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 Posted: Wed May 09, 2012 12:02 am
The walk back to Ramona’s car was oddly silent. Mort kept a hold of the book the entire time like it was a charm protecting him against some deadly monster, wondering what she thought of the whole thing. That neutral expression was maddening, and the click click click of her nails against the keys as she texted, the tck tck tck of her heals on the cement – it was all enough to drive him mad. He was nearly about to explode by the time he slid into the car, whereupon Mort blurted out, “So, d-didja like her?”
“Belladonna? Hmm.” She took her sweet time in answering, setting the car in reverse and sliding it out of the parking lot. “Well . . .”
She was doing this to bug him, Mort knew, and it worked. A Game of Magic and Death was in his lap, clutched at still, and his grip grew all the tighter as he waited. “Well?”
“I’d say . . . Your lady has some tits on her.”
“Mother.” A mortified zombie stared at the profile of her face. “OhmyJackMother.”
“What? You can’t tell me you made friends with this ghoul without noticing those knockers.”
“Mom, c-can’t just say that!”
“I can and I will. I shouldn’t be surprised someone like that was taking advantage of you –”
Mort couldn’t comprehend the outrageous claim and stared. “T-Taking . . . ?”
“ – with her breasts barely contained like that.” Ramona made a disgusted noise as she turned into an intersection. “What was she about to do to you in your room, Mortimer?”
Nothing. You got in the way before anything could happen.
The monster clicked her tongue disapprovingly at his silence. “I was young once too, dear. I know what happens when a pretty ghoul and a boil are alone in a room.” She glanced at him, reached a hand out, and lightly pinched his cheek. “So quiet. What spell did she cast on you? She’s a witch, I know they can pull off charms on people.”
She had meant it as a tease, but her son took it personally. “D-Didn’t do anything to me,” Mort grumbled, wiping her hand off. “Was just hanging out.” He had been speechless at his mother’s implying that Bells manipulated him like that. Sure, he knew Mama wasn’t a big fan of him hanging out with ghouls and had been vocal about sending him to school for that very purpose. As far as Ramona was concerned, Mort was a scareling she had to protect from the horrors of hormones – after all, look at him without her guiding influence, in his room with some busty red-headed wench! She had come to save him from her wiles and teach him how to protect himself!
The thought made him seethe. Mort cracked the book open and thinned his lips, making it clear he didn’t want to talk anymore if that was how she was going to be. He wasn’t in the mood to explain himself right now. He just wanted to go to his room, lay down for a while, and forget the world for a few moments. Or a few hours.
For ten minutes there was a tense silence in which Mort kept his nose in the book and his mother kept her eyes on the road. Her voice was a little softer the next time she spoke, as if to make up for her earlier brusqueness. “Otherwise, how do you like Amityville? I haven’t been receiving as many letters and calls as I like, you know. It makes a mother wonder and worry.”
It took him a moment to get out of the fantastical realm the book was pulling him into. “S’fine,” he answered. “I like it. Glad chose for going.” It was clear he was still upset, though the opening chapters had dulled the edge of his anger.
Ramona nodded, then honked the horn with a sudden growl. “Move your metal a** already, it says go!” The car lurched forward with a rumble and screech. “Well I’m glad to hear that, dear, but I really would like more communication with you while you’re over there. How else am I going to know how my baby boil’s doing? Especially in these times,” she added gravely. “Zak told me about how he had almost had a breakdown over how much paperwork was going through for closing the school down. How did that go?”
“Mrr . . . J-Just want nap first,” Mort mumbled, his frustration giving in to fatigue. “Will answer all questions after sleep.”
“I’m holding you to that, mister. Every single one.”
“Yes, Mama.”
“I’m warning you, if you don’t I’ll have Greg sit on you and sing Blackway songs until they’re the only thing you can think of.” Ramona flashed him a smirk. “He’s been obsessed with a new one lately. Something about a green-skinned witch rooming with a fairy.”
Mort mustered a tired smile. “Promise will answer after shut-eye.” And as his mother went on about how he wasn’t getting enough sleep because of his video games, the zomboil dog-earred his place in the book and curled up in the carseat, fighting off sleep until he would be able to stumble back into his room. It just wouldn’t do to let his family see him mumble and groan while in the clutches of the nightmare the first night back, after all.
"But you will take a shower before you nap," Ramona told him sternly before he drifted off. "You might be a zombie, but that doesn't mean you have to smell like one."
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Posted: Wed May 09, 2012 11:48 pm
The nightmare happened again. The same sawtooth grin, systematic destriction, ghoul-murdering as before. Monster, the Mort-Thing snarled at him, this time taking the effort to grasp and shake him by the collar of his shirt. You monster.
Mort.
You don’t deserve friends.
Moooort.
And he waited for the inevitable, the metal fist curled up and swerving his way, ready to tear flesh and bone from his face, the bloody howling –
”Moooooort.”
There was a cracking sound and suddenly his vision was full of stars and skulls. “Wh-What the Ja – OW!”
“Mort!” cried a voice happily. “Greg was wondering when you’d come to.”
Drearily the zomboil roused himself into a sitting position and fluttered his eyes open, a hand posted at the back of his head where the pain began – probably from the bed post just behind him. “What did . . . w-was shaking me?” he hissed through clenched teeth. He realized his brother was sitting half-way on him, curse his wide girth.
The demon gave him a toothy, innocent grin. “Yesssss. Greg wanted to play video games. Also say hi to brother. Greg was playing with Skimp when Mort came back so he couldn’t say hi.”
”Didn’t have to shake awake.”
“But . . . Mort was asleep all day,” Gregory whined. “Mort used to never sleep a lot.”
This gave the zomboil pause, and as he rubbed the sore spot on his head some more he asked, “All . . . day?”
Greg bobbed his head. “Mama’s about to make dinner. Mama told me to get Mort, but Mort looked so asleep. Greg had to shake awake.” His thick brows furrowed. “Mort was talking in his sleep.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Oh! Mama’s cooking hahyena haunches,” the demon added excitedly. “Hurry!”
“Will when get off of.”
Greg only then noticed he was almost on top of his brother completely and hopped off with a thud, looking sheepish. “Hurry!” he said again before waddling out of the bedroom. “Or Greg’ll eat them all!”
“Coming.” Mort hunched over for a moment and wiggled his toes to make sure he hadn’t lost the feeling in them. Jack, he still felt a little tired still in spite of the day-long nap. And He hadn’t know he was sleep-talking . . . but, well, as long as it wasn’t anything discernible he should be okay. Gregory would probably forget about it the second he sunk his teeth into that meat.
Mort quickly stretched himself out so he wouldn’t be so stiff from rigor mortis, eager for something to eat. His brother’s threat was all too real: you never messed with a gluttony demon and the prospect of food.
~ ~ ~
Dinner was a casual affair in the McNeal house. Usually Ramona would call her boils in around six or seven and set out a pot or pan of whatever was on the menu. The first ten or fifteen minutes they would actually sit down as a family to eat and talk about the day’s events, though eventually after that they would peter in and out of the room due to various things. Today, however, the trio sat for far longer than that together: Ramona had not joked about interrogating her son about school life.
Halfway through his meal Mort felt like his throat was rubbed raw from how much he had to speak. And as per usual, his mother’s expression was hard to read at the end of it. She had not been particularly pleased about how Amityville had come under fire, even if the students had passed with such flying colors that the school was named the foremost center of education for scarelings afterwards. And the debacle during Christmastival? Jack, he could see the monster’s eyebrows twitching throughout his retelling – he made sure to avoid the parts where he had pussied out in battle just in case it made her opinion even more sour about the whole thing. She had been a titter about the snow, but . . .
And Jack was it hard to convince her about seeing and fighting Hunters the entire time he spoke. Ramona’s lips were tight through those particular explanations, and though Mort tried to keep the summaries shallow she kept poking and prodding until he was near breaking point. But not once did he talk about the time he was captured by that pink-haired ghoul; he was sure if he did, his mother would never let him leave the house again, let alone go back to school.
The Trials, his visit to the Isles . . . Mort tried his best to paint them optimistically, yet Ramona’s expression was startlingly neutral throughout the whole summary. At best he caught the monster clutch her glass tightly when the Hunters cam on the scene and wreaked havoc, but Ramona was nothing if not able to mask her emotions – a doll like her could smile innocuously yet have nothing but contempt for someone.
It was the strangest thing: his mother prompted him with questions as she said she would but didn’t speak her mind about any of what he replied with. It was the same curiously stoic look, accented with only little gestures like a quirk of an eyebrow or a small “I see”. Gregory, on the other hand, was an enthralled listener who interrupted the zomboil every chance he could, eyes as wide as dinner plates. At one point he’d even forgotten to finish chewing and spat chunks of meat in his haste to sate his curiosity; Ramona had to talk him down and make him clean up the mess before Mort could continue.
At the end of it, the demon turned his large eyes and slacked jaw grin to their mother and pleaded, “Can Greg go to Amityville too? Greg wants to go on adventures with Mort and learn things! It sounds so exciting!”
“No, my little batling, I’d rather you keep going to Darkmouth’s,” their mother answered a bit too sweetly.
“But Mamaaaaa, Greg doesn’t have a lot’ve friends there. Mort has lots. And Greg wants to eat these Hunters, they sound delicious, and he wants to go on trips, and meet ghouls, and learn fancy tri-“
”I said no.”
The chilly tone and the immediacy of her answer stopped the boils in their tracks and melted Greg’s grin right off. It was the first thing Ramona had said with strong emotion for the past three hours of storytelling. She fixated Gregory with a baleful look before turning it to Mort, looking as if she wanted to add more. And then abruptly the monster stood, took all their plates, and went to go toss them in the dishwasher. The brothers barely so much as breathed (which was easy enough for Mort) for the duration of it, casting looks at each other that bespoke things such as oh batshit. They were freed with the sound of her heels clacking against the ground. Ramona didn’t so much as look at either of them in passing as she went back to her room, her movements stiff.
“. . . Think she’s mad?” Greg posed, scratching his ear mildly.
Mort frowned in the direction she’d left them. “Hope not,” he muttered in reply.
“Think she’ll let Greg go if we give her sweets?”
“Doubt it.”
“Oh.” Greg made a face. “What about more batlings? Mama likes those.”
“Think three’s ‘nuff, b-but getting close.”
“Cats?”
“Close enough.”
Greg scowled. “Hate cats. Too much fur in the way when eating. Hey, Mort?”
“Yeah?”
“Can we play video games now?”
The zomboil gave a sigh and pushed his glasses up. “Sure. Y-Your pick.” And he tried not to look too grim as they pushed their seats in and headed to the den to play.
To think, this was how Mama reacted without mentioning Insanity. He shuddered to think about what was going to happen if he ever did.
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Posted: Sat May 12, 2012 12:15 am
Four days at home had Mort falling into the routine he used to follow before he ever stepped foot into Amityville: video games, house chores, interweb browsing, more video games, let the batlings out for air, help Greg with homework, and of course video games. Life as a hob goblin seemed to fade a little more each day even as Mort felt bits and pieces of it cling to him like lint on his shirt. He puzzled over the mixed emotions it gave him.
Normalcy. That’s what was bothering him. At school, the mundane included joining the underground movement Seeds, exotic trips to Jack knew where, and Hunters crawling around like ants in their picnic. To go home after all that was just . . . weird. Mort still half-expected to wake up and find a flyer telling him about the latest event or holiday going on, but the only thing he would have to look forward to would be Mother’s Day. And Jack knew his mother had been insufferably inflexible; he dreaded the day honestly. Ramona could smile and kiss his forehead and do all her regular motherly things, but deep down Mort held his suspicions that she was cooking up something he would not like. Women didn’t just blow up and then let it go like nothing happened, or at least his mother didn’t – no, she simmered and boiled and plotted her words for some future occasion. The best he could do is brace for the inevitable and go about his business just like Mama apparently wanted to.
And business meant the automail arm.
Today Mort decided to cut into his usual video game hours and left the house around the early afternoon, plans in hand. Typically he would have asked his mother for a ride, but it wasn’t as if the walk was unbearable – that, and he loathed being in a small inescapable space for any length of time with her just in case Ramona sprung whatever she was planning on him.
Fifteen minutes of walking later he arrived at the place, a squat building comprised of aged black oak wood whose worn sign named it Highpoint of Battle. The proprietor of the store, Gygas Ragnar, was an uppity nightmare who was known to literally snort smoke when enraged, which was to say hardly a day went by that he didn’t. Mort had met Ragnar when he was younger and still with his first family and to this day was frightened witless of the red-haired monster because, well, fire. But today he was pleasantly received by a different but equally familiar face. Or rather, his gruff voice.
“Oy! That you, lad?” asked the eye patch-wearing satyr leaning against the counter. “Or is me eye decievin’ me?”
“S’me, Mr. Priam.” Mort shut the door behind him and heard the tingling of bells heralding his arrival belatedly. “Been a while. Trust is going okay?”
“Haven’t been roasted yet if that means anything.” Priam leaned over and peered at the rolled up papers under the boil’s arm. “Somethin’ boiling in that brain’ve yours?”
“Sparked some ideas, yes. I-Is Missus in too?”
“Callista? Yeah, the broad’s in.” Priam dropped to the floor with a metallic clop and meandered around the counter. “CALLIE!” he bellowed down the hall with such volume that Mort jumped a bit. “Scarface here wants to see us!”
There was a pause, followed by a disgruntled: “Whaaaat?”
“Damnit, woman, you’re going deaf! I SAID we got a customer.”
”Whaaaaat?”
An exasperated Priam threw his hands up. “For ******** sake, Callista, TURN OFF THE DAMN EYEPOD AND GET YER a** OVER HERE BEFORE I PUT IT IN THE FIRE AND MAKE ME SOME RUMP ROAST.”
“Oogie’s Boogies, Elias, you don’t have to be so loud,” grumbled Callista, the sound of boots heralding her approach. She had on a pair of thick gloves and an apron, her work clothes coated with soot and grime from a multitude of projects. EyePod earbuds were hanging on her shoulders still blaring loud music; Mort could almost identify the lyrics of the screaming woman. Upon seeing him, the slender peryton’s scowl broke into a smile. “Mortyyyy! Elias, why didn’t you get me sooner?”
The satyr’s eyes bulged for a moment and his face reddened.
Callista went over, pulled a glove off, and gave Mort a friendly one-armed hug, arcing her body away so as not to dirty his clothes. “What brings ya here, kiddo?” she asked, brushing stringy hair out of her face.
“New project!” Mort announced with a boyish grin as he handed her one of the schematics. “Been working on for while, th-thought’ve you guys when doing. Think can lend hand with materials?”
She looked it over and rubbed at her forehead with the back of her hand. Priam huffed out what remaining anger he had and stood at the tips of his hooves to see as well. “Hmm . . . Is this a school project?” Callista asked, viewing Mort over the top of the scroll curiously.
He shook his head. “Personal. Need begin r-regulate electricity. Thought if made conduit medium in arm, could begin process’ve acclimating to more stable energy processing. Set wires, control energy: have less, er, brain frying.”
“Yer not thinkin’ve going full robot are ya?” Priam asked with a furrowed brow. “Look, Scarface, we’re an armory, not one of ‘em gizmo shops that keep croppin’ up. We don’t do none’ve this wires and phone lines and interweb horseshit. You want ta change species, this ain’t the place.”
“Elias,” his wife scolded before turning kindly eyes to the zomboil. “He might be a p***k, but he’s got a point. I can get you the armor parts and solder them and such, but the rest . . .”
“N-Not a problem,” Mort assured them. “Can handle those bits. Just need get skeleton n’ skin of arm going – will put in veins n’ muscles n’ all that on own.”
Priam narrowed his eyes. “And ya can pay for that?”
“Don’t be silly. We’ve got some spare parts lying around collecting dust,” Callista informed Mort, ignoring her husband’s dark mutters. “I’ll see what I can do. It’ll take a few days, though, and if we want this to be accurate I’ll need you to stay and let me get a plaster of the arm you want replacing, for fittings and all.”
“Don’t m-mind staying.” Hell if he could, Mort would remain at the shop all day. As much as the satyr grated on his nerves after a while, he’d still rather listen to the couple argue than chance another awkward dinner with his mother or her demon boyfriend. Mother’s Day he wouldn’t be able to avoid, but today? Today he could.
Callista smiled and rolled the plans up, taking his shoulder to lead him to the back. “Alright, we’ll get the plaster mix made. Elias, be a good boy and get me a bucket of warm water.”
“Get it yourself. Someone has to watch the counter.”
“Shut your gob and get me the water or I’ll let slip to the boss that you’ve been itching for that promotion to be his personal steward.” Callista stifled a chuckle as she heard the sound of Priam’s metal hoofsteps punctuate his stream of curses.
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Posted: Sun May 13, 2012 12:04 am
“You’re going where?”
“The gym,” Mort answered, confounded by his own words but still saying them with conviction.
Ramona peered at him over the batling on her shoulder. A second was currently in her lap being brushed down, crooning. “The . . . gym,” she repeated with raised brows.
“Y-Yes.”
“With weights, treadmills, and the like?”
“Mmm.”
She paused brushing for a moment, a curious look on her face before it broke into a sunny smile. “Ooooh, and here I thought you only liked mindless video games!” Ramona said, reaching up from her seat to touch his arm. “I’m proud that you’re taking better care of yourself, Morty. Go, I’ll have a snack ready for when you get back. Do you want me to drive you over?”
“S’fine,” Mort answered with a shake of his head. “Should get used to walking anyways. See ya later.” He pecked her cheek and headed out, the sound of chittering batlings behind him.
~ ~ ~
In all honesty, the idea of working out hadn’t come to him on his own. Mort had all but assumed he would stay in the same figure he would normally for the rest of his life, save for some height changes, maybe some more decay. Literally he had to be coerced for fifteen minutes by Callista the day before to consider it. “You’re going to need upper body strength,” she had told him in the end. “The arm will weigh more than your current one, and unless you like walking around lopsided you’ll have to build up the strength to carry it around.”
And thus the zomboil found himself inside Grindstone Gym, the closest one he could locate from home. And from there, after paying for membership, he was guided by one of the trainers on how to use each piece of equipment, how long he should try the exercises, what amount of weight would be best to start with, the works.
The smell of rotten flesh and sweat did not mix well. Mort’s first stay at the gym was a short one, yet even so he left with aches in places he didn’t think still existed as muscle.
Worst was when he came back home it was to a fruit and vegetable arrangement, and a pleased Ramona who told him they were going to go shopping for some new body parts for him. “You’re due for a growth aren’t you?” she commented, giving him a welcome back hug that made him wince. “It’s been a long while. I remember you said you wanted to get taller . . .”
Mort just stared at the unappealing arrangement with a frown. He’d hoped for, well, meat.
“. . . Well, it’s good timing at any rate. You’ll be able to acclimate to your new self at the same time you refine it!” She patted his cheek gently with a smile. “Maybe we’ll have someone remove all that stitching while we’re at it, find you some skin that matches – I want you to leave with a lovely smooth face anyone would swoon at! Did you want to try contacts? I have a reliable connection who specializes with the undead; your sight’s probably worsened at any rate, so if not contacts, some new lenses. Though I do hope you’d consider getting rid of those glasses . . .”
Mort’s only response was to groan and drag himself into a chair, his limbs as heavy as lead. There his mother went, always wanting the best for him in the worst way. He’d heard this all before and more besides, but it was only in this one moment that he realized that to Ramona, he was a doll she wanted to make perfect – as flawless as she was. Fussy as his mother was, Mort knew it was only out of love. Yet . . . the idea of becoming something he wasn’t itched and nagged at him.
“. . . And that hair of yours!” Ramona pushed his lengthy bangs back with a pout. “It needs a mower put to it. I probably can’t convince you about that scrap of hair under your lips, but the bangs can’t be in your face like that, Mort. Can you even see?”
“Can so.”
“All the same I’m booking you an appointment in the maul. Everything will be taken care of in one fell swoop~” She click clacked away as the phone began to ring, answering three seconds into the melodic alarm. “Hello? . . . Well hello to you too, Zak.”
Mort pressed his forehead to the cool table top edge in the meantime.
“. . . You could? Great! Mortimer’s in town so you’ll finally get to meet him. Lunch will be at one o’clock.” He heard her kiss the air. “Hope you like Italian! Come pick us up half an hour before. See you then, Zak.”
Mother’s Day with the demon? Mort thudded his head against the table with another groan.
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Posted: Mon May 14, 2012 12:32 am
That Spookday morning was a blur the moment he got out of bed. Gym time was bumped up earlier to make room for the host of appointments Ramona had sworn to make: shower and change, maul, hair, body parts, clothes, even a peek in the lens store while they were on their way out. Ramona was close to tearing their hair out with how close they were to being late (she had a set schedule for today after all) – Gregory had a habit of being difficult to keep to any plan and frankly just wanted to get to the lunch portion of the day already; he made a stop at almost every food stall along the way until their mother all but kept her red nails dug into his shirt to keep him at her side. Mort, well aware of how high-maintenance Ramona could get especially before social gatherings or events, tried his best to keep her calm throughout the hours before their ride arrived.
Gregory, at the sound of the horn honk, ambled to the front yard as giddy as a puppy. Mort followed soon after, undoing the first button at his neck. Ramona had posed them in cotton dress shirts, light coats, and dress slacks for the occasion, putting more effort into Mort’s appearance since this was his first impression. He resisted the urge to run a hand through his now more manageable hair, knowing she’d probably screech at him if he messed up her gelled work. He made do with picking at a stitch. This was a meeting he wished he could have postponed if not outright avoid . . .
The car that greeted them was a slim, glossy black model with tinted windows and what he presumed was a sunroof. Had it been long enough he would have mistakened it for the mayor’s personal limo. The engine turned off as they approached, and as Ramona locked the door with a final kiss to her batlings Mort finally saw the man he might one day call Dad come out.
Green. Black. And more green. Zak looked so humanoid that for a second Mort thought he was looking at a reaper – only the goat horns and uneasy sharp-toothed smile he gave them belied something more. Nergal, Mort thought with a pang. They were known to be able to hide the extent of their bloodline to fool others; green and black were a classic colors. But even by demon standards he looked delicate, like a stray wind might blow him away.
“Ramona,” he said by way of greeting as he closed the car door. Gregory was upon him a mere second afterwards, his large arms encompassing the slender demon and lifting off the ground easily in a warm hug. “G-Gregory,” he added, a little shaken by the show of strength as he patted the boil’s arm.
“MR. SHARKTOOTH~!” squealed Greg, squeezing before letting Zak down. Looking onwards was a disapproving Ramona. “Greg and Mort and Mama are ready to eat for Mama Day!”
“I noticed.” Zak turned his head towards the zomboil, green eyes almost glowing against his pallid skin. He patted his hair back behind an ear and gave Mort a look over. Again the equivocal smile appeared, jagged and almost a baring of teeth rather than a smile. “So you’re the Mortimer I’ve been told about? Pleasure.” He extended a hand. “Zak Cimmerian.”
Frail as the demon looked, the handshake was strong and his business tone evident. “Good meeting, sir,” Mort answered as he shook and, feeling Ramona’s eyes on his back, offered a smile that he hoped looked genuine. Please don’t touch my mother, he added mentally, watching as Zak did just that. A light embrace, a peck on the cheek, a second on the lips before wishing her a happy Mother’s Day– each movement making the boil’s eye twitch.
“The reservations are there?” Ramona asked, adjusting the thin beaded strap of her purse over her shoulder.
“Of course. I live for making sure the correct plans and paperwork goes through you know.” He clicked a button on his keys and all four doors opened themselves and, with a flourished whirl of the keychains, told them to hop in. Mort had to push Gregory in, so fascinated was he by the invisible things pulling the door open for him. OwO Even during the car ride his brother riddled his ear with loud whispers.
“S’magic, Mort. Demons can do magic, right?”
“Yeah.” Mort wasn’t really paying attention to Gregory, though. He was busy staring into the empty air between the driver and passenger seat where the adults sat, willing it to remain so for as long as possible. He could see them leaning towards each other and was close to sending a small shock up the demon’s back to deter him from continuing down that path; instead, he reached into his coat pocket and clutched at A Game of Magic and Death, reminding himself: patience.
One would point out how stupid it was to bring a book to a lunch outing, but frankly Mort would rather sneak some reading about a realm where kings ruled and died and magical intrigued plagued the court than discuss paper politics with this man he refused to call his mother’s boilfriend. Ramona was already fuming at him for more important things anyway – what was one more book on the pile?
~ ~ ~
The lunch had been . . . not eye-opening per se, since Zak bored him to tears with his thoughts and beliefs and the talk of his work, but at the least Mort knew his new enemy a little better. Zak was one of a handful of business analysts working for Hell’s Hoard, a banking branch. He had met his mother a few years back during the family’s hard economic times, but their communication had been on and off until around last Gathering October. That was around the time she had been enrolling him in school and when he had been most distracted – it wasn’t any wonder he had heard little next to nothing about Ramona’s new squeeze.
While on the uptight side, Zak’s position, salary, and connections were most advantageous. If his mother were to marry him, they wouldn’t be on shaky ground seeds-wise. Maybe they’d be able to afford something to help Greg’s learning disabilities, or Mort’s continued speech impediments. Maybe they’d be able to afford to move someplace else, to a different school that met their species’ needs. Someplace other than Amityville. Away from Hunters, Insanity, and whatever horror lied in the future of the academy.
Mort recalled the way his mother acted around the demon – how she’d touch his shoulder when teasing, dip her head when coy, press her lips and scrunch her face when they kissed goodbye (in a way that frightfully reminded him of a face Bells had made once) – and his nonexistent innards twisted. Was it wrong to hate this man who had done him no wrong other than be the current courter of his only parent? Probably. But normalcy was hard to come by for him these days, so for once Mort decided to be a good ol’ fashioned stupid, selfish teenager; he would be resistant ‘til the end.
His stomach rumbled as if in agreement. Or maybe it was protesting the rich food he had stuffed himself with. Oh Jack, augh . . .
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Posted: Tue May 15, 2012 12:53 am
The humerus is what comprises the upper arm. The radius is on the same side as the thumb, with the ulna being lateral to it.
Callista’s face wrinkled. “Something bothering you, lad? You look like you’re about to set something on fire with those eyes.”
At the styloid processes lie the small bones called carpals. Carpals comprise the wrist. Attached to them are metacarpals which make the hands. Mort stared down at the scattering of parts, eyes pinned on the tabletop, hands moving almost of their own accord as he moved these things that way, those the other. It would go through many incarnations, but it would be perfect.
It had to be.
“Lad?”
“Mrr?” Mort craned his head up, surprised to find it stiff. Had he been in the same position for that long?
Callista pointed to the slender piece of heated metal at the end of her tongs. “This look long enough?”
“Err . . .” He extended his arm out and glanced between them, judging. “Think s-so, yeah. Go ahead.” She nodded and went back to her forge to soften its edges while the metal was still hot. Thankfully his new arm was barely an inch or so longer, but adjustments still had to be made.
Mort was forever grateful that she took on the parts involving fire – he honestly wouldn’t have known how to approach it otherwise. Before him lied a dozen or so nuts Callista had courteously smoothed out for him, a spattering of small hinges, countless screws, and the tools needed to refine them into something more than random parts. Soon the peryton would supply him with the outer plating and bones, but for now he would have to work on what parts of the skeleton he could. In this case, the hand.
Callista was a fan of blasting music while she worked, so over the roar of the fire and the clang of her hammer Mort could hear the sound of classic rock. At first he was certain that he’d never get anything done with such a clamor in the background, but he found that if he made a mantra in his head the noise softened to only a buzz in the background. In this case, factoids about the body part he was recreating seemed appropriate.
Phalanges make up the fingers, three in each save the thumb. There are twenty-six bones total in each hand. He picked up one of the hinges, a power screwdriver, and one of the smaller metal parts, assembling them in a way to let him drill a screw through one of the hinge’s holes into it; its second hole would be used to anchor it to the other large “phalange” that would come behind it. The sound the power tool made him wince at first; loud noises made zombies restless by nature, and knowing there was fire in the vicinity . . .
His hands grew jittery and made it impossible to get the tiny screw in at a straight angle. Focus. The periosteum is the membrane that contains nerves and blood vessels. Beneath it is the smooth compact bone we see in x-rays. Wires would be his veins, metal his bone, electricity his blood. The screw was pulled out, nudged delicately into place once more, and twisted through the hole.
One down, Jack knew how many more to go.
Mort grabbed the appropriate-sized finger bone to connect. Underneath is cancellous bone, which is porous but supple. These layers protect the jelly-like bone marrow within. I should ask Bells out.
. . . That wasn’t a factoid, brain. He braced for the howl of the spinning screwdriver and set the metal bones in place, frowning. It had been a while since he thought about Amity, let alone the witch he had left behind, and that was on purpose: Mort had wanted to calm down before approaching the subject. Now was as good as any he supposed. There was the memory of the bittersweet encounter they’d had before his mother had stomped in and dragged him away, and all the complicated emotions along with it, storming, stampeding –
– Or . . . maybe it wasn’t so complicated now that he had a chance to step back. He could pick at them one by one here. Sure there were still things he needed to patch up with Gene, but he would tackle those when he chose to confront her. Again he spaced out, lightly touching a finger to his lips. It tasted of metal, but he could still recall her sweet taste of red. His hand was cold (or rather, lukewarm to him), but he still remembered how her heat had settled into his bones and made him melt.
“What are you thinking about, eh?” came Callista’s voice as she walked over, munching on a grilled leek. It was only then that Mort realized he had at some point begun to grin widely during his recollection, and he had the grace to let it drop back into a more neutral expression. The peryton laughed as she leaned against the table. “Well?”
“S-Stuff.”
She waved her food at him accusingly. “C’mon, lad, you know I’ll prod you about it until either you break or my hubby steals me, and he’s staying away from us today; made sure of it. So you might as well.”
“. . . School stuff.”
Callista gave him a look that told him she knew he was being purposefully difficult but bit anyway. “Amityville, right? Heard a lot of strange things are going on there.”
“Could s-say that.” Mort tried to ward her away by looking like he was going to become one-minded on his work again, but she remained regardless.
“Not anything to smile about if I remember right. So I’m guessing it’s something more personal. I’ll go with . . . a ghoul.”
Well, he supposed with a sigh, it was pretty easy to guess. Callista sensed she was right and smiled, eating the rest of her leek smugly. “You asked her out yet?”
“No.”
“Ah come on, lad, why not?”
“Mrrr . . .” He picked up the metal finger, examined it, and then used it to scratch his chin as if in thought, grinning in spite of himself. “N-Not sure, actually. Guess just scared is all.”
“Of what? Worst she’d say is no.”
“More like worst would be M-Mama finding out.”
Laughing, Callista straightened off the table and ruffled his hair playfully. “Your ma’s gotta learn to cut the leash,” she commented, heading back to the forge. “Live a little, lad! Can’t go through life not doing things because of her or because you’re scared’ve the consequences. Part of the intrigue is getting it wrong, you know?”
Yet though the zomboil nodded his head at her advice, and though the decision to ask was starting to solidify in his brain, as Mort returned to hinges and screws he couldn’t help but wonder, How many times can you get something wrong before something goes really awry?
And then he remembered: Focus. All things in good time. Keep calm and carry on. This now, the other later. Doubts about what might happen won't do him any good if he can't even stay in the present. Be a man, man!
The arm bones are surrounded by many major muscles groups which supply them the strength to move and grasp. These are the deltoids, biceps, triceps, forearm . . .
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Posted: Wed May 16, 2012 1:37 am
Today Gregory had been promised something fun, and he was a’titter with excitement. For three days after the dinner he’d hardly seen his brother around the house, and when he did see Mort he looked so tired that not even video games pleased him - so being invited to do something together raised the demon’s spirits. It was a bit curious that Mort had chosen the gym of all places, but rather than have them start working on exercise together, he led them to the back where the open courts were located. There were several apportions divided by a thinly colored barrier so that multiple battles could take place within without disturbing another’s spar.
Mort led him to the closest one, motioning for Greg to move opposite of him. “Will be testing new arm today,” he said, taking off his baggy coat to reveal the metallic left arm beneath. “N’ thought would be good time f-for spending with brother.”
Greg stared in awe at it. Mostly for its shininess. He bobbed his head eagerly, pleased that he would get to take part in a battle. Maybe he would learn a trick or two! The demon scuttled over to the other side of their allotted “field”, grinning like a jack-o-lantern. “Who go first?” he asked.
“Worry ‘bout stretching first. Need to prep too.” And as Greg took his recommendation to heart, Mort went through the motions Callista had made him memorize to make sure the arm was secure and functioning. Fine motor skills, regular motor skills, mobility, rotation, flexibility. Was there a delay between the command from his brain and the action occurring? Did it chafe against his flesh or hang too loosely? Was the energy flowing through the wires correctly? So many variables to watch for, and that was without leaving wiggle room for whatever might happen in battle to the automail.
Most importantly, however, was energy control. Mort sucked in a breath, concentrated, and directed electricity through the arm in as concentrated a flow as he could manage. It was one thing to send bolts out of his brain or hands, that was just grabbing the FEAR he needed and sending it out. But collecting it and keeping it in a steady flow was something else entirely. “You need to do this at least several times a day,” Callista had advised. “This is fulminium, a b*****d child from the union of silver, copper, and FEAR. It’s gotta be fed until the flow of FEAR is more stable and connected between it and its wielder; otherwise it loses its conductivity over time and rusts, and things go to hell after that. If you’re not careful, it’ll turn into just a hunk of metal.”
What she hadn’t mentioned was how hungry it could get; the first few days he had almost been frightened of its cravings. There wasn’t sentience per se, but Mort could feel a sort of instinctual knowing from the arm, in the way a wild creature does. It had its own minute hum that had begun to worm its way into his ear, a separate sound and quality from what his brain produced. There were no feelings or thoughts being pressed into his mind so much as the knowledge of its presence and how foreign it was to his body. But as long as he kept feeding the fulminium his FEAR and energy, things would be okay. Hopefully. FEAR was flexible by nature after all.
“Moooooort, can we go now?” whined Gregory, hopping from foot to foot.
“Mrr? Yeah.” Mort clapped his hands together, the sensation of flesh on metal curious to feel. Putting himself in a sideways stance, the zomboil planted his feet apart and put his metal arm up defensively. “Try n’ attack,” he told his brother.
One second later the stocky demon was all but on top of him, a fist smashing downwards against his defense. Mort knew he could hit harder than that, but he supposed Greg had taken up some concentration on making sure he’d gotten there fast. “Good!” he said to Greg, keeping the fist at bay with his arm. Now let’s see what it can do. Brow furrowing, he briefly disconnected the circuit he’d created in the automail arm and let some of the contained energy surge through it and into Greg’s body; their contact facilitated a quick response as he backed off with a yelp.
“New toy hurts!” Greg commented with a pout, flexing his arm as if to prepare another swing. Mort rushed him before he could, a metal punch to his gut forcing him back further. The demon returned the favor with a growl, taking his next hit with one arm and using the other to swing. Their fight came to a pause moments later when each checked the other’s fist, their heads inches from one another.
“Not going easy on Greg, right?” the demon teased, the mouth on his gut licking its lips hungrily.
“Nope,” Mort answered simply before delivering a shock through both hands that caused Gregory to howl and push him away. With his hands beginning to look singed from the electricity, Gregory opted to rush his brother with a headbutt, catching him in the torso and driving him to the barrier. Mort yelped as his horns dug into his flesh and tried to send a bolt at his head to get him off. Strangely, white sparks were seen around his automail arm instead of the usual yellow, and rather than arcing from his fingers they simply fizzled out; the zomboil found his vision blurring momentarily.
The hell . . . ?
Well, that was a fluke. Grasping Gregory’s hair, Mort tugged as hard as he could until his brother couldn’t handle it and slid away, horns dripping with congealed blood. Greg thought it was time to show what Darkmouth had been teaching him and, rubbing his head, summoned a giant serrated mouth from thin air to bother him. “Shouldn’tve touched Greg’s hair!” he shouted, smirking as his creation managed to grab ahold of Mort’s leg. It lifted him several feet in the air and slammed him down on the ground before disappearing, only holes in his leg a sign that it had been there at all.
To Gregory’s surprise, however, Mort didn’t stay down long at all. In fact, other than favoring his other leg now he hardly looked battered by the attack. The demon’s brow furrowed suspiciously as his brother pushed his glasses up in the most casual manner. The metal arm looked scuffed, sure, but . . . other than some bruising he looked just fine. In the past that illusion had usually been enough to claim victory, but now . . .
“Getting better a-at FEAR using, mrr?” Mort’s stitched lips split into a grin as his eyes began to glow faintly. “Same.”
Before Greg knew it, his brother’s head opened up and let out a jettison of green lightning. Upon contact, the demon began to spasm with pain, and much as he tried to take a swing of revenge at his brother, the electricity coursing through him made his movements jittery and off-target from where he intended. “HOLD. STILL,” he growled, unable to keep up as the electricity ran through him like green fire.
Mort maneuvered himself behind his fumbling brother, balling his right hand into a fist. As he aimed at Gregory’s back, the air became charged around it, giving the punch an extra dose of force. Gregory went flat on his face, shaking and wailing as he recovered and flipped onto his side. “OW OW OWOWOWOWOWOWO. U-UNCLE!” cried the demon helplessly, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender.
Mort could actually see the tears forming in those wide eyes and, feeling bad, helped him up and gave a reassuring pat on the back; when the growl of pain reminded him how stupid it was to try that area, he settled for the shoulder. “Did pretty g-good,” he complimented. “Learning at school? Keep practice. Maybe will try again later when perfected model is done.”
Gregory’s only response was to sniffle.
“Go wash up. Will be with in a sec.”
Another sniffle, but at least this time accompanied by a nod.
When Gregory had left for the bathroom, Mort turned his attention to the arm, frowning. It had fared the battle well enough, but . . . white lightning? What was that about? He tried to concentrate his FEAR again, but nothing manifested. Nothing happened on the second, third, or fourth tries either. He leaned against the barrier, exhausted from the attempts and sore from where both the horns and teeth had pierced him. A side-effect of the fulminium? he wondered, wiggling his fingers to begin the fine motor skills test with a tired sigh. Callista hadn’t mentioned anything like it though.
Mrrr. It would require further testing.. Preferably after a shower and a nap.OOC Info BATTLE LOGInitiative For Mort + Greg = 18, 15MORT goes first = 2,3 (0) GREG = 3,4 (1; MORT HP: 39) MORT = 6,3 (3; GREG HP: 27) GREG: 1,1 (UBER FAIL) MORT = 7,2 (3; GREG HP: 24) GREG = 2,6 (2; MORT HP: 37) MORT = 3,2 (0) GREG = 2,2 (0) MORT = 4,6 (4; GREG HP: 20) GREG = 2,4 (0) MORT = Y1 Eye miss GREG = 3,6 (3; MORT HP: 34) MORT = 6,2 (2; GREG HP: 18 ) GREG = Y1 BC HIT (5; MORT HP = 29) MORT = Y2 TF HIT (3 for 2 turns; GREG HP: 15) GREG = 4,1 (0) MORT = 5,2 (1 + 3; GREG HP: 11) GREG = 3,2 (0) MORT = 8,4 (6; GREG HP: 5) GREG CRAI. BATTLE END.Attempts given for Y1 FEAR to activate post battle: 5 Failed attempts: 4 in a row Conclusion: Well at least he never rolled a 1 for it 83
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Posted: Thu May 17, 2012 9:36 pm
What better to conduct research with than the interweb? Flipping his PreC on and letting it load on the kitchen table, Mort leaned back in the chair and stretched. The fulminium arm lay to the left of him, quiet and still as a statue. No humming came when it wasn't connected to him. He could have fooled himself into thinking it was just a piece of metal artwork really, and not some experimental material that fed off his own FEAR.
Cutting off HIM before it could boot (the last thing he wanted was to get distracted currently), Mort entered 'fulminium' into the search engine and began to comb through the links given. Not once did it mention anything about white lightning, but . . . he learned it was rarer and more expensive than he imagined. Not something Callista could have acquired without a large bag of seeds or some wealthy, generous friends.
Mort frowned, wondering.
As he clicked open a new tab to check his email, he happened to spot the date in the top right corner of the computer screen. A bit of math told him that today marked, what . . . two and a half weeks? The number startled him; in all honesty his vacation had blurred together into hours rather than days and after a while he had just lost count altogether. He had even made a regular schedule he adhered to: wake up, minor house chores, gym time, battling care, nap, video games, dinner, and then more work fine-tuning the auto mail arm until he felt tired enough to go to bed. Never before had he slept so much, but even though he didn't have to it still did wonders on his body and mind.
No more nightmares, no more stress, no more Hunters or Insanity. He was starting to get too used to it. Ramona hadn't mentioned him going back, and he got the feeling she purposefully ignored the topic of Amityville in case it spurred him to remember he was on vacation, not withdrawing. And he had a better feeling that she wished he would.
For the first time in seventeen days, Mort turned his phone on and scrolled through the beginning of his contact list to text someone other than family. He had told Belladonna he probably wouldn't contact her while he was away due to his mother, but . . . two and a half weeks seemed a bit much. He owed her at least a sign that he was fine.Text to Belladonna Hey sorry for not texting earlier. How are things?
Mort eventually shuffled away, not wanting to be caught creeping on Gregory's me-time. When he returned to the kitchen, he caught the final seconds of his phone lighting up and snatched it to read the response; ah Bells and her fast responses! He grinned as he read the message, glad that she was busying herself and doing things while he was out.Text to Belladonna Good to hear! I thought you were already magical though. Text to Belladonna Anything been going on at school since I left? Text to Belladonna Hopefully they'll be nicer there; the lot I saw were all kinds of amused and unimpressed. War ones were okay when they weren't beating me up. But yeah I'd love to see your costume. Thinking about coming back soon actually, home's getting stuffy.
Gregory's voice sounded much more distinct now; he was continuing his musical antics beyond the confines of his room. It was a touch hard to concentrate on writing a text that would lead in to the question that had been burning in his mind for some time when your brother was belting out. Was it a good idea to ask over the phone anyway? Or face to face? Chilled out or not, Mort was still Mort with all the anxiety of confrontation still hanging on him like well-worn clothes.
Really, he was half-expecting something to happen to delay him again. Or something to go wrong. Something always did at any rate.
Right now, that something was himself.Text to Belladonna Feeling loads better actually! The nightmares stopped. Project's coming to a head and I've done some toying around with it, so it hasn't been dull. Thor's still far from being perfect, but it's getting there.
"I was wondering if"
"I know we haven't talked about what we've"
"idk if you're interested"
"OTL OTL OTL OTL"
Eventually, sighing, he just settled on something simple. And even then he stared at it for a while before sending. Text to Belladonna Well I clocked Greg with it a bit to test battle capabilities, that was fun. Video games here and there, some time at the gym, ate somewhere fancy for Mother's Day. It feels so normal here, no wonder people don't believe us about the Hunters. Kinda nice in a way.
"Uh. A friend." He tucked the phone closer to him as the demon tried to peer at the screen. Really he did not need their mother knowing about it.
"Who friend?"
"No-one y-you know."
This did not satisfy Gregory's curiosity, and without warning his hand rocketed towards the clutched phone. The brothers got into a tug-of-war punctuated by Gregory's guffaws as Mort growled order for him to let go. He was too afraid to send a shock lest it ruin his phone indefinitely; Mama would not pay for a new one on those grounds. Gregory's extra mouth nipped at him and forced him to let go, and with a triumphant cry the demon began to scan through his messages while Mort, with mixed emotions of disgust and horror, tried to find a way to get it back - he'd deal with the ruined shirt later.
"Stop!" he cried, trying to wrench his brother's arm down. But Gregory was like an immovable mountain, shuffling different directions to avoid having the zomboil in his face. He looked positively tickled at their exchange and saw fit to add his own words to it.Text to Belladonna ill be more glad to c u miss u so baddddd. well do the kissing all day
"Mort and Ghoulie sittin' in a tree~" Gregory sang mockingly. "K-I-S-S-I-N-G~" Although he did frown a bit at how quickly Belladonna had caught onto him. He'd have to be more careful how he typed. Problem was there was a silly brother trying to stop him which made things very hard . . . He'd have to remove him from the equation. He turned himself with a sharp twist and commanded his second mouth to let Mort go, throwing him against the cabinets as he made his escape to his room, whereupon the door was locked.
Thankfully zombies were very slow. Gregory would have more time yet to wreak some havoc. Now, how to text like Mort . . . He read over some of his other messages and forced himself to click all the buttons necessary to look "dramatically correct". Though seriously, who went through all that effort for stupid texts?AyeAvast Text to BelladonnaSorry about him. He was right about the kissing though, we should totally do that when I get back. I miss those.
"Greg, I will knock down this damn door if you don't give it back!" Mort threatened, anger clarifying his sentence in full.
"And if Mort breaks the door, Greg will eat the phone and tell Mama about Mort's ghoulie friend," Gregory shot back. "And Mama will be mad at Mort for breaking things and making Greg cry." He cackled at the loud curse his brother growled in response, oblivious to the fact that swallowing evidence wouldn't help his case. But this hex, hmm . . . could she do that? What would happen? More importantly, did he want to find out?
The answer was a sound no. Gregory liked keeping everything on him in place thanks.AyeAvast Text to Belladonnaplz no crses greg is mesin w bro bc its funny 2 c him mad. r u teh gul mama saw @ scul? AyeAvast Text to Belladonnawill give bak 2 mort if u say yes 2 a date w me
Gregory knew he'd won. There was no noise coming outside his door; his brother had probably left to lick his wounds. The demon had his back turned to the window, though, and was unaware of the figure slowly opening it as he found a picture this Belladonna had sent and began to croon over the pigtailed prettyness . . .
And then, her response! He was an upstanding, endearing gentleman! Gregory had no idea what the word "endearing" meant, but it was probably a very good compliment - and he'd gotten two! Eeeee~ "Greg is a gentleman!" he proclaimed excitedly.
His bashful reaction only lasted so long, though. There was a wind coming into the room that wasn't there before and it would bring in insects and things he didn't want in his sacred home. But when Greg turned to figure out how that was, his face had a lovely reunion with Mort's fist instead and sent the demon staggering into his bedpost. The phone clattered to the floor and was picked up by the zomboil's second hand (currently detached along with the appropriate arm) and, like a snake, wound its way to the door to slide the phone through the crack.
"G-Greg is . . . a gentleman . . ." moaned the demon, still reeling but with a slack-jawed grin in spite of the pain.
Mort said nothing and simply let himself out the room after unlocking the door, snatching the phone back up to review the damage his brother had caused. Sweet Sally, his brother was an idiot. It took him a bit to type with only one thumb available, but Mort wanted to get the all-clear to her as soon as possible.AyeAvast Text to BelladonnaPhone retrieve success. Greg's no gentleman tyvm. What were you saying about a fight? AyeAvast Text to BelladonnaYeah I saw that. Not surprised, he pulls stunts like that just to bug me. Why would I get mad? You weren't hurt were you?
Following that line of thought, he made a new tab on the computer and searched "lucid dreaming". He was pretty tired of having his unconsciousness being tampered with.
Bar a battle with students, the last option remaining was . . . Oh Jack.
Okay, maybe he was over thinking it. Maybe there was some new student menace or a creeperteria concoction gone wrong, or something other than the damn white cloaks. Amityville wasn't known to be normal by any means, and Mort could testify to that. But Bella's message did nothing to ease his concern; if anything, withholding information like that only made him more worried. Why couldn't she just tell him now and get it over with? Why be a tease? Aghhhh.
Then again . . . Mort wasn't one to talk about being upfront about things. He should probably try veering back to the original point.AyeAvast Ok, if you say so. I'm glad nothing bad happened. How's Lanna doing? Does she miss me?
While he waited for her response, Mort relocated his things to his room and locked the door - at the least nothing else would distract or otherwise threaten the phone. Jack, Fate needed to stop messing with him! Laying stretched out on his back on the bed, Mort replied with a little smile. "Of course I did!"
But he couldn't just leave the text like so. Bells was coming back to that point for a reason, so he needed to put more meat in his reply. Mrrr . . . He wondered if the witch knew what he was going to get at.AyeAvast Text to BelladonnaOf course I did! You think I could leave like I did and forget you?
Just "fond"? Mort snorted good-humoredly. If their make out session on his bed was just "fond", he could only wonder what beyond that lay. Ah wait, the second text reworded it "excessively fond", which made the snort evolve into a chuckle. Well better than nothing, right? But he knew they were getting close, scratching the surface, and Mort was all too certain now that Bells knew where he was going with this. And she was just going to dance coquettishly around it until he got the nerve to push forward. Ghouls.AyeAvast Text to BelladonnaThat's one way of putting it eh? The feeling's mutual.
. . . Wait a second. He took another look at her last text, and then the zomboil quickly threw together a second message at her.AyeAvast Text to BelladonnaWhat do you mean happened before?
A memory dredged itself up, back when he was just beginning to feel the effects of Insanity. "I'm used to lonely," Bells had said then before biting her lip. Was that what she had referred to? As had happened at the time Bells had said it, again Mort felt a pang of emotion hit him.AyeAvast Text to BelladonnaIt doesn't sound strange at all. I'm sorry you had that trouble though . . . But remember what I said? I promised I wasn't going anywhere, and I'm sticking to it if you want me to. AyeAvast Text to BelladonnaI'll come back with a smile just like I promised. But only if I come back as your boilfriend.
Was asking really so difficult in the end . . .?
He mulled over that, feeling more and more anxious with each passing second. It was just asking to be in a relationship - that shouldn't have been so difficult to do. This wasn't marriage, sir, Jack damn. Callista was right, the worst that would happen would be getting a no. Though he highly doubted it at this point. So why was he so nervous . . .?
Ah, right. He was still expecting something to go wrong. Hadn't something always done so when he was involved? Some wrong word, or action, or just something plain getting in the way?
Mort's fears, however, were short-lived once he read the text. Though he was lying on his bed, the weight that lifted on him was such that he felt like he was floating at least two inches off the sheets. when he realized he wasn't, the zomboil sat up and gave a few fist pumps, stifling several "YES!"s in case someone overheard him. So relieved was he that Mort didn't mind being a bit cocky with his next message, grinning boyishly.AyeAvast Text to BelladonnaI might ask for more than just hugs. wink AyeAvast Text to BelladonnaDunno if you'll be able to keep up. Undead have great endurance you know. We also don't have to breath. ; D AyeAvast Text to BelladonnaOnly one way to find out: I'll test you when I come back. ; D I wouldn't mind a heaving chest if it's yours though. It's a very nice pair if you can't tell, almost hypnotic. First time I met you I couldn't stop staring.
Teenage things meaning boobs. Jack, the boobs. Okay, champ, it's only the first day - don't over do it with the innuendos. But Bells kept leading him on, it was so tempting! Hell, he felt like his face was going to split in two with how big he was grinning at this point.AyeAvast Text to BelladonnaAnd here I thought I was asking out a modest ghoul! But since you noticed . . . sorry about the staring. Really couldn't help it when you kept squishing your minipet into them. Also helped that you were the first ghoul to talk to me at length. AyeAvast Text to BelladonnaBut seriously . . . thanks for being patient. I know I'm difficult. AyeAvast Text to BelladonnaI'm glad you did too. And I hope you stay very, very happy . . . That smile does wonders you don't know. Half a month's long enough. I'll go let my mom know I'm ready to head back in two days. Think you can wait just a bit more for me?
"Pumpkin, it's going to get cold!"
"Coming, coming!"AyeAvast Text to BelladonnaGlad I am too. I'll text again when we're on the way back. Don't get in trouble between now and then ok Bells? I want that pretty smile to be the first thing I see when I get back.
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Posted: Mon May 21, 2012 11:57 pm
Two days, he’d said. So one day to figure out something that had been nagging him. Mort could spend the whole day replaying last night in his head and grin like an idiot, but he figured he’d have more than enough time to do so after he went back to Amityville anyway. Better than replay it, live it.
He took his backpack of plans, the automail arm, and let his mother know he was going out to the gym and to say bye to some people. Ramona nodded without looking up, looking engrossed in her magazine. Her eyes almost seemed to be lit up about whatever the article was saying.
The hour at the gym went by quickly to Mort, probably because he did allow himself to bask in the idea of being a boilfriend. Exercise had originally been to build up the endurance to wield his project, but . . . it also had an aspect of vanity to it now. It was particularly hard for him to incite muscle growth when his body wanted nothing more than to decay, but a daily regimen coupled with electrical stimulation from his FEAR seemed to be doing the trick; he was doing heavier weights with less trouble at any rate. On his way out Mort made sure to ask if there was another Grindstone Gym closer to Amityville – and luckily there was. He loathed the idea of giving up more cash to cancel his membership fee. What had once been a place he would have scoffed at was becoming more of a haven: somewhere outside the house to be while his mother and/or her boilfriend were around too long, somewhere he could do something with himself and feel productive.
It was strange, viewing Ramona as this person he wanted to avoid. On the walk to Highpoint he promised himself to be more amicable than he had been most of the vacation. No need to be so distant, even if she didn’t believe most of his story . . . Really, Mort was sure it wasn’t so much that Ramona didn’t believe so much as she didn’t want to. Not much better, but something.
When the zomboil walked into the smithy, he heard something like glass breaking and some shouts. Metallic clomps heralded Priam’s entrance as the satyr growled something in Greek and passed Mort by without so much as a glance. Mort remained still as a statue until he was sure the satyr had gone to the other side of the small building before going the opposite direction, down the hall where the forge laid. There he saw Callista working on cracking open a strange speckled rock, lacking her usual ear-busting music and with a face that looked a little redder than usual. Or maybe that was the trick of the firelight.
Highpoint would have been his second haven had Priam not been around, honestly. In spite of the obvious show of fire, Mort was comforted by the rustic smells and Callista’s jovially brusque, if not maternal, nature. This was the woman whom, when he was still lost between adoptions, he had hoped would take him in. But the peryton had been pressed for seeds then and still staid precariously close on her paychecks to this day. A second mouth would have pushed her on the road to destitution for sure.
She had been giving him an unreadable look since he stepped in, but as much as Mort wanted to press he about what happened he knew better than to try. “Hey,” he greeted, trying a smile and wondering once more how Bells could make them when she wasn’t feeling it at heart.
Even Callista could tell his was half-hearted. “Hey yourself,” was her gruff response, followed by a loud tang as her hammer fell on the rock and created several cracks. This occurred several more times before Mort worked up the nerve to approach and sit across from her, slinging his backpack down. And then an extra two more before he found his tongue.
“Why put up with him? Could do much better.”
Tang. Tang.
The harsh sound rang in his ears that close and made him flinch, but he remained on the chair nevertheless. Reason told him she wanted privacy, but . . . He wanted to stay. Listen. Wait. Mort didn’t know if Callista had other friends to talk with, but this might very well be the last time he’d see her for a long while.
TANG! The rock split apart and revealed the blue crystals within, jagged structures that looked sharp enough to cut. They also looked barely disturbed from their spots; Callista’s hammering might have been with anger, but the precision had not been lost.
Her stern expression softened after surveying her work, her body seeming to slump as she set the hammer down. “Don’t think I can, Mort. Getting too old to play the game.” She wiped her hands down on her apron with a sigh. Mort had always known Callista was somewhere in her middle forties or so, but she had always had this inner fire in her that made her as youthful as a teenager; it was only now, with her ruddy face and stained clothes, that Mort could see her as she really was: a tired, overworked, over-the-hill aged woman.
And he felt like a little scareling again with the greatest of impulses to hug this woman’s skirts and tell her she’d be okay because Death Knight Mortimer was here to help. Make the bad man own up to his mean words or leave her alone. Find some way to give her the money to get her a nice house with a nicer view in the forest where he would be able to visit whenever he wanted.
Well, he did have the ability to grant some of that.
The sound of his backpack zipper seemed a lot louder than it actually was in their silence. Mort dug under the plans for a bit and hefted out a rugged brown seedpurse about two handspans wide at its bottom. It was filled to the brim and tugged closed by a secure rope knot. When he nudged it forward, Callista gave it a blank look. “For your work,” Mort explained, taking his hand away. “Know you said was free, but . . . I-It’s a tip.”
A tip that literally comprised his whole wallet’s worth. The peryton gazed at his seedpurse for a moment before her clouded face broke with the sound of a self-depreciating chuckle. “I didn’t know you had a job.”
“Gamegrave, a-at the Maul.” It was the teensiest of white lies. He had sent his application two days before and had yet to hear back.
“Still with the video games? Heh, shouldn’t be surprised . . . This isn’t your whole savings, is it?”
“No. S’just some parts’ve paychecks.” Not a white lie this time; just a normal one.
“… Alright, lad,” she relented, sliding the seeds to her. “You didn’t have to, but I appreciate it.”
Mort dug around for several sheets of paper in his packback before he zipped it closed. His original intention beyond saying goodbye was to ask how she had gotten her hands on something as rare as fulminium, but now . . . He didn’t have it in him to pry. Sometime later maybe. “M’going back to school tomorrow,” he said, setting the pages down before her and moving to join her on the other side.
“Oh? Guess that means we should do this fine-tuning right. These’re your notes, right?”
She didn’t expect a hug to be her answer. Callista gasped softly at how Mort clung to her, but her strong arms embraced him nonetheless. She might, might have trembled.
~ ~ ~
Mort returned home close to 7pm and was welcomed with the smell of soup. Carrot, scabbit, and some green leaf he didn’t know of, all in a spicy rue. Ramona looked as though she hadn’t left her post in the living room, the only sign that she had moved being that she had a novel instead of a magazine before her face. She looked up when she heard the door close. “Good last day?”
“Yeah.” Letting his backpack fall by the nearest chair, Mort went to spoon himself a bowl of dinner. It was only when he was going to his seat that he noticed something strange: his phone was on the table. Had he left it there? He could have sworn it had been charging in his room . . . Yes, it had full battery. Maybe he had unwittingly carried it to the kitchen for a late breakfast, left it on the tabletop while he browsed the interweb, and then forgot about it when he headed to the gym? Or maybe –
Ramona nodded without looking up, looking engrossed in her magazine. Her eyes almost seemed to be lit up about whatever the article was saying.
Her eyes almost seemed to be lit up.
“How was Callie and, oh . . . what was his name?” Ramona puckered her face. “The goatman.”
“They were fine. Sad to see go.”
Inwardly he scoffed. Mama wasn’t the type to sneak around in her sons’ private lives . . . was she? No, of course not. She was overprotective, not – not . . . invasive. But the more Mort thought about it, the less certain he was. Ramona hadn’t changed, but his perception of her had. His perception about almost everything of his life prior to school had changed. Would his mother really go to such lengths about finding out what went down while he was out of the house? Had she been expecting something would be revealed in his messages? He had tried to tell her . . . everything save his new relationship status had been put out in the open for her to believe or not to believe.
He felt cold even as he ate the warm soup.
Ramona bookmarked her place and came over, lightly pushing some hair behind his ear. “Is everything alright?” she asked, congenial still but with an edge of concern over his succinct answers. “You look a little sad yourself.”
“Mrrr . . .” He spooned another mouthful in and swallowed. “Kinda sad to leave. Was nice being back home. Problem’ll be c-catching up at school.”
Ramona took the seat by him. “That’s what your friends are for, no? Did you miss them?”
“Yeah.”
Silence reigned again as he finished his soup off and went to get himself another bowl. His mother looked on the edge of saying something, but she didn’t utter a word until Mort chanced a glance her way. “Mortie, dear . . . You promise you’ll keep in contact more when you leave?” Ramona asked gently. “I really was worried for a while when you stopped sending messages.”
Swallowing rue-soaked scabbit, he nodded instead.
“And you promise you’ll tell me everything that goes on? Your classes, your friends, everything?”
Another nod. He had an empty mouth but no words. Just an unending look between mother and son. There was something she was trying to say with those almond-shaped eyes, Mort knew, but he was rotten at interpreting body language. Why couldn’t she be direct about this like she always was about everything else? Why ignore what he had said before – about his parts with the Hunters and Horsemen – and yet ask that she be kept in the informative loop she refused to acknowledge?
Why won’t you believe me, Mom?
At last she broke their quiet conversation with a perfect little smile and a kiss on the cheek. “Remember to go to sleep early, pumpkin,” she told him as she eased her chair back and stood. “And make sure you have all your things packed. I don’t want to make several trips.”
“I know.”
Ramona bent over and kissed his forehead this time. “I love you.”
“Love you too,” Mort echoed, tired, wishing he knew what else to say.
She looked as if she wanted to add more – or perhaps Mort was misinterpreting the pause his mother gave as she looked into his eyes – but then she made her way to the living room, picked up her book, and retired for the evening.
The vacation had been meant to clear his head of Insanity and impulsivity, but Mort had found even more clarity than he had meant in the past two and a half weeks. Change had settled upon him in ways he had not imagined, both during school and during his stay and home, and there was still more to come. And while change in and of itself was a natural part of life, he couldn’t help but feel a bit grim about what else Fate had to throw at him. What new niches of his personality would come to life? What new hellish endeavors would he have to take in the coming days?
Mort went to bed with conflicting questions but had a sound sleep his last night in the McNeal home, dreaming of the days when he was a little death knight and thought the best reward for his good deeds was a free meal, praise, or better yet a peck on the cheek, and where the most he had to worry about was whether or not dinner had meat in it.
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