Bart Torgal (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
theresalwaystheview) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
ph_logs2024-04-04 04:22 am
theresalwaystheview) wrote in ph_logs2024-04-04 04:22 am
Sometimes I stare out of the window and think about how lucky I am...
Who: Bart Torgal and...you?
What: Seasonal log, as he attempts to earn enough money for a vessel
When: Mid-spring through event times
Where: Watson's clinic, Bart's lab
Warnings: General warning for poorly-dealt-with mental health themes, will update as necessary
Bart's winter had been bad. Terrible, really. For every ounce of progress he made, there was some kind of setback. Something that crippled him in his research or his attempts at having anything resembling a social life. He feels more alone than ever, even with the knowledge that there are people that at the very least think well of him. But what did that matter, really, when he's opted not to show his face out in the world unless it was for work?
1. The Clinic
From the moment that he knew he was good for something around here, he'd put himself to work on it. Working intake at John Watson's clinic, he'd been updating paperwork and helping to educate the doctor on updated medical techniques and information, knowing that if he had the common knowledge behind him of an additional couple of centuries of advancement, then who would he be to keep it to himself? So he was careful to pass on everything that he knew, and make all of his research available to the staff both here, and at Winterbottom's clinic closer to the center of town.
A handmade wooden sign with a slider that denotes when the clinic is open indicates that they are seeing patients. Walking into the clinic, you will see him sitting behind a desk, writing or occasionally drawing, filling out page upon page of notes from loose sheets. There are pamphlets, printed on thick card paper and folded neatly, for newcomers to peruse so that they had a better idea of how to approach an appointment. In an emergency, the boy is cool-headed, his manner and way of speaking incredibly gentle.
"Welcome to the clinic of Doctor John Watson, what can we do for you?"
2. The Lab
When not at the clinic, Bart is at home. Those that have known him for a while know that he's been working nonstop to turn part of his home into a proper laboratory for the production of everything from batteries to make the radio project by Tarantulas viable in the long term, to assisting in the production of penicillin from the samples that he'd been getting from the various farms around the island. The latter is at least coming along better, as materials to fabricate long-lasting, rechargeable batteries that wouldn't degrade into physical hazards is somewhat beyond his means just now.
When at home, he works late into the night, his lamps lit until the wee hours. He doesn't associate much with the people outside of his research, a long-standing habit that he has yet to curtail as he remains nervous about getting close to anyone at all.
A visitor will have to knock loudly, or find a window of his lab to tap on if they want his attention while he's wrist-deep in a production cycle for an antibiotic that he's attempting to prepare for proper in-vivo testing. He's going to look poorly slept, somewhat haunted, ragged around the edges like a college student studying for finals. There are samples absolutely everywhere, from the island, from the ocean, and from the outer edges of the entrance of Hepogaia.
Wildcard
Bart can also be found in fits and starts out in the forest, or down at the beach, pursuing lines of inquiry and writing in blank notebooks that rapidly fill with small handwriting and sketches that look more akin to diagrams than regular art. He's not an artist after all, just desperate to remember as much as possible, with an eye for details and an almost pathological need to put everything down accurately. Speaking up without letting him see you coming will make him jump. Sorry.
What: Seasonal log, as he attempts to earn enough money for a vessel
When: Mid-spring through event times
Where: Watson's clinic, Bart's lab
Warnings: General warning for poorly-dealt-with mental health themes, will update as necessary
Bart's winter had been bad. Terrible, really. For every ounce of progress he made, there was some kind of setback. Something that crippled him in his research or his attempts at having anything resembling a social life. He feels more alone than ever, even with the knowledge that there are people that at the very least think well of him. But what did that matter, really, when he's opted not to show his face out in the world unless it was for work?
1. The Clinic
From the moment that he knew he was good for something around here, he'd put himself to work on it. Working intake at John Watson's clinic, he'd been updating paperwork and helping to educate the doctor on updated medical techniques and information, knowing that if he had the common knowledge behind him of an additional couple of centuries of advancement, then who would he be to keep it to himself? So he was careful to pass on everything that he knew, and make all of his research available to the staff both here, and at Winterbottom's clinic closer to the center of town.
A handmade wooden sign with a slider that denotes when the clinic is open indicates that they are seeing patients. Walking into the clinic, you will see him sitting behind a desk, writing or occasionally drawing, filling out page upon page of notes from loose sheets. There are pamphlets, printed on thick card paper and folded neatly, for newcomers to peruse so that they had a better idea of how to approach an appointment. In an emergency, the boy is cool-headed, his manner and way of speaking incredibly gentle.
"Welcome to the clinic of Doctor John Watson, what can we do for you?"
2. The Lab
When not at the clinic, Bart is at home. Those that have known him for a while know that he's been working nonstop to turn part of his home into a proper laboratory for the production of everything from batteries to make the radio project by Tarantulas viable in the long term, to assisting in the production of penicillin from the samples that he'd been getting from the various farms around the island. The latter is at least coming along better, as materials to fabricate long-lasting, rechargeable batteries that wouldn't degrade into physical hazards is somewhat beyond his means just now.
When at home, he works late into the night, his lamps lit until the wee hours. He doesn't associate much with the people outside of his research, a long-standing habit that he has yet to curtail as he remains nervous about getting close to anyone at all.
A visitor will have to knock loudly, or find a window of his lab to tap on if they want his attention while he's wrist-deep in a production cycle for an antibiotic that he's attempting to prepare for proper in-vivo testing. He's going to look poorly slept, somewhat haunted, ragged around the edges like a college student studying for finals. There are samples absolutely everywhere, from the island, from the ocean, and from the outer edges of the entrance of Hepogaia.
Wildcard
Bart can also be found in fits and starts out in the forest, or down at the beach, pursuing lines of inquiry and writing in blank notebooks that rapidly fill with small handwriting and sketches that look more akin to diagrams than regular art. He's not an artist after all, just desperate to remember as much as possible, with an eye for details and an almost pathological need to put everything down accurately. Speaking up without letting him see you coming will make him jump. Sorry.
no subject
"Wh- No? I mean you don't need to be sorry..."
no subject
“I…am not very good at making time for people I care about. My kids, back home, didn’t resent me for it. But I wouldn’t have blamed them, if they had. They were brilliant, like you are. And I’m proud of you, like I was of them.”
no subject
He is caught off-guard by part of that, though.
"...thank you. I've...never had that said to me before." It's faint, said less to Cerrit and more just announced into the air.
no subject
There's a pause, before one of Cerrit's wings raises to shade Bart.
"You're amazing, and your actual father should have been very proud of you."
no subject
"He was proud of what I could do for him, at least. Talked me up to anyone that would listen and gave a damn about his company. They didn't..." He trails off, debating on how much he should really say. Cerrit has been good to him, if standoffish, unsure of how he should behave when he still has that paternal instinct, stunted as it may be in places.
"I've never told you why I exist, have I?"
no subject
The featherhead scoots closer, wanting to offer comfort but not sure how Bart's willing to receive it right now. But there's a loose welcoming gesture with one hand. After all, his feathers are warm and soft.
no subject
"I'm not the only Torgal child," he admits after he's stilled again. "I'm just the only one that Father decided was legitimate, because there was nobody else involved in my creation. I was put together from traits that he wanted, and just enough from outside sources to make them viable. He...got a lot of what he wanted. It's just what happens when you're willing to pay whatever it takes to secure your legacy."
no subject
And yet, there's another young person, one of Cerrit's adopted nestlings who comes to mind: Dahlia.
"All that, and he never once said he was proud of you. That's damned cruel."
no subject
"I...don't think Father was ever taught empathy, unfortunately."
no subject
He's trying. He's trying to communicate that he's trying. Is that good enough?
no subject
Being told point-blank that someone cares about him is, oddly, kind of intimidating. He's quiet as he turns the idea over in his head, brow furrowed as if he's attempting to solve a perplexing puzzle.
"Admittedly I'm not very good at accepting such things on their face. Before, there was always some caveat to someone saying that sort of thing to me. I don't know what I can do in return."
no subject
Being so open about goopy emotions is not something Cerrit is good at; that’s a significant part of why he and his wife don’t live together anymore. But this is effort!
no subject
Cerrit's not the only one that doesn't deal with these things very well. Bart has never had to actually learn to express his feelings, so much as repress them to appear as professional and mature as possible.
You know, as a teenager.