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
Eventually, he just sits, with his arms wrapped around himself. Twice now, his trust has been thoroughly betrayed. Twice now he'd been used for the demons' purposes. More, really, if they counted First Aid running into the one wearing his face at Merrymeet.
But now, he wonders if First Aid hasn't been manipulated by them to hurt him in the same way. How would he be able to tell? Clearly he's not good at realizing such things, so he'd be a target as long as he allowed himself to be. The only thing that shows the sheer depth of the hurt is the trembling of his lip and chin. He's keeping a hold on the stressed and angry tears, at least for the time being.
"I see."
no subject
But for the moment he can only tell that Bart is shaken and upset. First Aid sits down next to him, shaking his head slightly with distress of his own. "I'm so sorry, Bart," he says quietly. "Anyway, I kicked Tarantulas out of the clinic once he was done talking. Sally is acting as his OB/GYN, so the baby will be taken care...but I couldn't let myself be around. I was worried I'd, I don't know, lose control of myself and hit him. I was that angry..." He hangs his head slightly. "Maybe I should have done it anyway..."
no subject
He doesn't address the idea of First Aid hauling off and hitting Tarantulas for what he'd done. He's pretty sure it wouldn't happen, as averse to that kind of action as First Aid seems. Bart shakes his head. "No, I'm glad you didn't. It wouldn't have accomplished anything. But...erm. I'm sorry to do this, but could you step out? It's just, I need some quiet. I need to think."
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"I...suppose that's up to you. I won't ask you to stay, but I...I don't know if I have anything to say that'll make any of this better."
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Then he sits down on the stool left in the corner of the room, and quietly contemplates his situation as a whole. The patterns that enable it, the people involved. He processes quickly, unable to help but, and after a long while, when he emerges to find First Aid, he looks rather drawn, paler than usual, with a hard line to his jaw that was almost never there in the time they've known each other.
He approaches, keeping his voice quiet, staring First Aid in the visor.
"I am sick of being used and disappointed. None of you have the right to do this to me. I want better- I deserve better than this. So I want you to either figure out what you really want from me to make these kinds of gestures, or leave me alone the way you always do anyway. This does not work when it's only one-sided, and frankly, I've got no reason to trust any of you anymore."
There's a subtle tremor that comes with him putting his foot down, something that someone much crueler than First Aid could take advantage of to undermine what he's attempting to do.
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His vocalizer resets with a little click. "I've been holding you at arm's length. I wanted to make happy memories with you, but whenever anything that seemed upsetting or stressful came up, I shut you out. It was dishonest and disrespectful of me -- and worse, it made you feel like you couldn't talk to me about your problems, either. I want to do better. I never want you to feel like you're unwanted or like I only see you a problem ever again."
It's clear that though they're not talking about it right now, he's still angry about the things Tarantulas said.
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When First Aid actually starts to pick apart what has gone wrong with them, Bart really starts to watch him, the minute changes that aren't visible in an expression that doesn't change, but in the way that First Aid holds himself. He feels terrible for making the autobot feel bad, but they can't make progress if he never speaks up or says the hard things.
Which is the most important part of all of this, and something that he needs First Aid to realize. So he reaches out, resting his hands gingerly on the too-warm plates of First Aid's arms, looking up at his visor as if he could meet his eyes this way.
"Part of making lasting memories and building a life is facing the hard parts along the way, too. Life isn't perfect, and pretending that it is is just as harmful as being a complete pessimist. I didn't have you when I needed you, the help had to come from others that it never should have fallen to. I got closer to Tara because I felt I couldn't be close to much of anyone else, and if I couldn't go to you as someone that I really cared about and that I thought cared about me in turn, then I couldn't talk to anyone. I don't know what else I'm supposed to do here, so...I'm leaving it your hands now. I'll go with whatever you ultimately decide for us, but just know that if this pattern continues, then...then I know where you stand." Then I won't keep hoping anymore.
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He hesitates for a moment before putting his hands on Bart's waist and slowly leaning forward, gently touching their foreheads together. "I want to fix it, though," he says quietly. "I promise I do. You're so important to me, Bart. I'm sorry I didn't show it well enough."
no subject