For days, the skies had sic'd so many sheets of rain on their humble town that it was impossible to decipher the outlines of any clouds, bolts of lightning, and occasionally even anything in the distance. Wes's view from his office has finally gone from a block of raindrops to a muddy, but average scene, folks walking to and from their destinations with smiling faces and their heads up, hoping to maybe catch a rainbow. But Wes knows better.

He pulls on a poncho and rain boots, digs out a wooden suitcase with 'ALGAE' etched into it, and makes his way towards the lake. Not a far walk from the clinic, all things considered, so it's somewhere he's spent a lot of time— never to swim. Only to assess, to collect. It's a different kind of fun.

When he arrives, everything is as predicted: algae blooming against the water surface, spreading out from where it sticks mostly at the side of the dock, so green it's almost blue— and, of course, the Captain at one end of a line, the other far out into the murky loch. "Careful is my middle na—" he slips immediately, catching himself on his other foot before he can fully tumble over. He shifts, setting down the suitcase against the damp wood, clearing his throat, tugging off his glasses momentarily to smear away the fog (mostly so he doesn't have to make eye contact), squinting through the embarrassment. "Er— you ever try out that bait I gave you?"