In the events of betrayal, that resulted in stolen “company” secrets, which in turn ended in mass murder—one would be stressed. About their mistakes, about their career being virtually over, about their place in this disturbing existence that they try to make sense of, but can’t.
But as the new help slowly, gently, methodically twirled his pencil in hand, passing it finger to finger… He never could explain it. Situations like these—from every angle it meant confrontation, that it meant being on the backfoot… It truly made him excited. Exhilarated.
He heard knocking on his door. So practiced covering his tracks, effortlessly placed his homework on top of his actual work, adjusted his uniform to aid in his character acting, and finally scooted his bag completely under his wooden desk.
“Come in, Mother~”
As she cheerily opened the door with a full-body swing, her golden curls flopped against her heart-shaped face. Her pantsuit was pastel pink, too white to be fully pink yet too “drenched” in such sickly color to be ideal white. So angled that it was box-like, too big for a clearly slender framed adult woman, never the less she tries. What completed not just the look she had, but the immediate impression this woman gave was the grin that was fighting to be wider, as it simmered with a crimson gloss. Somehow not one stain of it reached for her teeth that were too straight.
“Riiiichard…” Martha Mittleman’s grin only faltered in the sense that she wasn’t showing her teeth anymore, playfully pouting in tone alone. “You’re already made Honor Roll for this semester and on track for everything else I wanted for you. I feel like you’re allowed to have a life at this point~!”
“Oh, believe me, Mother…” Richard glanced down, under what he could see of his desk, carefully shoving his rubber mask into his open, leather satchel. “Whatever ‘exciting’ life is out there nowadays is completely boring to me.”
His mother really pouted now, grabbing the edges of the door frame with such an animated facial expression, it was hard for Richard to accept that it was genuine.
But he knew more than anyone that his mother isn’t anything but genuine.
“Riiiiichard—”
“Moooother--?” Richard made sure that it was clear that it was a teasing inflection, using his right hand to put his blond, crescent fringe in place again.
“You’re such a hardworking, smart boy… So it pains me to see you trying so desperately to perfect something that’s already perfect!” Martha was now five hand gestures in explaining her point, yet every single one ended with them rising into the air. “Relax for once! Find a cute girl! Lighten up, baby…”
Richard smirked, using his gray eyes to read his already completed homework. An excuse to keep scanning his desk to see if any of his actual life was out in the open.
“Well. If you want me to do so, then I will, Mother—”
“Gaaauh--!” one of Martha’s vocalized bouts of confusion, along with her entire body showcasing how taken aback she was. Before righting herself forward, “Not because I want you to, Richard--!”
“But isn’t what this talk is about, Mother--?” Richard let his natural smarm leak into his light needling.
Martha inhaled, only to puff out her cheeks in a flustered huff, before letting it go and rising both hands straight and side to side. “As your loving mother, I’m not AAAAASSSSKING you to have fun, I’m asking why NOOOOOOT have fun…”
The scarecrow boy scratched the back of his short hair, proceeding to pat it down after. His face slowly morphed to sullen, unable to lie or beat around the bush for his actual answer.
“I know we’re both healthier now… But there’s always still that chance. Be it by our health or the fate—sorry, fate itself. I just can’t take the chance of doing nothing with the time I can only afford.”
He turned his head, staring at his dear Mother with his own prim features. Namely how his eyes are sharper, which produced elegance to him. “I simply rather focus my time on taking over the business sooner than later. And I’m rewarded for it by having spare time? Then I’ll get there. But I have to keep going first.”
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“…It’s exactly why I want you to enjoy your youth, Richard…” Martha’s face was trying to get as sullen as her son’s, but of course couldn’t hold back the gloss of tears coating her own gray eyes, and the tensing of fighting tears back. “I love our work, I believe we’re doing the right thing… But I don’t want to be as dirty as I am. A-and I know that you have to someday, but—”
“I know,” Richard answered, getting up from his seat. “I’m keeping my promise still. Richard Mittleman will only deal with the Subsumed and Better People until he’s of proper age. Until then, he is a civilian with a bit of a head start. You don’t have to worry about catching me anywhere near—”
Of course, Martha pulled him in for a tearful, wallowing hug. It’s the reason he stood up, after all.
It was always so odd, being so tall and mature looking than his own parent. As he wrapped his arms around her, trying to sway her until the unintelligible sadness passed… He couldn’t help but silently praise his mother. She IS this bumbling, overemotional, childish persona—Richard has to act to get what he desires…
He only heard and saw the aftermath of the monsters and even people, that tried to cross her… Somehow barring the immense shame and guilt of her finding out the lie, the familial biases….
Richard looked up at the tops of his walls, seeing the preserved remains of the various Subsumed that attacked the family, namely him when he was a sickly child. Different breeds, creeds, even body parts… But they all were fundamentally twisted by the last seconds of terror they expressed.
He can handle any enemy, welcomed people hating him because it’s interesting… His mother is not one he ever wants.
This is why he has to fix this. And fast.
***
The eerily pleasant thing about donning the mask, was the fact that sound echoed within it.
Perfect for humming ABBA, as Richard checked on his current harvest.
As the scarecrow boy plunged yet another vial of Miracle Matter into the recently made, shallow grave—Richard had to be careful not getting his dirty leather glove directly on his papers on the clipboard.
“And you say that the mortal policemen saw the stack of corpses before our men came in…?” Richard turned his head and his mask tilted to the side for him, practically quizzical in of itself.
“Yes. And they were the ones specially made out to be the most tragic aspect of this day’s events. This batch of five is the only one we can get away with being currently ‘missing’.”
Richard then nodded, at the being that has replaced Mrs. Rebecca Houser. She proved to be especially hard to replicate; the anti-social are by design, but to be a pariah by family—neighborhood—community until that “life-changing accident”, only to have a completely different disposition…
Cue the hatred for the Subsumed. Frustration. Able to get away with this so easily, and yet the moment their disgusting urges bubble within their putrid hides surface… Throwing it away just as casually.
It’s infuriating. Frustrating. They—his family, his people—are bringing the dead back to life… And yet just as many hurdles to cross and weight to bear.
The crack of the empty he absentmindedly shattered in his hand snapped him out of his thoughts.
“Sir--?” one of the Rifle Men stepped forward, raising a hand out in genuine concern.
“Oh no no, I’m fine…” Richard rose with a curt chuckle, turning towards his men. “As I always said. You all came back from the greatest experience of pain we can barely comprehend. Whatever I’m going through now, you all surely had it the worse.”
To make it a point, Richard casually used his other hand to “brush” the remaining three or so shards that were embedded. Using a lackadaisical, nonchalant motion of doing so, to hide the immediate tense and trembling as the pain radiated.
So easy, things can happen, when one presents prestige and gravitas to their image. Every leader of known history on some level knew this phenomenon. Can be skilled, can be “right”… But no one. And Richard knew, no one… Will listen if you don’t shape your once right. And once one knows how to do it, they can make a man walk barefoot into Hell itself.
Yet, clearly, the Rifle Man was still concerned, meek. He rubbed his hand, out of sympathy pain. “If you think you’re okay, then it’s fine by me… Oh, sorry, sir.”
Richard let out a series of curt chuckles. Had to. “You’re more than fine…”
The scarecrow boy faintly remembered this one… Timon Reese? A stocky lad, Richard used to see him on the streets on the way to college… A true shame that he somehow died the moment he stopped looking. Dating co-workers was far from professional and too risky, let alone resurrected soldiers made from goo—completely out of the question…
He withheld a sigh, looking at his stabbed hand. It’s looking at boys like that, completely divorced from this fate he’s found himself in, that really made his Mother’s words ring in his head. Maybe one day, he could have both. A cute guy to date, maybe smooth over the truth with Mother… Because by then, everyone and everything is bettered by their family, by their people. Solved this messy forever crusade by then.
He squeezed his leather fist. Watching the mix of red and silver blood seep out of the cracks. Richard had to remind himself that all of that is merely a dream still. A good dream, but unreal nonetheless.
“A setback to be sure…” Richard summed up both the current situation and his internal thoughts. “I was hoping that my plan to undermine what’s going to happen this coming day wouldn’t be more limited. But if a page of that damn tome got us into this mess…”
The scarecrow boy pulled out the folded piece of parchment from his black, tendril-interlocking shroud. He looked at the four Spearmen, and they nodded back, getting into positions around the shallow graves, in a circle.
As they stabbed the ground, forcing the Miracle Matter that soaked the ground to bubble, to form into a series of interlocking runes that began to spin. Gaining so much speed, the mellitic surface caused Richard to be radiated in light.
“Then it will be one of the key, decisive plays we will need to win the day.”