Continued from yesterday:
He started simple, with an emailed request for the correspondence course catalogue for the next year. Such an item turning up in Sara's mailbox would hardly raise suspicion.
Step two was harder.
He had to get his hands on some dosh.
Mort’s old clothing - preserved in a box for unknown reasons - had bought the big one after the lightning hit and being soaked in both harbour and Hudson. His useful little gizmos, things that could have made nefarious work a lot easier, were welded together in an interesting lump.
It made an interesting paperweight/letter spike, but beyond that… dross.
Which left the old avenues of picking pockets and small-time hustles.
And wouldn’t you know it? There wasn’t a pack of cards in the entire flat. He briefly considered sleight-of-hand with the hamster as a way of gathering pennies… except the creature was agoraphobic and he'd probably traumatise it.
_Bugger._
Getting people to give him money to go away had worked when he was a smelly street urchin. He doubted it’d work now that he was a regularly-cleaned adult. People were more likely to hit adults than kids, even mutie kids. Trying that trick now would likely get him lynched.
The knock on the door scattered his thoughts to the four winds.
Moments like this always had him panicked. His mind generated horrors from subtle - some kind of legal eagle - to gross - a mob after his and Sara’s mutie hide.
No-one immediately visible through the spy-hole.
“Who'zit?” he rasped.
“Baby-sits,” said a youthful voice.
Mort let the kids in. Only one of them was over four, and that by a few days.
“Where’s Sara?” enquired the eldest. A kid with a checkerboard haircut.
“Out,” Mort managed. “She showed me…” a pause to swallow some lubricating slime, “…‘ow t’ put toons…” another swallow, “…on.”
“Croaky man,” announced a little sprite who couldn’t be more than two. "Croaky man!“
"Mort,” he croaked. God. He even sounded like a bloody toad. _Lessee… crank this up and click *that*, then go there and… voila. The latest in educational TV. With some _Hamtaro_ and _Teen Titans_ thrown in._ He grinned at his accomplishment. Computers weren’t all that much trouble once you knew what did what. “You lot want… sarnies?”
“Sara makes us PBJs,” said the four-year-old.
“Righ’,” he said. _Americans… gah._ Only the yanks would consider putting peanut butter and jam on the same piece of bread and then *eating* it. Not saying that it wasn’t a taste thrill… or that he didn’t like them… it was just that the concept was vaguely disgusting.
“Wozza sarnie?” asked the sprite’s twin brother, who’d followed him.
“Sandwich,” Mort rasped, gesturing with the bread. “Go watch TV.”
“Okeh.”
At least this lot were easy to handle. And not a one of them made a comment on his appearance.
But then, these were all kids who interacted with televised muppet-monsters on a daily basis. For all he knew, they thought he was some kind of learn-to-read critter that just didn’t talk a lot, right now.
They’d learn intolerance soon enough. Possibly when their panicky parents yanked them from his arms in screaming terror.
~
The screaming terror was a long time in coming. Older, school-aged kids practically let themselves in and almost ignored him.
“Wot, no 'allo?”
An older kid, plausibly the sprite’s older sister, shrugged. “You're Sara’s friend. Sara does all the talking.”
That was true. Mort nodded. “Me thoat’s bung,” he gravelled.
The older sister set up her books on a handy patch of floor. “You know, if you play _Snoochie Bears_, the little kid’s’ll fall asleep and we can get our homework done in the quiet.”
“You are *so* dead, Jackie,” said one of the others.
“You got 'omework,” said Mort, “you do it.” He’d liked homework. Nobody was allowed to *bother* him when he was doing homework. He queued up some episodes of the Snoochie Bears on Sara’s computer. “Keeps th’ grey matter… workin’ righ’.”
Moans from most, but not Jackie. She just set to it like a pro.
“Gunna think yer… way out?”
Jackie nodded, pencil moving.
“Good onyer.” He’d tried, at one stage, to learn his way out of the abyss he was in. Unfortunately for him, constant abuse from his peers had made him - errattic… when shut in a whole room full of contemporaries. “Get to th’ top. Sucks at th’ bottom.”
The homework and Jackie-hater glared at his new clothes. “Like *you’d* know.”
“When I can… talk better, boyo… I’ll tell yer… stuff’ll turn yer… hair white.” He needed a drink after that, and soothed his throat with water. “Trust me. I know.”
~
It was getting late. Mort was starting to get worried about Sara’s job interview… or current place of employment… or wherever she’d gone, today.
Had something gone wrong?
Had someone happened to her?
The younger children had slid into unconsciousness in a quasi-incestuous heap on the mattress. Even the older kids were yawning and pondering where to fit themselves for something passing as a nap.
The full rendition of _Ach Du Leiber Augustine_ chimed through the flat. It had gone nine.
Seized by a moment of illogic, Mort bought out a spare candle and lit it from Sara’s vigil light. _Come back,_ he thought. _Don’t abandon us. We couldn’t cope if you abandoned us._ He leaned against the door, peeking down at what he could see of the street.
What was he going to *do*?
What *could* he do?
A knock at the door made him yelp, then dodge over the rugrats to get it. The candle had worked! *Sara* was home!
The woman at the door wasn’t Sara. On the upside, she wasn’t the police, either. She appeared to be tired and just a little strung out from stress. “Oh! You’re Sara’s friend.”
“Mort,” he croaked. “Can’t talk much.”
“I remember Sara saying something about a lightning strike?”
“’S me. Most th’ kids… asleep.” He gestured at the slowly growing tangle of slumbering children. “Guess y’ know… yours.”
“Is Sara…?”
“Went out,” he said. “Ain’t come back.”
The woman came in, gently shaking some older children and scooping up some younger ones. “Proving herself again, probably. She wouldn’t have done that if she didn’t trust you, you know. Girl’s the most punctual creature I ever did meet. Sticks to a schedule better'n glue. Does your people a credit.”
“Whites?” Mort hedged.
“No, silly. Mutants.”
Mort froze. His heart, he swore, stopped. She’d call the police on him. She’d get her angry spouse/lover to beat him into a pulp. She'd find a way to poison them…
“Of course I know,” said the woman. “I’m not college educated, but I'm smart enough to know the signs. Poor girl’s gonna go through hell when she can’t… pass…”
Mort followed her gaze. Sara was just coming in the open door. All fear and trepidation… and shame. Her long fingers were spread across parts of her face. Some of her clothing - job interview gear - was in disarray.
_OmiGod, did someone rape her?_ “Sara?”
“Just a minor skirmish,” she rasped. Her voice was raw. “Hideous timing on my part. My face fell off.” Sara let go, and flaps of skin fell away to reveal beautiful aqua scales. “So much for cheating on my latex budget…”
Mort automatically put the kettle on, readying her 'undertow’ mug for the hot chocolate he knew she desperately needed. He turfed a blinky lad out onto the mattress so she could sit on the chair. “You okay?”
Her hands fiddled with the flaps, trying to piece her old face back together. “It was a good interview,” she said. “I was doing so very well…”
*
“Well, strictly between you, me, and the gatepost, I’m running several small businesses online already. I’m familiar with most web programming languages, Microsoft office software, photoshop, some computer animation programs…”
“Stop… stop,” said Ms Herbig. “You’ll over-qualify yourself.”
“I like to think of it as techno-JOATing,” said Sara. “I’m capable for the job. Practically any job.”
“Do you have any… flaws? Any little quirks that might - youknow - make things a little difficult?”
“I can obsess very easily,” said Sara. “If the problem’s intriguing enough, I won’t put it down. On the opposite end of the scale, I'm easily distracted when I’m bored… I try to ameliorate that by working several projects at once… and then I get bogged down in projects.”
“Just… how many projects can you handle at once?”
“Assuming least-complexity for each… somewhere around… thirty…" Sara blushed. "I’d have to get back to you with the exact figure.”
A bell rang. A single chime that made the entire warren of cubicles stand up in unison. Including that odd blonde girl who struck Sara as being very subtly *wrong* somehow.
“Lunch hour,” said Ms Herbig. “There’s a nice restaurant just around the corner, I’d *love* to find out more about you Miss Essel.”
“Miss *Adrien*… I get that a lot.”
Ms Herbig gave her a blank look.
“Sara Louise? S, L?”
There was the usual clucking embaressment, and a small amount of furforal over pre-meal payment arrangements as they followed the generic exodus into the building’s lobby…
And then fate played its trump card.
A tiny attatchment of skin on the bridge of her nose gave way, forcing the burden of weight onto the piece it was glued to.
Bit by bit, her face fell off.
Ms Herbig screamed.
The entire office staff turned to stare…
*
“…and that’s when the riot started.” Sara sipped her drink. “It was all I could do to get out of there alive. It’s probably on the news…”
“Don’t watch,” said Mort. “Bloody depressin’.”
Tears fell at last. “What am I going to *do*? That was almost regular employment…”
“Just be who you are,” said the mother, sleeping child still draped across one shoulder. “My people used to try and hide, those of us who were pale enough to pass… it rarely worked. And when it failed…” she sighed. “Well. It failed all over the scenery.”
Sara raked her fingers through her hair, incidentally dislodging a swath of loose skin and pulling her tresses into a peculiar shape. “I certainly did *that*, didn’t I?” A bitter laugh. “I need to see the news. I need to see the news, please…”
Maybe it was because she said 'please’. Mort couldn’t help it. He turned on the news and settled back on his haunches as CNN started the story all over again.
It didn’t help that the Media called it, “Terror in the City”.
“I’m lucky to escape with my life,” said Ms Herbig to a reporter. “It was right *next* to me. I actually shook *hands* with a *mutie*…”
They even had security camera footage of the event.
“Oh, sod… I look hideous.”
Mort was next to her in a second, gently prising her fingers away from dead skin and easing her old exterior away. “Never,” he said. "You’re beautiful.“
"I’ll be back in a few,” said the mother. “These little ones need their bed.”
Sara was staring blankly at the screen, shivering slightly as she sipped her drink. “They’re blaming it all on me. One mutant plus one mob equals forty-two injured and one scapegoat.”
“Two scapegoats,” said Mort. “Ain’t leavin’ ya. We can be… a conspiracy.”
Sara laughed, and then cried into his shoulder.
Whatever happened next, he’d never leave. No matter what.
~
What happened next was a small flurry of organisation by the rest of the flat. Children were ferried gently into neighbours’ places. Just so that the authorities wouldn’t be confused by the presence of minors when they came.
The initial mother, Mrs Jones, returned to help Mort treat Sara for shock and to write a statement just in time for the knocks on her door.
“NYPD! Open up!”
“Rats,” muttered Sara. “And I was betting on the social worker. At least Ms Garvallo knows about… youknow. Intellectually, anyway.”
Mrs Jones opened the door. “Can I help you?”
“We have information that a Sara Adrien lives here,” said the male of the duo. “Can we come in?”
Mrs Jones blocked egress. “Long as you don’t have no arrest warrants. That poor girl ain’t done nuthin’ wrong.”
“We just want to talk to her,” soothed the female.
Jones muttered, “Mm-*hm*,” as only a black woman can and stepped aside.
Mort froze in the act of tucking his coat around Sara. Had he ever been identified as a Liberty Island Mutant Terrorist? No. They’d have arrested him in the hospital - *hospitals* - that Sara had initially visited.
Sara was trying to put her face back together without much success. "…terribly sorry about the mess,“ she murmured. ”…i’m such a mess… not really presentable…“
The male exchanged a Look with his partner. "We’ve seen worse,” he offered. “It’s fine. You’re apartment’s very… economical.”
“…necessity rather than intent… just the essentials…”
The female watched the hamster scurry through his tubing. “You keep a hamster?”
“He’s called 'Chucky’,” grated Mort. “She’s got baby… albums of 'im.”
“…i could fetch them easily…”
“You stay put,” said Jones, forcing her back down with one hand. “I'm sure the police are too busy for that.”
The female was the one with the curious fingers. She found the legal pad and Sara’s writing. “You wrote a statement?”
“…practice… so i wouldn’t forget anything.” Sara daintily gulped the last of her drink down. “…got to get it down fresh…”
Mort got to brewing her another cuppa while the police interrogated her. The male of the duo had an amazing ability to find trivial questions, and even seemed surprised that Jones trusted a mutant with her children.
“Half the building trusts her with their kids,” said Mrs Jones. "Sara’s reliable.“
”…i don’t unhinge my jaw…“ Sara mumbled. ”…not built that way…“
"Okay…” drawled the female. “Not that we were going to *ask*.”
Mort gave Sara her third hot, sweet drink for the evening.
“…thank you, dear…”
The male zeroed in on Mort. “And what’s your relationship with Miss Adrien?”
Mort thought about it. “Grateful patient.”
“Patient?”
“Got 'it by… lightnin’,” he said. “Fell inna river. Still gettin' bettah.”
“…they wouldn’t take him in the hospitals,” said Sara. “I tried and tried.”
The sticky-fingered female had found Sara’s fold-out wallet of ID. "Says here you’re sixteen. Awful young to be living with a man.“
"I’m just 'angin’,” said Mort. “Nowhere else t’ go.”
“Mister Toynbee has kept his intentions more than honourable,” said Sara. “Nothing more than a kiss… never on the lips. Only touches socially acceptable flesh. He’s no pervert.”
“Thanks, luv,” he smirked, tipping an imaginary hat.
“That’s an awful lot of ID,” said the male. “You really belong to these organisations?”
“I keep busy,” said Sara.
The female looked at the day planner. “Says here you’re interview was shortly before lunch… how long ago did you come in?”
_Ach du leiber Augustine…_ went the clock. Quarter past. “A little under fifteen minutes, I believe. Why?”
“What were you doing for all that time?”
“Running from angry people,” she said. “The city’s very angry with… *us*, I suppose. Wave a mutie at a crowd and they start throwing rocks.”
“Did you hurt anyone?” said the female.
“No. I’d never hurt anybody… I… I don’t believe violence solves anything.”
“So…” drawled the male. “You live in New York and you don’t own a gun?”
“That seems strange to you? I have little worth stealing, sir. Almost no money. Very few things to protect. I’m small fish. Used to be.”
The male of the duo pulled his partner aside. Mort’s ears managed to pick up the low muttering. “Not exactly my top ten in America’s Most Wanted,” he said. “She doesn’t have the demeanour of a dangerous personality at all. She’s even - honest.”
“There’s still forty-two people in hospital,” whispered the female.
“Most of which were trampled in the mob by the rest of the mob. Our girl here just *ran*. We get her statement, we prevent the media from releasing her address, we do the forensics and prove her innocent. End of story.”
“That’s not going to sit well with the boss. She’s a *mutie*.”
“Just doing our job. Looking at what’s there,” murmured the male. “And what’s there is some kid who’s just trying to get along.”
The female glared at both him and Sara. “Fine. But if the background check turns up anything untoward, we’re bringing her in.”
“She’s a sixteen-year-old doormat,” said the male. “What could she *do*?”
~