Above ground, the oppressive stench and feeling like the weight of the world pressing down on them blew away with the cool afternoon breeze. Peter and Dani parted with promises to meet at the central fountain the next day for a day of questing and combat training. If they were going to face an army of imps, Peter wanted to be as prepared as possible.

I guess I’m going to have to find Warren at school on Monday, he realised. It was not a task he was looking forward to, and Peter cringed at the thought as he climbed the stairs to the church. Why did it have to be him? He’s so angry, like, all the time. He turned the handle to the broom closet and walked into Death’s Abode. What’s he even got to be angry about? He’s loaded, the whole family is. Depositing DB into the nest in front of the fire with a murmured thanks for his vital warning his companion had given in the tunnels, Peter logged out.

The ray of sun was already peeking through the curtain, about to being its inexorable trek across the room. Peter rolled out of bed with a groan before the burning light could track across his face again. He was certain that Warren never had to deal with a badly designed room or the sun shining in his face when he was trying to sleep. The bugger probably has motorised curtain rails, he groused as he pulled the sheets straight enough to be considered ‘made’ for a Sunday morning. If only I knew someone else, anyone else, strong enough to open that damn door. Speaking of open doors, Peter realised his bedroom door was wide open and his mother was standing in it with her arms crossed, leaning on the door.

“Good morning sleepyhead. Bacon and eggs?” Peter’s mother offered.

Surprised but elated, Peter started to give a whoop, realised he was being too loud and tried again in a much softer voice. “Whoo. Thank you mum. See,? Inside voice. Why bacon and eggs though? We haven’t had bacon in months. You said it was too fatty.”

“Do you want cereal?” his mum asked, turning and heading to the kitchen. “Because that’s how you get cereal. Now, go set the table if you want brekkie.”

Moving quickly despite the exhaustion flowing in his veins and the cotton wool in his head, Peter set out the good plates and cutlery. No way I’m having cerea when bacon is an option. Ugh, I need to try actually sleeping one of these nights though. As he put one of the plates down a little harder than intended, however, he saw his mother wince at the sound, mirroring his own discomfort. I guess she’s not sleeping either.

Soon, though, the small apartment was filled with the wafting scent of delicious frying cured pork. The smell of toast followed and soon the only sound was cutlery on crockery and the crunch of crispy bacon and buttered toast. As he ate faster than his mum, as soon as his plate was empty Peter dashed into the bathroom and grabbed two doses of paracetamol, placing one next to his mother’s plate with a glass of water.

She smiled wanly and took the drugs and drank all the water in a single pull. “So, buddy boy Jim,” she rasped out, “are you ready for tomorrow?”

“Yes, Mum.” Peter began clearing the dishes, not making eye contact.

Obviously unconvinced, his mother pressed the issue. “Are you sure? What exams do you have tomorrow?”

Starting the sink running, with his back to his mother, Peter pretended to think for a minute. “Shop A and B. Woodwork and metalwork. They’re pretty simple. Is this metal? Yes? Tick.”

Peter flinched slightly when his mother stepped up behind him and began kneading his shoulders in a not-exactly-un-concerning manner. “I’m sure it’s more involved than that. Didn’t you just have an assignment for metalwork?”

“I did, and got top marks on it.” Thanks to the village smith, he added in his head. I wonder if Averton has a carpenter?

Moving off, his mother lingered in the doorway to the lounge for a moment. “Well, if you’re sure then I trust you Peter. I have some work to sort out, so you can take care of yourself today, can’t you?”

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Nodding perhaps more enthusiastically than he should, Peter confirmed that he was entirely capable of self-sufficiency until his mother left. Then he slumped against the kitchen counter and held his head in his hands. “Oh, I am so screwed.”

“Did you say something, Peter?” Again, the inside voice rule only applies not anyone not a mother. Especially mothers in the lounge room.

Peter leaned into the lounge. “No Mum, just thinking out loud. I’m going back to my room after the wash up is done.”

“Don’t spend all day inside,” his mother admonished from her comfortable seat in the air conditioning. “Go outside and get some vitamin D before you get back to your studies.”

“Okay Mum. I’ll head up to the garden for a bit first and read. Is that alright?” The condensed irony forced Peter to squint.

If his mother noticed, she gave no indication. “Sounds good,” she made a complex gesture and Peter realised she was already halfway in the digital realm.

Peter pulled a face at his mother, and immediately felt guilty about it. He couldn’t apologise though or she’d ask what he was apologising for. Peter returned to the sink and immersed himself in the chore before he could cause himself any more internal conflict. He did his best to find the calm and mostly succeeded. By the time the dishes were clean and shining on the drainer, he had managed to put the incident out of his mind and relax.

Making a cup of tea, he made his way up to the rooftop garden via the stairwell. It took a while longer but he got to avoid the elevator. The garden was the same as always, an oasis of green in a concrete jungle. Peter accessed his music player app and cued up something inspirational by one of the steampunk bands he had discovered. As the uplifting beats streamed directly into his aural nerves Peter began to shuck and jive, but not so much as to spill his tea.

Averton has so many wonderful characters, of course it should have a carpenter. Peter shimmied between two planters and whirled around. Maybe I can spoke that bully’s wheel by getting a score he could never achieve normally. If I make it obvious he cheated someone will definitely ask questions.

The song changed and a more ballad-y melody began. Peter’s movements slowed in time with the beat, waltzing down the walkway with his cup swaying but the liquid inside never quite cresting the brim. Unbeknownst to our hero, the janitor had been feeling somewhat poorly yesterday and had left his mop leaning against the edge of one of the garden beds. In the night, an errant gust had blown it down across the very walkway that Peter was sashaying down. As the unstoppable force encountered an immovable object it all came crashing down.

The nearby plants were treated to a short sharp shower of scalding liquid and a stream of invective as Peter pitied his plight. He cursed service workers everywhere, and the local cleaner in specific. Though his vocabulary was limited, he made up for it with inventiveness. He questioned the intelligence, parentage, sexual persuasion and life choices that brought them to the conclusion that leaving a mop in that location was an acceptable idea. When he finally ran out of steam, Peter picked himself up off the ground and rummaged around in between the plants for his cup.

Sitting on a nearby bench, Peter rubbed his shins for a bit, cancelling the music so he could think clearly. He wiped the dirt out of the cup and inspected it for cracks. Stupid jerk with his stupid mop, Peter complained inwardly, having exhausted his supply of more cutting insults. I could have killed myself. For real. I’d like to take that thing and wrap it around his noggin. Peter stopped and blinked as a metaphorical light bulb sprang to life over his head. I’ve still got that free bo staff download and there’s a nice length of wood, once you remove the head.

With that realisation, Peter did exactly that. He removed the head from the mop by whacking it against the side of the plant bed until it popped off, cleared a space in the centre of the garden as a practice space and loaded up the martial arts tutorial app. For the next hour Peter immersed himself in learning how to breathe when striking, where his feet should be so as to minimise the risk of tripping over either himself or his opponent and how to maintain grip on the handle while keeping the whirling staff moving. It was invigorating, enlivening, exhilarating.

It was also exhausting. At the end of the tutorial, Peter was breathing heavily, sweating and there were spots in front of his eyes that had nothing to do with the app. He collapsed onto the bench with a wheeze, realising just how unfit he had become. Before his operation he had been quite active, thinking nothing of climbing trees, riding his bike or playing a round of Calvin ball. Since that day he had retreated into his room, interested in reading or surfing the internet or occasionally playing a single player game. Anything to avoid the real world.

Not that the real world is doing me any favours right now, Peter acknowledged. If only there was a way to live full time in The Age. That would be wonderful. He stashed the mop handle in the back of the furthest planter where he hoped no-one would find it, grabbed his cup and trudged down the stairs.