2021-03-17 - Inner Universe

The fog that's settled on Gray Harbor gives Branch & Bole an ethereal, also fae quality. The quonsets loom in the mist like the great, hulking wings of some airship until you get close enough to see the plants clustered under them; the goth arch green house appears slowly, like out of a horror film. Walking among the outdoor collection feels like being lost in a dream, or a Dream, perhaps: trees, potted arrangements, and table displays appear and vanish as you move through them.

It all has August massively annoyed. This is a busy time for the shop, in theory; in practice, people aren't willing to risk a car accident, so there's only a handful of people braving the limited visual field afforded. They're getting a lot of delivery requests.

Every outdoor light is one, plus some additional floodlights brought in for the outdoor collection. It helps a little, but not much. Ully has floated the idea of maps and little waypoints. Thoma is giving it serious design consideration. All tree work is rescheduled.

So August is in the shop proper, unpacking bulbs in between moments of glaring at the fog like it planned this just to mess with him.

Conner may not be willing to risk a car accident, but he's willing to use his own two feet to take a walk, and that's what he chooses to do. He's got a small box tucked under his arm, and if the fog has made the long walk every bit as perilous and adrenaline-inducing as the 5 minute car ride would have been he's still glad he trusted his feet over a fast-moving metal can capable of hurting others if he got it off course.

He enters the shop, perhaps a little hesitantly. The rumpled apartment manager is still reserved and reticent, even though he's poking his nose out of his shell more and more of late, leaving his unit for more than grocery runs or cups of coffee.

The glower makes him pause a half-step, but he keeps going until he's close enough for polite speech. "Mr. Roen? Have I caught you at a bad time?"

August half-turns when he hears someone come in, expression hovering between 'employee who needs direction', 'friend who needs a lecture for being out in this', and 'customer who I have to be moderately polite to'. He lands on the later, no knowing Conner all that well, or at least not well enough to file him in category two. "No," he says. "At least, not if you have a question, since," he gives the wooly expanse out his window a forlorn look, "this puts a damper on a lot of things."

He sets down the box of bulbs he was unloading into a bin, eyes the box Conner has in hand. "Got a sample or something?"

"Yeah. Some kind of fruit. Maybe a fig? Except...not quite right. For a fig. Not that I'm a fig expert. You're the fig expert, which is why I'm here." Conner offers the box, perhaps a bit awkwardly. If any awkwardness could exceed the awkwardness of that rambling explanation. Then:

"Conner Hawthorne," because the man he's asking to look at his weird dream-fruit thing should probably at least get the courtesy of a name.

The sample is still in tact, carefully preserved in this box. It looks like it's just a little bento box component, red and black with a tight tupperware-style lid. It may not be the best tool in the world for keeping the fruit safe, but it was the best thing Conner had on hand in his apartment at the time.

August looks mildly amused at being referred to as a 'fig expert', though otherwise takes the rambling explanation in stride. Accepting the box, he says, "August Roen. Good to meet you, Hawthorne."

He opens the lid, tilts his head at the contents. "...huh." Shifting the lid and container to a single hand, he pulls the fruit out, squints at it. "Definitely looks like some sort of syconium...not a fig cultivar I've ever seen, though." He gives it a cautious sniff, studies it a few seconds. "So where'd you find this? Somewhere out in Firefly?" He doesn't look up as he asks that; he's still examining the fruit, peering at it closely.

"One of the dreams," Conner replies, with a shake of his head. Relaxing a little as August seems to be okay with him and his presence here. "It was in my hand when I woke up. Matched the fruit on a tree I saw in the dream. One that seemed to maybe be symbolically linked to the World Tree. Which is where I got 'fig' from in the first place."

A pause, and a natural question seems to suggest itself. "Why did you think it came from Firefly? Is that usually the spot the weird stuff people bring to you comes out of?"

August stills. "A Dream." The capital letter comes out loud and clear. He holds the fruit further away now, expression wary. He makes a face, carefully sets the fruit back into the container and puts the lid on it, though not tightly.

"Firefly is..." He bites his lip. "It's a weird place. There's a lot more of the weird stuff going on there." Here he gives Conner a proper once over, narrows his eyes. "How familiar are you with all of that? This sounds like it wasn't your first rodeo." A glance around them to make sure no one is watching, and indeed, they're not. Thoma is leading a couple of customers through the outdoor collection, Ully is off making trouble with Ignacio.

"It's not," his first rodeo, that is, "but there's an awful lot I feel like I don't know or really understand yet."

Conner steps back from the fruit too, since August holds it a bit farther away. Which...may be goofy. It was literally in his hand, in his bed. And then tucked under his arm. Whatever fruit-contamination may happen has probably already well-and-truly happened.

His eyes are earnest, serious, his expression grave as he regards the botanist. As for what August might pick up from Conner in his once over, it's hard to say. He's soft spoken. Nothing about him radiates cockiness, but neither does he seem afraid. He's got a healthy respect for whatever is going on, but the faint furrow between his brows indicates that ultimately, curiosity and thoughtfulness are his predominant emotions, maybe his predominant stance, period.

Sentiments backed up, perhaps, by the following words. "So whatever you have to tell me, I want to listen to. The worst that can happen is you repeat something I know, and that can't hurt me. What I don't know can, so."

August nods, acepting Conner's self-assessment at face value. "I'll be honest--all these years in, I don't feel like I know or understand much either." He chases that with an apologetic, rueful smile. "This rabbit hole goes all the way down."

Another nod about wanting to hear things, and August nods towards one of the doors leading out into the fog. "I've got a private greenhouse. Let's have a closer look at your fruit, yeah?" He heads that way, pausing at the door to swipe a message to the employee group DM that someone needs to come in and man the till. He opens it, and gestures forward. "I'm pretty good at navigating this blind, don't worry." He bobs his eyebrows. "A perk of laying the place out myself."

"Great, thank you," Conner says, as August offers to take a closer look in the greenhouse. He follows a little bit closely, mostly because he isn't good at navigating this blind, and he doesn't want to leave his host waiting while he wanders all over the place on the off chance that he gets weirdly turned around. Considering he walked a whole block of increasingly sinister-looking 7-11s just to get here, each of them seeming stranger and more run-down than the last (and one selling Slimys instead of Slurpees, which is just wrong) he's not ruling anything out.

As for the rabbit hole: "Well, good. I feel a little better about my ignorance then. I grew up here, but that sure hasn't made me an expert."

They move through the arrangements of potted plants, trees, and table displays, August moving with confidence and ease, though not so quickly Conner will have trouble keeping up with him. The fog is a cool, damp blanket, misting their hair and muffling sound.

"The Veil is kind of a bitch like that," August says over his shoulder. "I grew up on a spot like this, down in Portland, and it didn't teach me fuck all, except to expect a crazy life." A rueful grin follows this, telegraphing, 'and boy it doesn't get much crazier than this'.

They move through the outdoor collection and come to a wooden fence draped in climbing wisteria and chlematis; August unlocks a simple gate and ushers Conner through. Conner can't actually see it, but there's a sense of open space; in the distance, the river's tributary murmurs, and the dark shadow of aspen and fir suggests the green belt. The shell and rock pathway leading between the gardens crunches under their feet as they pass a barrel pond set up under a simple shelter, a stone bench set to one side. Gupies dart in the water, scared into hiding by their passing.

More fog and mist, with the occasional helleborus or crocus leaning out of an allotment into the path, then the smaller greenhouse emerges before them. It looks new, or new-ish, and unlike the Gothic arch holding the specimens for sale by the shop proper, this one is locked. August flicks a hand and the lock pops free. A breath of warmer, dryer air greets Conner when August opens the door and gestures him inside. The specimens in here are fewer and far between: there's a handful of potted mock orange in a far corner, a few rows of tiny maple saplings in pots on a scarred work table, and an ancient, repurposed shop sink that seems to be a sort of mixing bench for potting soil, chemicals, and so on. Of particular note is a tree that looks like it's been trained to grow into a fancy birdcage: the bark is a gloosy, deep red, and small green folliage sprouts along the ornately intertwined branches.

The shell and rock pathway is kind of nice and reassuring. The crunch beneath Conner's feet tells him that even if he somehow does lose track of August he'll now know if he's going in the right direction just by whether or not he's still hearing that, and feeling the sensation of walking on it. Theoretically. Anyway.

Under normal circumstances he'd stop to admire all those flowers, but these are anything but. When they're inside, back in surroundings made far more pleasant by not being surrounded in the clammy fog, he lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

"Why'd you end up coming here?" he asks. "You got out of one town full of crazy and set up shop in another?" There's no censure in his voice, nothing other than just more curiosity. Though he does get distracted by the birdcage tree, stopping short there. "Whoa," he comments. "This is really cool."

August cracks up at the question, breaks into a truly helpless laugh. "Christ, it sure feels that way sometimes." He sets the container down on the table, shakes his head. "You're from here, so maybe this isn't something that'd happen to you, but for those of us from outside," he gestures vaguely, "you come here the first time, and you can feel it get hold of you. Somehow. Like it," he taps his chest, "sinks a hook right in here. Things that didn't make sense do, things that you thought meant you were losing it suddenly have a real explanation." He holds up a hand, "A strange one, I won't deny it. But a real one, too. And after a lifetime of wondering if you're losing your mind," he shrugs a shoulder, "it's hard to not want to be somewhere that feels suited to your own being. You know?"

He shifts his attention to the cage, can't help but smile. "Thanks. Takes a bit of work, but they come out pretty nice. Not exactly something I can sell at high volume, so I just give them as gifts."

He pulls the fruit out from the container and sets it on the table. "So, that...tree you described. I think I've heard some other people talk about it. You know Devlin, one of the paramedics? And Aidan, the street magician, busks on the boardwalk? They saw something like that."

Conner listens to August's explanation with a thoughtful expression on his face. He offers a slow nod, as if it makes perfect sense to him, when the tale is told. He doesn't offer further commentary, other than to say: "It seems we're lucky to have you."

As August moves on though, so, too, does he. "I think Devlin was there," Conner muses, as he approaches the table. "The tree guy was pissed off at him for some reason, but he and this girl Diana talked it down. It seemed to be trying to issue a warning of some sort, maybe. The fruit wasn't the only thing I woke up with. A bit of an elk horn too, though it took me awhile to figure out it was elk. Since these things seemed to be how he was ultimately trying to communicate...the guy was mute...it seemed best to try to figure out exactly what I was holding. I'm just glad I didn't roll over and squish it. That would have been gross."

August arches an eyebrow at Conner, mouth twitching in a near-smile. "Eh, well, we'll see how lucky you all are. I'm just a cranky gardener, for the most part."

He turns over the not-fig in his hands while Conner describes the Dream. "An elk," he echoes, contemplating the fruit. "A 'tree guy', you mean, he was a tree? Like a nymph, or a dryad?" He opens a drawer in the table, pulls out a small pen-knife. "Mind if I crack this open? It's fine if you'd rather not, but if it is a syconium, the interesting stuff's on the inside."

"No, crack away," Conner says, as he considers the other question. He waves a hand over at the fig, as if dismissing the fig's wholeness.

"He was curled up in the tree, but then he came down. He was mute, and unclothed. He talked about hunger...Devlin and Diana tried to feed it, but I don't think he was talking about his hunger. It could have been a dryad, or a nymph. I feel like all of it was maybe significant, right down to the fact that he was mute, but I can't really make good sense of it. I can't match him up with any legendary god or guardian associated with Axis Mundi, but I might not be looking in the right places, either."

He shakes his head, a gesture that communicates his own inadequacies in attempting to describe this experience.

"In the tree. Like, he came out of it?" August doesn't wait for an answer, just gets to the business of putting pen-knife to fruit. Except, the blade won't go in. He frowns, pushes harder, tries point first; nothing. He gives the fruit a squeeze, producing dents in it, so it's not hard. "Huh." He looks, and sounds, stumped. "Well that's weird."

He sets the fruit down, considers it a spell. "Well I guess I could try my Art." He gives Conner a sidelong glance. "This might be a bad idea." And so he proves to not be nearly as cautious as people might assume by using his shaping Art to cut a line in the fruit.

It works! A nice, perfect cut circumscribes the fruit. August shrugs, pulls it apart. "Uh..."

It looks fig-like inside, that can't be denied. The little clusters of flower heads shimmer, though, with a gentle, rose-colored shine, and the flesh--a deep, dark green--gleams like gemstone. "So," he says, slow and careful. "It's ah, not a fig."

"In a gall on the tree, anyway," Conner clarifies. "One big enough for a tree-dude to curl up in, fetal-style. His skin was the same color as the tree, more or less. Red. A bit like your cage tree there, though I can't say for sure if they were exactly the same shade. I guess up until now I would have described most plants as brown or green, but this tree was red. Like that one."

But the fruit is open, and Conner lifts his eyebrows as the contents get revealed. "It's pretty," he says. "Though are you able to tell anything more about it than that?"

It is whim or instinct or some combination of both that has him stretching his own awareness towards the now-opened fruit. He doesn't know why he thinks it might have emotions, but he tries to find them anyway. Perhaps it's just the reminder that he didn't entirely think to use his Art either, or to tap into anything it might tell him about this oddity they're now staring at.

"It's not a fig, and," August's eyes meet Conner, his expression and tone perfectly deadpan, "it's got a weird skin I can't break with a knife." He holds that a moment before letting it break into a wry smile. "The skin's not hard but the knife couldn't cut it. I had to using shaping for that." He flicks a glance at Conner, back down at the fruit. "It's almost like...well, this is going to sound a little odd. It's like it's made of shaping, somehow. Not pure Glimmer, but, specifically, shaping. When I look at it, I'm seeing...ideas, sort of like if you look at a book about math and there's equations." He ghosts a hand through that dusky, rose-tinted light, not daring to actually touch the fruit.

Conner reaches out, and as there's no consciousness there to find, he doesn't sense any to interact with. But he does sense something, and the longer he considers it, the more it's like listening to a radio station from another country with a native language he can't speak or read. He knows this is Glimmer, knows it as power, and yet, it's not comprehensible to him, the same way he would know Croatian is a language used to communicate...and that might be all he would know if he tuned in to a station piped out of Croatia.

"Are you able to catch any of them? I can't," Conner says, frowning down at the thing as the sensory input comes flowing back into his mind. "The ideas, I mean. Do you think anyone human could? Or would they get the same babble I'm getting?"

And then, his brow furrows all the more, and his mouth draws down a little. He speaks a bit more slowly than before as he asks: "Should we try planting it?"

He sounds somewhat wary of the idea that anyone should plant the weird dream fruit, but it also seems like a logical next step for figuring out the mysteries of the weird dream fruit. His desire to know and study wars with the good common sense which says he should just stick it in the freezer and let it sit there for the rest of forever. It's not precisely sinister...but neither is it precisely not.

August's expression goes distant as he pokes and prods at the fruit; it rocks now and then when he tries to do a few things with movement, a couple of flowerheads darken and curl up when he withers them. "No, but also, yes. Sort of like, I need to learn this math before I know what any of the symbols mean." Tone dry, he admits, "Only needed calculus to get through my degree, and I promise you I did not put a lot of effort into remembering it."

He folds his arms and looks down at the fruit. "Well, if it's a syconium, it has to be pollinated by a special pollinator. That's how these work--they've got a tightly symbiotic relationship. But," he shrugs, "it's from a Dream, so maybe none of that matters at all, and the shape is coincidence." He licks his lips. "Tell you what. Devlin, he has some seeds from Over There, we were thinking of planting those. How about we do this as a...single attempt." He looks askance at Conner, raises his eyebrows.

"You've got one up on me," Conner says. "I didn't even make it through college, so."

Yet he's perhaps even a little pleased when his idea to plant the thing isn't met with a what are you crazy type of reaction, but the revelation that August and Devlin have already planned a similar project. "Different ones? Wait, dumb question, of course different ones, or you'd have recognized this right away."

He tugs on his earlobe a few times, just sort of thinking. And then the rumpled apartment manager gives a definitive nod. "A single attempt," he says. "Let's do it. I want to see what we learn."

He knows better not to ask Terrible Questions (TM) like: what's the worst that can happen. He can definitely imagine the worst for himself. Hell, the writers of Little Shop of Horrors already covered the absolute worst that his own brain can cook up, and they probably didn't get to the worst of the worst.

None of this deters him though. He's bouyed by the confidence that comes from other people having the same thought.

August grins and nods, thoroughly pleased. Bad Idea Theater, it's happening. (Conner now has his answer: this is why he moved here. August is going to poke and prod at the Veil until he understands it, or it eats him. Place your bets.) "No, very different--though, they were like this, in that they looked similar to plants from our world. Just, not the same."

He puts the two halves of the fruit together, eyes narrow, expression fixed. The perfect cut he formed around the fruit slowly seals itself back up, leaving it whole once more. "Well. Glad that worked." August sets it back in the container, offers the container over. "I'll talk to Devlin, we'll get some things set up. Aidan and I had some ideas about this," he says. "Some precautions to take, like maybe making a sort of," he holds his arms out, "container set into the ground--concrete, or something, to ensure roots don't easily get out. So I can get a bit of that set up out back of the shop here."

"Let me know how or if I can help," Conner says, smiling for the first time. Kindred spirits, in this. Wanting to know, wanting to understand, no matter how deep the rabbit hole goes. This is his thing as well. He takes the container, adding, "For now, I'm going to head home. If I get any more weird seeds or fruits or plant cuttings I'll just bring them here then." He sounds excited at the idea of finding more. He might go looking for more, which maybe isn't great, but probably not while the fog is doing its fog thing.

Getting home is challenge enough, at the moment.

"Thanks for looking at that thing for me," he adds.

"Definitely bring anything else you get." August stops short of suggesting Conner not go looking, because, well, Conner's a grown man, and someone like August suggesting he not do it is likely to have the opposite effect. (Also it would be a level of hypocrisy that could warp all of space and time.) "Will do, and, not a problem. I'd rather help people out with the weird shit than have us all wandering around blind." He looks out into the fog when he says that, expression distant. Shaking his head as though to clear it, he opens the door. "Walk safe. Soon as this clears up we'll get together with Devlin and try this little experiment out."