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peckenpaugh2020-02-21 09:51 am
peckishmods) wrote in peckenpaugh2020-02-21 09:51 am
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Three Thorntrails Visit Mr. Potkin
There's a mystery afoot, and Thorntrail has just the Scooby Crew to solve it. Armed with some pictures and a whole lot of gumption, Lionel Lovelace, Jupiter Quigley and Claudia Vega go in search of Mr. Potkin, hoping to find answers about Mr. Qualls and a mysterious young man in a cool leather jacket.
It's not hard for the trio to spot Mr. Potkin carrying a rather precarious stack of boxes from the Home Mag-Ec classroom, and they hurry to catch up with him. The always affable Mr. Potkin is happy to help a couple students, even if it means standing there with nine feet of boxes in his arms while they show him grainy pictures on a cell phone.
"I guess thirty years is longer than I thought," he says, squinting to get a better look at the phone. "Looks like a nice kid, we must’ve hung out, but I don't even think I could tell you his name these days."
While the lack of information on the Mysterious Young Man is disappointing, the Thorntrails segue seamlessly to another topic: Mr. Qualls, who seems to know him. And with each question — is he from the area? does he have a family? how long has he worked at Peckenpaugh? — Mr. Potkin's usually pleasant demeanor falters a little more.
"I don't—I'm really not sure," he stammers, frustrated. "Okay, I know he was here when I was in school—he was fascinated by my Walkman. And I’m almost certain he was alive, but..." Mr. Potkin doesn't finish his sentence, his train of thought apparently leaving the station without him. He brings himself back with a shake of his head. "I hate to say it, but I can’t remember if he was still alive."
With this leg of the investigation seemingly gone cold, the three Squatches have just one more question before they send Mr. Potkin back on his way, and they try to be as casual and discreet as physically possible:
”Do you know how Mr. Qualls lost his memory?”
Mr. Potkin huffs, an impatient sound rarely (if ever) heard from the gentle teacher. "Lost his memory? How in the world should I know? Maybe ghosts get dementia, maybe he already had it, I really don’t know. And you know Lionel, Qualls—” Something behind his eyes seems to pop. Mr. Potkin hangs, brow furrowed, lips parted, a thoughtful scowl that bends more harsh as he tries to grasp something that seems to be right on the tip of his tongue. “What’s…”
He doesn’t finish the thought. The air around them changes, a faint, strange smell like mildew. Mr. Potkin’s legs buckle and he falls suddenly, brick shithouse of a teacher reduced to a pile of rubble before the students’ very eyes. Papers, quills and home ec supplies scatter as the boxes tumble from his suddenly limp hands. His eyes roll back into his head. Above, the lights dim and flicker and on the floor, Mr. Potkin is unresponsive.
Until, suddenly, he is. It’s hard to say how many seconds ticked by after that initial crash, but he’s coming around by the time Ms. Gunzenhauser’s joined the teens to crouch beside him. “Perce, come on, let’s get you to the infirmary,” Ms. G says as she helps the giant art teacher up. “Can you stand?”
“I donno what happened,” Mr. Potkin says, clutching his head, any trace of that anger or agitation he had held a few moments earlier gone. In fact, he seems confused to be here at all. “Must’ve...slipped and fell?”
“Would you three please clean all this up,” Ms. G says to the three Thorntrail sleuths. “And then wait for me in my office, please.”
It seems Ms. Gunzenhauser is most pressed with getting Mr. Potkin to the infirmary and she hurries off, leaving the Thorntrail seniors to follow her orders. Among the scattered contents of Mr. Potkin’s box they find a single obsidian stone shaped like a cicada’s shell.
[As this happened in plain sight, in the middle of the halls of central classrooms during the day, UP TO 7 STUDENTS MAY HAVE WITNESSED THIS. Please comment below to acknowledge that your kid saw this go down. These spots are first come first served.]
[WITNESSED BY: (5/7) Atlas, Armani, Viola, Trudy, Valkyrie]
While Mr. Potkin makes a pretty quick recovery, Mr. Hobgood handles his classes and club meetings for the rest of the day and Monday. It seems Healer Greatheart is keeping an extended eye on him, and Mr. Potkin will not be returning to his class responsibilities until Tuesday.
It's not hard for the trio to spot Mr. Potkin carrying a rather precarious stack of boxes from the Home Mag-Ec classroom, and they hurry to catch up with him. The always affable Mr. Potkin is happy to help a couple students, even if it means standing there with nine feet of boxes in his arms while they show him grainy pictures on a cell phone.
"I guess thirty years is longer than I thought," he says, squinting to get a better look at the phone. "Looks like a nice kid, we must’ve hung out, but I don't even think I could tell you his name these days."
While the lack of information on the Mysterious Young Man is disappointing, the Thorntrails segue seamlessly to another topic: Mr. Qualls, who seems to know him. And with each question — is he from the area? does he have a family? how long has he worked at Peckenpaugh? — Mr. Potkin's usually pleasant demeanor falters a little more.
"I don't—I'm really not sure," he stammers, frustrated. "Okay, I know he was here when I was in school—he was fascinated by my Walkman. And I’m almost certain he was alive, but..." Mr. Potkin doesn't finish his sentence, his train of thought apparently leaving the station without him. He brings himself back with a shake of his head. "I hate to say it, but I can’t remember if he was still alive."
With this leg of the investigation seemingly gone cold, the three Squatches have just one more question before they send Mr. Potkin back on his way, and they try to be as casual and discreet as physically possible:
”Do you know how Mr. Qualls lost his memory?”
Mr. Potkin huffs, an impatient sound rarely (if ever) heard from the gentle teacher. "Lost his memory? How in the world should I know? Maybe ghosts get dementia, maybe he already had it, I really don’t know. And you know Lionel, Qualls—” Something behind his eyes seems to pop. Mr. Potkin hangs, brow furrowed, lips parted, a thoughtful scowl that bends more harsh as he tries to grasp something that seems to be right on the tip of his tongue. “What’s…”
He doesn’t finish the thought. The air around them changes, a faint, strange smell like mildew. Mr. Potkin’s legs buckle and he falls suddenly, brick shithouse of a teacher reduced to a pile of rubble before the students’ very eyes. Papers, quills and home ec supplies scatter as the boxes tumble from his suddenly limp hands. His eyes roll back into his head. Above, the lights dim and flicker and on the floor, Mr. Potkin is unresponsive.
Until, suddenly, he is. It’s hard to say how many seconds ticked by after that initial crash, but he’s coming around by the time Ms. Gunzenhauser’s joined the teens to crouch beside him. “Perce, come on, let’s get you to the infirmary,” Ms. G says as she helps the giant art teacher up. “Can you stand?”
“I donno what happened,” Mr. Potkin says, clutching his head, any trace of that anger or agitation he had held a few moments earlier gone. In fact, he seems confused to be here at all. “Must’ve...slipped and fell?”
“Would you three please clean all this up,” Ms. G says to the three Thorntrail sleuths. “And then wait for me in my office, please.”
It seems Ms. Gunzenhauser is most pressed with getting Mr. Potkin to the infirmary and she hurries off, leaving the Thorntrail seniors to follow her orders. Among the scattered contents of Mr. Potkin’s box they find a single obsidian stone shaped like a cicada’s shell.
[WITNESSED BY: (5/7) Atlas, Armani, Viola, Trudy, Valkyrie]
While Mr. Potkin makes a pretty quick recovery, Mr. Hobgood handles his classes and club meetings for the rest of the day and Monday. It seems Healer Greatheart is keeping an extended eye on him, and Mr. Potkin will not be returning to his class responsibilities until Tuesday.
Re: OOC - QUESTIONS, COMMENTS, CONCERNS!
Re: OOC - QUESTIONS, COMMENTS, CONCERNS!
Re: OOC - QUESTIONS, COMMENTS, CONCERNS!