Christof had run all the way back from the dance without stopping, save for when he stumbled at the front step of the Undead Dorms and had to scramble for his feet. His ears were ringing, his palms sweating, his mouth positively on fire as he slammed the door to his room shut behind him, chest heaving as he leaned on it.

After a moment, he calmed down long enough to crack the door open to let Scruff in behind him.

Eyes half lidded, he moved on autopilot, shrugging off his new jacket and gently hanging it on the back of his desk chair, and moved to sit at his workbench. He had found one in pieces behind another while tidying Barth's room weeks ago, his previously more barren furnishings slowly growing thanks to his lazier Master. It made it easier to lay out the sifted parts he had been preparing for Amrita.

His palms were still sweating, his fingers trembling as images of Morrigan's lips, puckered, inviting, hung in his mind's eye. They were so soft...

His tongue throbbed so badly he felt his skull would split in two.

The hunchback slouched over the parts that lay waiting for preparation, not bothering to change out of the nice dress shirt as he rolled up his sleeves and picked up the tools. He wasn't an expert in anatomy in the way Malodore was... but he had an eye for certain things. It was calming, rejecting a finger here, finding an especially good and functional elbow there that fit the right proportions for this arm bone... But limbs weren't doing it for him just then. Under the bench was a damp bag, everyone had been so preoccupied for the Scarentine's dance and adventures in the woods and countless other things he worried his selection would go bad before he got a hold of the little ghoul outside of classes.

Carefully, reverently, he placed the heads onto the table. They were the youngest, most preserved he could find in the graveyard, but the selection was grim, unfortunately. He wished there was a morgue nearby, those always had the freshest pickings. He knew her general preferences- he would do the best he could. They certainly had not been demons, each lifeless pale face gaunt and emaciated with death... but not for long.

He smiled softly, oblivious to the sounds of Scruff whining for attention at his feet as he worked. At the dance he felt lost and frustrated and terrified, but here now in the flickering light of the Bombs around him and the thrill of discovery of Good Parts, he felt at ease.

He could ignore the pain from the tongue. Think things through.

He... had had fun. Not just at the dance, but with Calder. It had felt good to rant to Barth, and argue with the Kelpie. Better than paper and pencils did, or at least more... fulfilling. He had even gone to a dance with a pretty Ghoul... which seemed like a normal thing for creatures his age. He was... making friends. He tentatively peeled back the remaining skin on a dark-skinned head, he'd need all of this hue he could find, he knew she was partial to it...

An Igor with friends. He stared at the skin in his hands, brows furrowed as he struggled to breath. Setting it down, he rose to wobble into the bathroom and immediately turned on the water in the sterile stainless steel sink to furiously splash his face.

He was still feeling numb as he straightened to peer into his reflection, sighing as he turned his face this way and that. Most of his fellow students had smooth, attractive, proportionate faces. His looked tossed together. But that was normal for a patchwork right? He didn't know any others like him, though... he supposed he could have Malodore help him upgrade but... this was his face. And his hunch. And his arm. He shrugged out of his soiled shirt, looking himself over with the pained, tortured frustration of teenagers across the universe. He was pretty gruesome... that was a good thing, right? It meant more Fear, and Master said that Fear was everything...

"What are you doing, Christof?"

His reflection contorted, as though the glass was suddenly filled with a white smoke that slowly took a shape.

Oh... oh Hell's bells...

He staggered backwards, nearly falling into his tub in alarm as the smoke formed a face, shaking it's head in disappointment.

"M-m-m-mathter!" He squeaked, wobbling back to his feet.

"You have been busy." It was not a question, the ghostly image in the reflection tapping a pale chin with a curved clawed finger as it eyed the marks on his Igor's skin before Christof frantically pulled his shirt back on, his face various crimsons.

"M-mathter, I can exthplane-!" The hunchback stammered, positively falling apart at the seams in terror.

"Enough." The image in the reflection rippled, like someone had blown through the middle of a cloud of smoke and Christof gave a sudden scream of pain and horror as his mouth felt like it had been engulfed in flames. "Christof. What am I to do with you? I send you here to learn. And what have you been taught? Treason? Disloyalty? Betrayal? You have hardly been here for a few months and you have already gone against my explicit instructions. I will have to speak to the faculty."

The hunchback moaned, huddling over the sink to try to spit out the ash that had filled his mouth, turning on the water immediately to try to wash the now empty orifice clean... and also attempt to hide the streams of wet running from his eyes to his stitches. He was still shaking with muffled whimpers as his Master continued, smokey eyes reforming in the glass to peer down at the curly circular mark on his Igor's shoulder and across his chest with a thoughtful noise. "I have... sent you here for a reason, Christof. Even broken merchandise can move if enough spit and polish is applied." That formation was familiar, although he was confident he didn't know either clans of demon involved... an avarice demon, perhaps? He made mental note to take a peek into his genealogy records. Another glance to the hunchback's chest and the dark, tentacle-like marks was another puzzle. It couldn't REALLY be a...? Very interesting. "Please do not pick at your repairs, my dear boy. Now go patch yourself up, you look a mess. I will not wait so long before checking in on you next time. And please, păstraţi-vă din necazuri, băiatul meu mozaic."

Christof nodded frantically, still trembling and looking sick as he stared at the black mess in the sink. He had been bad, he had been SO bad and now his Master knew and what else would he be mad about? He was being a good Igor! He was doing everything right! Just because... because he wanted to... to sometimes play a video game with Barth or argue with Calder did not mean he was any less an Igor! Did it? Broken merchandise. He sagged, nodding again obediently.

"Do not embarrass me." The reflection image looked concerned, eyes half lidded before the smoke started to fade.

Yes, Master.

Alone again, the hunchback wobbled in his dim bathroom, his legs giving out as he slumped to sit on the edge of the tub, shuddering silently. After a while he quieted, wobbling to his feet with a far away look in his glassy eyes as he ghosted into his bedroom and over to his desk. He gathered up his new jacket, dropping it to the floor before shoving it under his bed with a foot and sat in the now empty wooden chair. His sewing kit was beside the candlestick-bomb. The needle glinted. You must repair broken seams.

Quietly, methodically, Christof cleaned himself up, got ready for bed, and pinched out the lights. Staring at the ceiling in the darkness, he could do little more than ponder his place in the universe.