It's easy enough to tell when Doc's the only one working in the morgue, the sound of early 2000s club pop punk only ever loud enough to drift upstairs when he's the sole doctor settled into the basement office- regularly offering to work the overnights for cataloguing Felicity and Zeke might not want to do. He's certainly been here since last night, because a small handful of things are evident upon stepping into the small space that serves time and again as Huntsville's citizens' last stop before the graveyard on the edge of town: Doc's made a bed behind the main desk, and as he sings along to the radio, his mismatched slipper-clad feet are kicked up on the desk, the right bearing a rabbit missing an eye, and the left very clearly a monster foot.
"You're a hot m-mess I'm lovin' it h-hell yes- Christ Almighty!-" Sam's appearance, without a knock and with the music deafening his ability to catch anyone coming down the stairs, sends Doc spilling from the office chair and into the floor, the coroner upended for a moment before he springs to his feet, straightening his blazer over his shirt with a wheeze before lobbing a stapler at the radio across the room, knocking into it just violently enough to make it stop playing. "Ah h-hello Sam! I didn't hear you come in! S-Scared the life out of me." He quickly slams the top of his laptop shut and kicks his makeshift bed underneath the desk.
"G-G-Good morning, Dr. Dagon!" Doc seems in relatively high spirits, a cup of coffee clutched in each leather-gloved hand as he shuffles into the Morgue, the younger doctor's usual tan trench coat quickly hung beside the door and one cup handed over to Felicity before he pauses to take a sip of his own. "J-just us t-today I take it? D-Didn't see Dr. H-Hunt on my way in, s-so I only g-grabbed two cups of coffee." He scrunches his nose a little at his own cup- it's never particularly good coffee here in Huntsville, but people under the threat of an eldrich horror can't be choosy, Doc reasons.
"I m-m-managed to catalogue the f-few n-new arrivals w-we had last night before I went home, n-nothing out of the n-norm, just some a-ah, old a-age decedents from the n-nursing home, th-they're in drawers six and f-f-four." He skirts around Felicity carefully, moving to the file cabinet behind the desk. "I d-don't think we have a-autopsy requests for them, b-but preliminaries are d-done. N-No ah, 'potential c-cult activity' or 't-tentacle-related injuries' to speak of. A p-pair of phrases I d-don't think I'll e-ever get used to- d-do you get used to th-that?"
"I'm g-g-g-going to head h-home for the d-day- wh-when Felicity c-comes in, I've left my notes on the d-desk in the morgue office- b-but we've only g-got a couple o-overnight stays until the f-funeral home g-gets in touch." Doc is already prepping to head home, leaned in the doorway of the police station as he pats himself down for keys to his house and his wallet- cellphone held aside as he checks the time. "I-If anybody n-needs anything I'll k-keep the walkie on, but I'm o-off the n-next f-few days. T-take care of yourselves e-everyone!" There's a few 'night Doc's!' that follow him out the door and onto the sidewalk-
Just in time for somebody rushing by to nearly take out the coroner, staggering the doctor and sending his phone sailing across the parking lot. He winces at the sound of impact. "Oh. that sounded expensive. a-and p-probably unrepairable." He frowns, turning to the person who'd plowed into him. "A-a-are you okay? R-running from something? Someone? Sh-should we both be running?"
It's been quiet in my mind, now I'm paranoid. It's just a matter of time before it's making noise.
"I guess you can just call me Doc, but I'm Holder Teichman. I'm 36 years old, and a Boston native which means I'm just visiting Huntsville. I've been a coroner for the past several years, as I find it far easier to work with the dead than the living, these days. Back in my prime, though, I was a surgical prodigy- capable enough that I found myself in the clutches of Boston's notorious Mystic River Killer- and forced to circumvent their death... an act that lead to several more, given that I'm the only surviving victim. I've been in Huntsville for almost a year and have settled as best I can into the position that feels most at home for me. Despite my previously illustrious life, at present, I am a guilt-ridden, repentant, traumatized shell of my former self.- A handful of traits that I fear my best efforts and unwavering loyalty and altruism cannot counter."
Name: Holder Albert Teichman
Aliases: Doc, Dr. Teichman, Holder
Age: 36
Sexuality/Gender: Homosexual Trans Man He/Him
Personality: A deeply nervous man, Holder's speech patterns are laden with stutters and uncertainty, and he finds it difficult in the present day to trust anyone, much less a town full of relative strangers. Endlessly loyal when he eventually allows himself to trust someone, it's guilt that guides his actions and efforts- a constant belief that his stringent clinging to his Hippocratic oath in the moment that he had to decide whether or not to let the Mystic River Killer die caused the death of three more people- and left him the sole survivor of their bloody rampage. Driven to help others to the point of self-harm, he'd set himself ablaze to keep someone else warm for even a moment longer, kindness often taken full advantage of by those without his best interest at heart, sensationalized and exploited for a time after his brush with death- it was really only his arrival in Huntsville that allowed him to take a breath and stop answering to the constant interviews from news media, television, and the dreaded true crime podcaster.
Occupation: While a Coroner in Huntsville, Holder's former work was that of a surgeon- though his shakes and injured right hand have left him unable to trust himself to work on anyone who isn't already dead.
Affiliations: Huntsville Police Department, the Town of Huntsville
Scent Profile: Faint cologne and aftershave he's about to run out of, the constant clinging scent of blood and antiseptic, as clean as one can be in the aftermath of what's happened to Huntsville. There's the faintest smell of wood polish, paints and oils- though this is clearly tied to his hobby over his work.
Aesthetic: Tight leather gloves hiding the reminder of your most crushing shame, blood and sweat clinging to pale skin- the shadow of doubt looming over your shoulder. You are no killer, so now their blood is on your destroyed hands. A pendulum, a pivot- the world changes, so you do. Now the ferryman, pennies on the eyes, a fee for the afterlife- their journey overseen by careful, still-shaking hands and a desperation to right the wrongs you've inflicted. your phone still rings off the hook, they didn't tell you when your morals and virtues die in the split second you make that kind of decision that the vultures come despite the body still breathing. You are a story. You are trauma porn. You are clicks and interactions and you cannot take it anymore.
This place is a godsend. You feel just as guilty for that feeling as you do everything else.
It's like an hourglass I can't turn over And when it's out, it comes down like a mortar.
CHAPTER ONE: LIFE IN HUNTSVILLE POST ARRIVAL
Now serving as one of Huntsville's Coroners, Doc is, strangely, doing better than he ever was on the outside. The constant media circus unwilling to let his trauma die with the other victims of the Mystic River Killer now on the other side of a barrier that silences all emails, phone calls, and interruptions, he's comfortable in the quiet that's come from being allowed to focus on his work, even if the bodies he's handed are particularly brutal. There's a comfort in the commonality of cause of death- 'ghost related slaughtering' is an easy enough marker to make on paperwork, with the rare deviation to include natural disaster, gunshots, and falls from great heights. There is a comfort in death- a comfort Doc has not been offered- but not for lack of trying.
Even now struggling to trust the people around him- and to cope with the reality of his continued survival in the face of crushing odds when others haven't been so 'lucky'- Doc's tenuous friendships with his coworkers- and those who have attempted to get past the walls he's hastily cobbled together to assure him there's no reason to be alone in a place where more people than anywhere else understand the ache of losing someone to savagery. But their efforts are slow-moving, as Holder's trauma lingers, crawling and creeping through his mind like tentacles to constrict ever tighter- ironic, he reasons, given the current state of things in the place he's found himself. His is an existence of slight hermithood- loyal to those who have taken the time to offer kindness and care- but not trusting, never trusting.
The willingness to turn one's back on someone was the simplest path toward being stabbed in it, after all.
Hex doesn't go out to the forest too often- they're a little high-profile, normally, bright blue hair and over the top clothing- something that, while good for denoting their presence to hunters, wasn't exactly beneficial otherwise. But boredom, uncertainty, and a screaming match with their husband bred wanderlust, and it also meant they didn't have it in them to get dolled up, scraped knees, bruised arms, and buzzed-short dark brown hair the affair of the day as she poked around at the bases of trees. "Come on then, I've got to find something today to make this worthwhile-" They sigh, shaking their head slightly. "You don't even have to be magical, I'll take poisonous at this point, mushrooms- Ark doesn't know the difference." For a moment she giggles at the thought of him making his usual tea and keeling over dead- and then she realizes she's not alone, and that the fruit she'd picked up in the meantime was rotten. "Blegh- oh! God, I didn't think anybody else was coming out this far. I'm just mushroom hunting." They inform. "Looks like most of the areas close to town have been uh. Picked clean."
The torturous rage that's performed on this stage, As I gaze at myself playing this role, It makes me feel whole- When I'm in full control I'm no longer a doll that you own ! ! !
"I'm Hex Halcyon Sif-Sidon- You'd do well not to forget the whole thing, 'cause I'm gonna be a big deal, someday, got it? But I guess you can just call me Hex, Most folk do. I'm 24 years old and I'm a bona-fide circus freak- but I guess, these days, with my tourin' opportunities on hold- I'm fillin' slots as a Police Dispatcher. I arrived in town in with my traveling troupe Seven years ago, and I still live with the surviving members in an abandoned house on the edge of town. I'm not sure how I feel about the Commune, because far be it from the clown to judge anybody else- My greatest vice is my inability to mind my own business, and the fact I'm a hellish gossip."
Name: Hex Halcyon Sif-Sidon
Aliases: Hex, Sif, Baby, B Гиена (v Giyena) [The Hyena], Bubbles the Clown
Personality: A horrendous busybody, Hex is the most extroverted member of the Menagerie post their being trapped within Huntsville, constantly getting themselves involved in the lives and business of others, often uninvited. Peppy and vibrant, they can often come off as 'too much' for the unprepared, and has been since her arrival nearly eight years ago. They don't seem troubled by their new lot in life beyond a lingering sense of wanderlust, and her tendency to make new friends quickly has done her well, despite the fact her reputation as a nosy gossip is well-known.
Occupation: Former Circus Act, Presently working at the local police station as a dispatcher.
Affiliations: The Marvelous Menagerie Traveling Circus, The Huntsville Police, Arkadeon Sidon- their husband, and the Menagerie's present ringmaster, 39 years old.
Scent Profile: Sweet, like sugar and fresh cotton sheets, Like lanolin for violin bows and honey candies made by hand in the kitchen- like sweet flowers for bees they rear and the harsh copper of blood.
Aesthetic: Canvas strips from tents torn into bandages, rubbing alcohol biting into split knuckles and ignored bloodied lips. A painted on grin in white and blue paint hiding a frown beneath, everybody loves a clown- and you've been a fool for some time. Bees sting but once and then they die but they follow the will of a Queen. It is femininity made dagger sharp and deadly- Fear my sting, fear my sting, please do not hurt me.
You've ruined me and everything that used to seem Pleasant to me Is now a broken mockery- Nostalgic lost reality. But now it seems within these dreams the power all belongs to me!
CHAPTER ONE: LIFE IN HUNTSVILLE POST ARRIVAL
Hex has adjusted alarmingly well, all things considered, they miss the glamour of touring and performing that they saw in their teens, but there is a comfort in routine, and her fondness for the bees she keeps, and those who live within her strange little family of circus freaks tends to keep her on the straight and narrow. While their tendency to spread rumors and gossip hasn't earned them many favors, it's also not garnered many detractors in their life, most finding her more than enjoyable to be around given their plucky personality and eagerness to participate in anything she's invited to. She's the public facing presence for the Menagerie, a bright eyed, plucky young thing who garnered her fame in the cirque with her work as a clown and a tightrope walker. She tends to wilt, in the presence of her husband, though if asked about this, she'll quickly change the subject to something else, choosing to think about anything else aside from the man who heads her circus, and the fact their numbers are far smaller than they had been, that faithful night their traveling troupe rolled through the town of Huntsville. They remain close to Mercy, another freak in their circus who headed the sideshow, largely defaulting to his judgement of others when they're together- And with notable friction between Mercy, Arkadeon, and herself, the people of the Menagerie are a frayed tightrope bound to snap someday- Hex simply hopes that they're not the one to cause the break.
