mothborn

[mothborn]

A smile ticks up on Sol's lips—small but there. It's the smile thought that smile counts, he thinks. He knows the man. Or he sort of knows the man. How much can you know someone you only see sometimes? The man—the stranger—always seems dark; a cloud of gloom trails him, darkness clings to him like smoke. Sol, ever sunny, has always thought it his personal mission to dispel misery. Somehow, though, he doesn't think platitudes and sunny optimism are going to work on him.

"I've always been shit at pickin' a lane," he says, smiling wider. "All the lanes look so nice. Don't you think it's better to try them all out? I'm like a drunk on the highway—I swerve." Sol glances at the two bottles. He doesn't recognize them. He reads the ABV with a squint. Hangover that hates him personally seems like the recipe for tonight; he probably should've explained that at his age, even a glass of wine ruins tomorrow. "Whoa there..." He glances up. "You got a way with words, kid." Funny to call a man fully an adult a kid, but Sol does it anyway. "You a poet? I like that: 'promise you're tryin' not to break'. Melancholy. Hope that 'no conversation' don't apply to us: I wanna pick your brain. Seems like there's a lot in there."

Ty had seen the type before—hell, he’d been the type before. Sol’s voice cut through the dim aisle like a half-joke dressed up in a cry for help, that mix of humor and desperation that settled on the skin like stale smoke. The kind of energy that makes someone linger too long in front of the shelves as if staring hard enough might turn cheap liquor into absolution. Ty straightened from where he’d been restocking the bottom shelf, a slow movement like someone who never fully let go of tension. His back cracked faintly, and he winced—more from habit than pain—and turned to face Sol. Blue hoodie rumpled, boots scuffed, jaw peppered with stubble. Ty was already tired and it wasn’t even noon. He watched Sol tap his chin, perform the pageantry of decision-making, then lob that half-hearted question into the aisle like a fishing line made of fraying twine. Ty didn’t answer right away. Just stared. Not rude. Not friendly. Just... assessing. He finally moved, slow steps echoing soft on the linoleum. Without breaking eye contact, he reached up and grabbed a bottle from a middle shelf—decent bourbon, not that Sol would know or care. He held it out like an offering or a challenge. “You want new, strong, or weird—you gotta pick a lane,” Ty said, his voice low, worn in the way people’s clothes get after too many winters. “Otherwise you’re just gonna end up with a glass full of disappointment and a hangover that hates you personally.” He dropped the bottle into Sol’s hands without waiting for permission. “Start here. Two fingers over ice. No garnish. No conversation. Drink it like it’s a promise you’re trying not to break.”

[mothborn]

Sol's thankful; too old to be rolling around on the ground. "Your henchmen should unionize; sounds like you're a terrible boss." He laughs, brushing himself off. He spares one frown for the books, hoping he hasn't damaged them.

Then he's looking at Meyers, a little longer than he knows he should. He can't help it. Since the Departure, he always finds himself looking too long, thinking too hard, probing too much. He's watching him for signs of unrest, signs of pain. Is his friend okay? He could ask- he knows he can ask- but he always finds the words hard to choke out. Instead, he stares. The turns his gaze sharply, warmth creeping up his face. Meyers looks alright, he decides. At least, he isn't bleeding everywhere and at least... he's here.

"I'm here to, uh..." Sol trails off. Checking in on Meyers is the honest answer, but it's not the one he wants to give. Thinking of a lie takes some time. "Learn. Read." He nods. "Library things." He waves a hand out. "You wouldn't be able to handle the truth. Y'know. Party pooper you are an' everythin'." He chuckles. "This is a top secret operation. High clearance. Scopin' the place out..." He smiles. "What'd'ya think about 'soup club'? I'm thinkin' we set up shop right here." He gestures to the reading tables. "Eat soup."

“Don’t bleed on my carpet. My henchmen don’t get paid enough to clean bloodstains.” Meyers leans down to tug Sol to his feet and books go cascading to the aforementioned carpet.

Meyers can’t help smiling, always happy to see his friend despite the mess he brought. Sol has a way of brightening up whatever kind of day Meyers happens to be having, good or bad. Today hasn’t been horrible, but he’s had a few tough patrons lately. In fact, he’s relieved that this complaint turned out to be Sol instead of anything more serious.

“What are you doing here? Or are you just here to make my job harder?”

[mothborn]

"You laugh at commercials? For phone companies?" Just who is this guy? Gung-ho about bee murder and tickled by corporate products. Linda looks up at him, squinting; distrust flickers across her mind like shocks of bright static. "It...it..." But she couldn't answer his questions. Linda stares down at the bee, curled up in hand, slowly staggering. It looks pathetic, she suddenly realizes. What's the point?

"It's not about that," she says, trying to keep her voice steady. "You can't just treat creatures like all they're good for is their function, or like, whatever. People- Animals are worth more than that. It's... Ow!" Linda shakes her hand out. "Fuck! It stung me!" The now dead bee falls to the ground as the red welt on Linda's hand grows and grows. "I'm, like, seriously allergic! What the fuck? And I was trying to help it too."

no argument, david guides the bee off of his hand and onto linda's. the magenta hues of her voice make him smile just as readily as her associations—maybe if he had a little, bee-sized chainsaw. "i prefer jason. that t-mobile commercial just cracks me up." not relevant, though. "but that's why i asked. i mean, what's a bee's lifespan anyway? a month?" hand up, he strokes at his his chin. "do you think she wants to live without wings?" without that pleasant amber-red buzz, what even is a bee? to him, little. to another... to the bee... everything. "are you going to take care of her until she dies? would you even know if she was suffering? pet owners do it all the time, prolong a terrible life to assuage their own guilt. are you sure you're not doing the same thing? bees need each other. they need to be needed." and so do people, he notes silently, pleasantly. almost everyone.

[mothborn]

Sol's mind runs like a horse— all four legs digging into the earth galloping, galloping... It's been years, he thinks. "Yeah, cameras," he agrees, trying to see the world the way the man does, but it's lost on him now. Those days are gone. That Sol is gone. This man needs help, he thinks to himself, and he's just the person to give it. "Yeah." He smiles. "Let's head out. You lead the way, kid. I've got cash."

He prepares his drug lecture in his head: what would your parents think? Don't do this, you've got so much to live for. All the stuff of highschool PSA meetings in the gym; the sort of thing that puts the kids right to sleep. "Owe you company?" he asks as they walk. "What? Like you want me to watch you?"

there are a lot of memories tied up in tones like that, good and bad. it's hard for him to take it seriously, aggressively, when it conjures up such a rich, deep color—a dark forest green, tinged by flecks of teal like salmon through a river. unrestrained, he smiles, hawkish. illegal. sol isn't the only one taken back to simpler times. "of course you can see, but not right here. they've got cameras, you know?" he doubts they're paid enough to care about the grainy footage, but why swallow a hook with no bait? that's just asking for trouble. "out back. you don't like it, you can come back here and i'll buy you a bottle myself. you do like it," audaciously, david pokes them in the chest; "you owe me company."

[mothborn]

who: Alan Weaver ( @rootsrotted ) where: duke's garage

"Hey, so, I know you only do cars but uh...my bike is kinda on fire." Her shitty beat up bike (as in bicycle and not something cooler like motorbike) squeaks as she wheels it in. It is, in fact, smoking. "I told it quit the cigarettes." She tries to laugh but there's nervousness coating her voice. The truth is that the smoking is coming from her (now) broken vape, stuck in the tines of the bent tire. "I fell," she says but she's more worried about the vape than her scraped knees. "Can you fix it?"

[mothborn]

who: Juniper Thorne ( @crimenmortis ) where: redford hospital

"Help. Hand bad." Linda holds up her swollen hand, red and throbbing. It looks like a baseball. "Bee sting," she says. "Occupational hazard." A bee sting isn't supposed to do that but Linda isn't supposed to be working a beekeeping job when she's this allergic. She'd read on the internet that her allergic reactions could worsen and wouldn't that be great. The next thing she needs is anaphylactic shock. "I need some industrial strength claritin or something."

[mothborn]

"Just because I'm a beekeeper doesn't mean– " Linda throws up her hands. "Whoa. Slow down, Jason Bateman. No– fuck. Sorry. What's the guy in American Psycho called? Oh! Patrick Bateman." She leans down, peering into the palm of his hand. She sees what he does: no wings. She hates how tears well in her eyes. "A bee can't survive without wings," she says, "but that doesn't make it– We can't just kill it. It's not– and who decides if a bee is just its wings? What if just needs someone? What if it can live even if its useless?" She turns her head and pretend to cough. She's not talking about the bee anymore; she never really was.

"G-give her to me." Linda holds out her bare palm.

starter for @mothborn !! ( for linda )

"found this guy on the sidewalk." the bee sits, subdued, in the palm of his hands. "think we can save her?" tilting his hand, he inspects the bee more closely. wings gone. "maybe i should just step on her instead. put her out of her misery. you must see a lot of dying bees, huh? what do you think?"

[mothborn]

Sol tries to mimic Jelly's stance, but he's much less graceful with the bowling ball; it nearly drops on his toe. "Ha," he says, "ha. Very funny. You see the laughter on my face? I'm pissin' myself with it." He frowns. "I lose every time, Jelly." And every time, he never learns his lesson. Yeah, they'll be back at PNW's with Sol covering all of the tab.

His face cracks into a grin. "But this time I'm gonna win!" So he says, every time. "And I'm gonna get that fancy craft beer shit." So he threatens, every time. He punches his name into the bowling terminal, and it lights up on the overhead screen: SOL. He takes the liberty of putting Jelly in too: ASS. "You wanna go first or should I show you how it's done?"

closed starter for sol segura at king's bowling alley ( @mothborn )

"Okay, fine. How about..." Jelly taps his chin, bowling ball curled under his other arm as he looks around the room. It's all for show - it always is. There's only ever one thing they bet on. "Loser of the next game buys beers at PNWs? Every round."

[mothborn]

"Tell your great-great grandfather that he needs to learn how to build better shelves." Sol smiles. Meyers's face is always a nice face to see, and not just because he's generally attractive. Friends are hard to come by and harder to keep when apparently they can disappear without warning. Sol never said it– it's one of those pride things, too much inside of him choking the words up– but he's happy Meyers is here. If he thinks about it for too long, he'll probably start crying. Now that's a new club idea: cry club. It'll be popular.

"Hey, now." Sol lifts up his hands. "Easy there. I'm injured." Sol displays the tiny cut on the tip of his pinky. He squeezes it so a drop of shiny red blood stares at both of them. "See? You're tryin' to extort an injured man. That's gonna lose you some karma. Now are you gonna help me up, Griggs, or are you gonna make me listen to the rest of your villain monologue?" He laughs. "If you start twirlin' your mustache, I'm rollin' away."

Meyers stares down at Sol in amused disbelief. He’s tempted to think that Sol did this on purpose, just to mess with him right before closing. However, he does know Sol well enough to believe that this truly is just another Sol Situation he’s somehow blundered himself into.

Meyers shakes his head and gazes mournfully at the bookshelf. “This shelf was antique, you know. The last of its kind.” He ponders it a moment, then adds for good measure: “It was the only surviving heirloom from my great-great grandfather.” He turns on Sol, arms crossed. “You better have deep pockets, buddy. I’ll take you to court over this.”

It’s all a joke of course, but it is tinted by reality (as all jokes tend to be). Library funding has never been a high priority, and it's even less so after the Departure. Meyers doesn’t have shelf-replacing money lying around. The shelf is expendable, he supposes. He can shift the other books around, but it won’t be a great look for the already-struggling library.

[mothborn]

"You're...in?" Sol blinks. Usually, there's more arguing. Always, there's less enthusiasm. "Like that? I didn't even give you the speech." And then the kid goes on. "What? Yeah. It's new." Sol makes a lot of clubs, they never stick; it's just about doing what's right, it's just about making people feel connected. Given the circumstances, he's not sure how he's supposed to have the time or passion to keep one running. Now facing an eager recruit, he's not sure how exactly to explain that his anti-litter incentive will not last.

He scratches his head. "Yeah, it's just some stupid thing I'm doin'. Sorry, you got a club of your own? What's it called?"

His eyes follow the stranger's. "Uh." He shifts; he has not been sorting them. "It's just... it's all litter, isn't it? I'm just pickin' it up." He opens up his bag and shows him: plastic bottles beside banana peels.

The feeling of defeat had been so strong it had blinded Duckie - he'd completely missed the brazen slogan across the man's chest. His eyes light up, eager at meeting someone who actually cares. Other than the radicalists, that is.

"I'm in," Duckie says, gung-ho. "I didn't even know this club existed. You must have just founded, right? My friends and I, there's about ten or so of us, we have our own group, and we go out every few weeks. They'll be thrilled."

Duckie eyes the overstuffed garbage bag. "You're sorting what you find, right? You're not just mixing recyclables and trash?"

[mothborn]

who: Minica Crane ( @pandemoniacs ) where: lovecrafts "I'm looking for a crone." This does not win her any favors with the customers and it's only after some rushed explaining ("The owner! I mean the owner! Minick Crone! Someone told me that was her name. Jesus, put the belt down.") that Linda manages to find her way to the person she's looking for. Or, maybe not?

"You don't look like a crone," she says. "Or minick, whatever that means. Sorry, I'm looking for the owner? I need pottery advice, I heard she does that." She glances around the store and it begins sinking in for her. "Are these..." She swallows. "...from the, like, you know. The people that..." She points to the ceiling.

[mothborn]

who: Sade Adeyemi ( @hurriccnes ) where: outside, somewhere, a very nice sidewalk

"Dude, I didn't steal from you. Where would I even put your phone? I'm wearing women's jeans these things don't even have pockets." Despite Linda's pleas (cries, really, she always gets teary eyed when someone is yelling at her) the man continues to scream, shoving his finger at her. Linda spins around and gestures to the closest person. "See! This is my friend! And they're gonna... really beat you up! With their muscles! Which they have! I mean, technically everyone has– You know what I mean!" Linda turns to the stranger, nearly crying. "Please help," she whimpers.

[mothborn]

who: Dugan "Duckie" Beake ( @hcneybone ) where: duckie's residence; mighty woods. when: may 01; duckie's birthday; the morning So the cake falls down a few times, so what? And okay, so it isn't a few times but, like, a lot. It tips over on to its side, it vibrates in its box like a bomb, its upside down at least once. Linda should probably get a car, but she can't really afford a car, so Duckie's tiny custom cake jostles around her bike's basket and when she's finally home (Duckie's home, to be technical), she's a little sweaty with the cake propped up on one arm and Duckie's present tucked under the other.

She ambushes him, interrupting whatever he's doing. "Happy birthday!" She flings the cake box open. It used to say: Happy Birthday Duckie! It now says: Happy Big Dick! She's not sure how that's even possible; where did the "g" come from?

"I swear that used to say 'happy birthday'." She hopes he likes red velvet but she knows that he'll like her present, which she sets aside for now. "Because I would never– I mean– it totally breaks roommate rules. Not that– I don't mean– I'm sure it's reasonably sized. If even– I mean, I don't wanna– It doesn't–" Oh god. Shut up. Stop talking.

[mothborn]

A teacher never forgets, or so he tells himself. The truth is he did forget, for a time, eyes adjusting and brain churning; he notes the red eyes, the cane, the clothes. This is a stranger, he thinks. Until it isn't. Until he's back in the classroom delivering one of many speeches of the sort he would give. "You gotta attend the classes if you hope to pass," that memory ghost says. "You're a good kid," it says, "you can do better." The truth is that Sol is never as inspiring as he thinks he is. He thinks all his students will turn into presidents or lawyers or doctors someday, like a delusional parent. His hopes were no less powerful for Mikey; he can only pray that the disappointment isn't shown on his face.

"Hi, Mikey," he says with a soft smile. He's thinking about how badly he wants to grab Mikey's shoulders and tell him that he can do better than a bartending job; not that there's anything wrong with bartending. Fuck, not that there's even better options right now. His eyes drop to their cane. Sol's staring too much. "Dill pickle martini sounds good right about now, actually. Pickle brine's got electrolytes in it from the...salt and sh-stuff." He shifts his weight. "Hey, you free? Indulge your old history teacher and help me pick things out for this, uh, pickle martini. Need a bartender's expertise." He's not saying what he means, which is: are you okay? "I don't think I know where the vermouth is; I got lost in the wine but I won't...whine about it."

at first, mikey thinks this might be a nightmare. reasonable, right? running into your high school english teacher at a liquor store of all places is, indubitably, nightmare material — especially when your eyes are burning red, pupils are blown, and you look like you haven't seen sleep in a week. last time she heard that voice she was eight years younger with a working knee, but it still has the same effect it did on her then — eyes big and shoulders tense, like he's about to hand out a detention. she's blinking rapidly as she halts to a stop, cane stuttering against the tile as she stabilizes and promptly puts her weight onto it. this might as well happen, she thinks, then finally opens her mouth to speak. he hasn't looked her way yet, but mikey has a feeling he will once he hears her voice. "... uh, yeah, actually. a bunch. i'm a bartender now. can't go wrong with absinthe and champagne if you're looking for strong. as for weird... i dunno. it's gaining some popularity lately, but it still sounds weird as shit to me — the dill pickle martini? ever heard of that one? it's like, a dry vermouth as the rinse, right, and then some vodka, kosher pickle brine, and like... ten mustard seeds." a few seconds of pause beat by. "hi, mr. segura."

[mothborn]

✉️  — [ geraldine viswanathan, 29, cis woman, she/her ] — Hey, is that LINDA JAYAKUMAR listening to A BETTER SON/DAUGHTER by RILO KILEY? They’re known around town as THE SELF-FULFILLING DISAPPOINTMENT, because they’re ENERGETIC and COMPASSIONATE, but ever since the Departure, they’ve become more SARDONIC and ANXIOUS. They’ve lived in Redford for 5 MONTHS and work at QUEEN HARVEST as a BEEKEEPER. If you need them, you can find them in MIGHTY WOODS. @redfordhq

tws that may be present in Linda's story: drug use, addiction

Basics

Name: Linda Jayakumar

Age: 29

Gender: Cis woman

Pronouns: She/her

Sexual Orientation: Bisexual biromantic ; though her experience is limited, and she's a little afraid of hot people tbh (which to her is everyone)

Date of Birth: May 03, 1996

Place of Birth: Calgary, Alberta

Residence: Mighty Woods

Occupation: Beekeeper (Queen Harvest)

Traits: Energetic, anxious, awkward, witty, sardonic, hedonistic, cowardly, immature, friendly, compassionate

Likes: Art, science, writing, movies, cooking, honestly…a lot of things 

Dislikes: Camping, her name

Status: Single, never married

Notes: has undiagnosed ADHD, depression & anxiety

Substances: Linda has dabbled here or there with various legal and illegal substances. She used to have a bit of an "alcohol problem" (her words) in college but is under the impression that addiction isn't a problem she could develop (she can, and has)

Personality

Energetic, anxious, awkward, witty, sardonic, hedonistic, cowardly, immature, friendly, compassionate, insecure Bright, cheery and with the general presence of a speeding train, Linda is someone who speaks before she thinks, if she thinks at all. Often, her mouth can't catch up with her thoughts and her brain is a well of useless factoids about...anything, really. She loves learning but is scared of applying herself; she'd rather not try at all than fail. The years have worn her down and she has a bitter, sharp sense of humor. She likes to jokingly insult people, but sometimes it's just insults. And no, she can't take it like she dishes it: she's sensitive.

Quick facts

She's allergic to bees. Yes, this does make her job really hard to do but she's not qualified for much else and she'd sooner sell her limbs before she goes back to working customer service

Has some obvious unaddressed trauma from her stint in the forest. She says she hates nature now and sometimes a passing leaf triggers and anxiety attack; she thinks she's okay. And, anyway, she's never going to talk to anyone about this

She thinks it's really silly that people are clinging to "normal" after the Departure. She didn't witness the early lootings and riots first hand so she assumes it wasn't that bad

Prone to blushing

She has many hobbies and likes a wide variety of things; especially media. Ask her about her favorite x-men (it's Kitty Pryde)!

Despite her many hobbies though, her skills are a little scattered. She's a good cook but not an amazing cook. Jack of all trades, master of none...except that she sometimes sucks at the trades too.

She doesn't have a lot of applied knowledge. She knows how to change a tire in theory.

She's a decent artist; she's above average and loves to sketch things around her but she's not making anything that anyone would want to hang up. Or so she thinks at least.

HATES her name. She'll love anyone that gives her a cool nickname. No, Lindy doesn't count. She hates Lindy too. She's not creative enough to come up with anything and she's never really been close enough to anyone to have been given a new name; no, her parents never cared to nickname her.

Has a thing for strays. That thing is trying to adopt all of them. She's been unsuccessful (so far)

Terrible luck

Slow to trust

Linda feels like she should probably be more sad about this whole thing but something about being lost in the Canadian wilderness for half a year, starving and half-frozen, really made the grief go down easier. She's perpetually guilty about the fact she's not more outwardly sad (she's very, very sad on the inside...best not to think about that)

Plot/Connection ideas

tw: drug use

who knows what shenanigans she gets into. maybe someone witness one of her several shenanigans. maybe you saw her vape spontaneous combust in her hand someone she does recreational drugs with, or even a dealer. gotta take the edge off somehow, right? someone she's in a fierce rivalry with...what is this rivalry about, probably something silly like who can eat the most yogurt or throw an ax bullseye blindfolded friends/enemies/fellow canadians/anyone and everyone

Biography

Linda Jayakumar was normal; she was born normal, lived normally, had normal hobbies and habits. Nothing about her was extraordinary, not like her parents had hoped. Their perfectionism rubbed off on her and anything she did started to feel like a wasted effort. Why bother when other people were better? Why bother when she couldn't make a career out of her thousands of hobbies? Why bother when she was just Linda and no Linda had ever been anything but boring. Sure, she wanted to be an artist, but what good was that when millions of people wanted the same thing and were better at it? Sure, she liked to write, but that changed nothing. She thought about pursuing the sciences but which one? All of them were interesting, all of them might suit her. So, Linda did nothing. She dropped out of art school and coasted on the dime of her upper middle-class parents: confused, lost, hopeless. A story that was too normal to be tragic. Even in this, she wasn't special. 18 months ago she was sure she'd pull it together; she was almost 30 and her parent's patience and willingness to pay for her was thinning. She went out with some friends for a big camping trip deep in the Rockies, certain that it would be her last aimless adventure before she became the adult she knew she ought to be. Not much of a camper, she relied on the expertise of her friends. They set up. She went out of pee and when she came back, they were gone. Convinced it was a prank, she waited. And waited. And waited. Then, convinced that some park authority would find her, she waited again. Days turned to weeks before she realized that she was alone. Face to face with her own inadequacy, Linda discovered that for all the "fun facts" she had collected, she didn't actually know anything at all; as useless as she'd always been. Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if a storm hadn't ruined most of her supplies and for 8 months she roughed the forest trying to get back to civilization. When she finally reached someone, she was thin, scarred, and done with camping for the foreseeable future. It was there that she learned about the Departure and that the few people who knew her thought it'd gotten her too, including her parents. Having a Departure'd daughter was probably better than having one that was alive and well and disappointing. Or so it seemed to Linda, who observed that her parents thrived with the sympathies; found new community with fellow mourners. They'd never thought much of her, anyway, and if she was gone, they could think whatever they wanted. Linda took her meager savings and traveled around before eventually finding Redford and the job offer and the chance to maybe be someone a little more interesting. Now if only she could do something about the name...

[mothborn]

The stranger has a way about him, something like a predator's gait. Sol eyes him, unsure of what it means, unsure if he's seeing it right. Conclusions have never been Sol's strong suit but this... Sol swallows. He's reminded suddenly of other people, of an old time. He's surprised to see himself inside a store instead of beside the dirt crusted bricks of a back alley. He blinks. "Now I hope you don't mean what I think you mean," he says, a little too scolding teacher even to his ears. "What you're implying is..." Is what? Illegal? Like that ever meant anything; like it even matters now with the world upside down. Sol leans in. "What have you got?" He swallows; a wheezing animal for the sharp claws of something hungry. "Can I see?"

"neither, my man. if you're looking to do something new, you're going to want to step out of the liquor aisle... or at least out of the wine aisle." david is quick to encroach, a vulture loomed over something believed to be dying. "especially if you're looking to do something weird. nothing weird has ever been done in a grocery store." leaning back, "...bought in a grocery store, i should say."

[mothborn]

who: open! where: beaver liquors.

"Let's see...cheap red wine or cheap red wine?" Sol mulls over his choices (or lack of choices, really) tapping his chin as if the thought is deep. Really, what he wants is to pop open every bottle and start downing them in a line. What if he drank the store, he thinks. Do they have wine up in Departure heaven, he wonders. Is it the cheap stuff? "Hey." He turns to the person approaching in the aisle. "Do you know any cocktail recipes or anything like that? Hopin' to trying something'...new." He pauses. "Or maybe strong is what I mean." He pauses again. "Or maybe somethin' weird."