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Christof flinched at the sudden question, face reddening as he glanced away, fidgeting once again as though his happy bubble of comfort had suddenly been popped by a strategically placed scalpel. He made a little noise in his throat, brows furrowing. Picking at scabs. Rubbing stitches. That's all questions were. Just leave them alone and the pain will go away- rashes don't heal when you scratch them.

He shifted, eyes glancing up to that strange beaked face and then down to his mismatched hands before nodding. More or less... that was what it had been about. More or less. He suddenly tried to look very busy, straightening his parts collection and mopping up a bit of the preservatives Scruff had spilled on his last tirade.

The hunchback nodded, although he didn't look terribly pleased by the outcome of said experiment. He shifted, glancing sideways at Malodore as though debating something, finally making sure the door was shut with another quick look, he moved to his pencil and paper sitting on his desk, his handwriting rushed, tight and nervous by the time he turned back to the plague doctor with it offered out.

Unsure why Master sent me here. Does not seem like good environment for Igors. Lots of opportunities, but much more distractions. No more distractions. Will be a good boy. Need to concentrate on classes. How do you ignore the distractions, Master?

The young boil looked up at the Plague Creature with a hopeful look of desperation, as though behind those goggles lay all the answers to the universe.

His mouth trembled like a writhing centipede, brows mirroring his confusion before, timidly, adding onto the paper.

Never had Friends before. Don't think people like me usually do. Too busy. Professional alliances to get Jobs done.

After a few moments, his trembling hand added in, albeit smaller and clearly shier:

Might be the first Igor to go to a dance with a pretty ghoul. Messed that up too. Can't do anything right.

The young Igor tried to mull this over, brows furrowing in concentration. He... supposed that made sense. Allies he knew- people who were less likely to heave the pitchforks but more than likely to be the first to light the torches when it came down to it. He scratched at a seam by his hairline, still flushing as he glanced away with a shrug. Maybe... A tiny part of him, deep down and completely stifled by the part of him terrified by the mirror covered in the bathroom was fairly convinced his Master Creator was just insane. But if he was crazy what did that make his creation? But that was a good thing, when Fear was considered, though, right? Humans hated what Halloweeners found average. Insanity was just an issue of perspective, really. And now his head was aching.

His pencil timidly went back to the paper again.

Training never covered these sorts of things. Troublesome. Complicated. Shouldn't let myself be intimidated. Difficult. People are more complicated than their parts. Ghouls esp. distracting.

To that his face had gone positively crimson.

Christof gave an audible whine, shifting to sit on the newish wooden chair in the corner, the only other one besides his desk chair and it was nearly hidden under parts and laundry he shoved aside. He rocked a little, notebook now set on his knee, an elbow on one of the buckled straps. His handwriting was even more borderline illegible, clearly anxious about talking about these sorts of things even more than he was anxious about talking about much of anything at all.

They have really lovely parts. so many nice proportions. can't stop thinking about them. See them in class and in hallways. Too afraid to address them. Have not heard from Ms. Morrigan. Her lips I can't stop thinking about her lips. Is something wrong with me?

On the workbench, it was a bit more obvious that the heads of each ghoul waiting for Amrita had had the skin around their mouths stripped, leaving the teeth inside as though it was just easier to examine their dental decay that way. The patches of lips lay in a jumbled pile on the corner of the bench.

His brows furrowed as he glanced over to his bench, tapping the pencil on his knee anxiously. He made a quick note to himself on the paper in the margin for future reference. He supposed it was the muscular support that did it. And of course a good cleanly functional mandible. Hurmm Malodore wouldn't be the top most expert on the topic, and he supposed the ruled Riley out as well... but it wasn't just lips. Everything was just more... manageable in bits in a pieces. All organizable and catagorizable and differentiateable and comparable... he shifted in his chair, flush returning as he stared at his notebook, swimming in a sea of patchwork adolescent thoughts.

Swallowing, he tried to form words on the paper, fighting with the fog in his head.

So this is normal? It's very distracting, especially during class sometimes.

He'd see that ankle or that wrist or that chin or those eyes and his fingers would itch, his palms would sweat, his heart would race and there'd be that aching... just a few quick cuts and... but no no no that was probably worse than just Hitting. But there was so much to choose from...

Pick and choose- He'd heard of other patchworks before, non Igors... Igors were often made from the bottom of the heap, so to speak, and were deliberately made in a hodgepodge manner if only for the aesthetics of the thing, even if good parts were readily available. Out there were patchworks who could decide how tall or short they were, or if they wanted to be blond or brunette, thick or thin, vanish in a crowd... They were beautiful, he'd heard. Masterpieces. Very Good Work.

The hunchback wondered if the Plague Doctor ever felt this lonely sometimes.

Swallowing again, he nodded, glancing back to his waste basket. The pictures were still there, scattered about. This was normal. Every.... youngling his age went through it? Except Malodore, apparently. He didn't know how old the Plague Doctor was, but the general impression the hunchback had always got was that it was probably a lot younger than it came across on all other levels. He left the pictures where they lay. He could hang them back up after Malodore left.

Instead he turned to scribble in his notebook again, at least seeming a bit more himself than he had the other night.

You say never without permission, but it is difficult to gain permission. Kissed Ms. Morrigan twice, even, and she did not come back with me. Doing something wrong.

Christof slumped, raking his fingers through his hair in frustration. So complicated, it was all so complicated- TOO complicated. With a sigh, he lowered them again with a nod. It seemed all of the advice on the subject he had gathered so far was relatively unhelpful. Barth seemed laze-fair about it, Calder seemed to think just kissing as much as possible would help, but it hadn't and now he was at a disadvantage on that front...

Well... well it wasn't a terribly Igor thing to be thinking, anyway. He had work to do. With a sigh, he quickly scribbled out:

When will you need the parts? Still missing a few key pieces.