{{Buckle up, characters yank on each other's nerves this chapter. I think I should change the genres under which this fic is filed accordingly. If I don't stop cutting chapters before the scenes end, I'll have a bowl of radishes.
Shoutout to deviantart user A-La-Moe for illustrating fanart of Butlertron for this fic! *Smiley bird face*}}
That mention of someone else smothered his joy. It meant he wasn't number one on that tin can's priority list! He withdrew his arm and harrumphed at Mister B, who now peered up at him with a raised brow.
Then Scudworth yelled, "oh fine, brush me off like the snow you'll wipe from my keister should I go outside and freeze it off!" His hands rose and he waved them dismissively. He kept doing that as he strode into the kitchen, only to bolt away and out from the thick air of formaldehyde, coughing.
With a sigh, Mister B said, "I'll take care of the smell and perhaps brew you some chamomile teeeaaaa."
Mister B's wheels squeaked by him and the robot pinched a new floor mop with intent to neutralize the odor. One of those mops whose business end was a rectangle with a heavy wet tissue wedged into the corners. He wiped it down rolling parallel with the wall nearest to him, turned to clean the same width of floor, and repeated the action for two more strips of flooring.
Scudworth turned and watched from the jamb. "That's hardly any better, now it's passionfruit and toxic chemi-"
The mop flew at him, imprinting a red line down his face.
He removed the mop and held it feebly for a few seconds, staring numbly at the fuming robot vibrating in the center of the room.
"You know what I think?" Mister B said with a wave of his arms. "You should clean this reno-bait kitchen as you like it and start planning your great escape! Then you can laugh at GESH from the oh so brave distance of 'across the country!' I bet it won't be near anything or anyone you ever appreciated, if you cared at aaaalllll."
Scudworth paled, scowling. He searched his mind for a razor sharp "I'll have you know" speech, but the words wouldn't come.
"Mister B, are you abandoning me? Don't tell me-"
"I had hoped we could start over ever since we lost our livelihoods, move to a quiet location where we could live an undisruptive life, and...!"
"And?" Scudworth's tone raised a pitch. He winced at the combined scents stinging his eyes and mentally kicked himself for spilling an insecurity.
Mister B spluttered for a second, then resumed vibrating as he slammed the basement door open, and noisily descended. Assuming he was meant to follow, Scudworth lifted his shirt collar around his nose and crossed the half-wet surface.
He pouted as he descended. "Between the two of us I thought you were the civil one. You're the one always telling me to be honest with myself instead of running-" He dropped his collar.
The sight before him knocked something in the back of his skull. Mister B planted himself between the fridge and the tank-like contraptions, his vibrating uneven and less severe. Pinched in his claws was a clipboard he examined with great sadness. The robot acknowledged him with a hasty glance, and his hydraulics lowered with the arm carrying the item.
Scudworth felt an ache grow in his chest and found himself unable to scream. So he asked, almost a whisper, "Mister B, what on this miserable earth has gotten into your motherboard?"
Some anger returned in the robot's saddened face, though he stayed low to the ground. Ground? The foundation was worse off for wear than Scudworth remembered.
"Oh, apart from the dodging of responsibilities and excessive fingerpointing, what on this miserable earth made you forget your fatherhood?" Mister B shoved the object at him, and he took it. In reality, it was a frame lost under a layer of dust with an old, familiar photograph.
Scudworth's face reddened with his heart thumping painfully against his ribs. Did his not-so-loyal servant just insinuate he doesn't care about...? He couldn't think of that name, not when it followed the humiliation of losing that bet to another "him" who should rightfully be panicking as hard as he is right now.
Then his reply came weakly, "You think I never cared about Brian?" Scudworth shakily smacked his chest hoping it would steady him.
Mister B planted his claws on his sides. "In no good parenting manual does it say pawning off your kid is a good idea, Wesley."
"Now what do YOU know, mister Jerkatron?" He stabbed a finger at the bot. "I had no knowledge Clone High's rival's obsession with eugenics was anything more than a mildly concerning hobby!"
Mister B smacked that finger away, causing Scudworth to yelp and hold it with his other hand. "And then you lead growing children who weren't yours to the same fate. Whose great, almost entirely brilliant idea was it to exhibit the clones like sideshow zoo attractions?" Sparks began fizzling from the robot's antenna.
Scudworth briefly glanced around, suspicious for any ears picking up even a shred of this conversation.
"Tell me," he whispered viciously, "who 'forgot' to remind me those nerds were coming? HMMM? This could have been all prevented and we all could be living in sunny California or the beaches of Canada!"
The angry sparks intensified, lighting up the tiny perimeter of Mister B's shaking body. Scudworth retreated a few steps to avoid possibly burning his lab coat, and not get smacked by thrashing mechanical limbs.
"I know I forgot! It won't bring them back! We can't just abandon everyone without so much as a heartfelt apology!"
Scudworth began climbing the stairs. "I'm done here, Mister B. I have to ransack the rooms and pack up and go."
He nearly tripped on his ankle's sudden weight on the way up, and his pulse picked up again. Down beside him, Mister B had clamped a claw around his shoe, sparks still spraying.
"Just a minute, Wesleyyy..." Mister B's voice was deep and almost too distorted to comprehend.
"You wouldn't dare trip me, you know. Or you would've succeeded by now!" Scudworth crossed his arms, grip tightening on the frame. He wasn't just about to be murdered in a gorey fashion by this cake sparkler of a robot. Now that was a clever idea, feigning death to escape and pin it on an unrelated person! Or someone closer.
"You will not go without knowing the type of person you are. You're a ginormous hypocrite, the biggest megalomaniac I've ever known." Mister B's reply was more levelled than he was comfortable with. It was physically impossible for him to adopt this watery baritone, his speakerbox might be broken.
"I don't care whether I know or not," Scudworth pouted, finding his fingers going numb. Then, "you'll help me disappear, and poof into the air yourself."
The grip loosened as sparks gradually died down, but the robot's brows stayed at their angry tilt.
"What were you even trying to do with that smelly, slimy carcass you stored in the fridge? Clone err..." the room spun, "replace Brian?"
The seams of Mister B's metal casing leaked thin threads of smoke, but he didn't answer. The man staggered to the side, struggling to not topple off.
Scudworth tried again, weakly. "Mister Butlertron?"
A quiet hiss was the reply. Scudworth squatted on the staircase and flattened his free hand on a step to stabilize himself. His head felt heavy and his damn heart still wanted out from his ribcage.
"Lyn? That's what it was, correct?"
A mechanical tone faded from high to low pitch, to nothing. It took a second to recall it was the sound of his battery running out, he hadn't had that happen in years.
Jiggling his foot free of the claw, he made eye-contact with the angry yet empty shell. It wasn't so bad for the machine to cease operations, he thought. However, the smoke and its unidentifiable smell put a dent in the plans. Mister B's real battery wasn't the one that had been stuffed in his torso, but that needed removal to ensure no further damage.
Whatever Mister B had planned, Scudworth wanted- needed to find out. Then afterwards, he vowed to chuck the thing into a dumpster far from here for reasons more emotional than practical.
Scudworth was still angry. Yep. Unsteady and on the run, yep. No denial there, no siree! While he still was "angry" with Mister B, he still felt odd going on without him at all. He was compliant on most days and had gotten him out of an unofficial laser eye surgery attempted by a cybernetic doggy.
Feeling his weight wouldn't hold standing up, he scooted down, set aside the photo, and positioned Mister B to access his torso compartment. The Cardigan was shifted, and the battery wedged beside the applause-o-meter was removed without incident, then the compartment was shut. Scudworth breathed a little easier knowing he wouldn't have to fetch towels for this portion of the cleanup.
As gently as his shaking hands could, he rotated the robot and repeated the process.
Scudworth exhaled in relief that the real battery looked dry. Yet, he fiddled with it until it came loose and checked behind it.
Still no leakage, he felt himself think. Good. The battery was returned to its snug compartment in the back of Mister B's head. Scudworth didn't want to plug him in yet, he'd likely wake up in the mood to keep stabbing his human's ego.
Mister B was rolled away from the stairs, and Scudworth slowly left the basement to vandalize his own home. He decided against using his own blood to complete the scene. Too much effort to convincingly fake, and the vertigo wouldn't help.
Scudworth parked himself on the couch to recover a while, half expecting Mister B to roll up with a glass of water. Until he felt steady, he'd only self mediate his thoughts by himself.
By... himself.
Who could he call who also didn't hate him in the slightest just to lift this weight off him?
Loneliness crept in the edges of his mood, and something unidentifiable and uglier. By all accounts he should feel victorious with Stamos out of his hair and GESH's would-be-smeared reputation. If he ran away, he would at best have a seat to it all in the nosebleeds.
Picking up the phone beside him, he dialed a number he'd neglected for ages. It picked up in the same second to a feminine voice panting, "Willow Acres residence, how may we herb you?"
"Geez, you're still using that slogan?" Scudworth said in disbelief. "What about kelp? It rhymes!"
After a second, she chimed, "Cinnamon? Is this my little Cinnabun?" Then, away from the receiver, "JEFF! Shut off your boob tube and get over here!"
"Please, mother, let the man have his M.A.R.S.H-"
"JEFF, it's Cinnamon!" Back at Scudworth, "I'm over the moon that you called, what's the occasion, sweetie?"
Scudworth grinned, though they couldn't see it. "I'm considering paying you both a visit. Nothing unusual."
Jeff's raspy voice answered, "PFFAAHHH, unusual- Seejay I thought ya blocked our number, and it sounds like ya fell yerself in a cow-pie! Woman troubles?"
"Not in years, father. I would thank you not to bring that up again ever."
"Well it sure is outta sight ya'd drop by. Misty's mixing liquid soaps and she needs hands that are not mine and not raw!" He guffawed, and Scudworth snickered back.
Still amused, Scudworth asked, "do you even own gloves?"
"Come on, son, ya know I'm a lazy toad!" They both erupted in belly-aching laughter before Jeff regained his composure and said, "I'm serious. I'm almost ninety! If I'd known death's waitroom was this smelly, I'd have left the building sooner!"
Misty called plaintively, "Jeff, please," as they said their goodbyes and hung up.
-0-0-0-0-
Scudworth crept around his home with a leg of pantyhose over his head and threw himself at the furniture. Books, videotapes, papers, and antiques fell to the floor in a satisfying disarray as the man hummed bits of "Spin Spin Sugar" to keep himself from yowling in pain. Songs like that weren't his type, he may have picked it up from listening to some student's confiscated walkman.
Music of this kind was so irreverent to common decency. If all he needed to understand life of a teenage clone was their music, he'd have spared himself from battery by pinata bat. Why did he never think of that?
His aimless crashing gained more control as he found himself dancing into everything but the kitchen sink. Some cabbage-patching lead him to his drawers where he pulled out some socks and undergarments, and stuffed them inside behind his "mask". It made the stretched material press the nose pads on his glasses into his skin. He kept adding, removing things from his person to hide himself in plain sight until he resembled a classic burglar.
For good measure, he knocked shelf with boxes in another room flat on its side and the contents flew out. Scudworth left before they settled on the carpet. In his opinion, the house now looked banged-up to keep investigators busy.
Next, he rushed back downstairs on his toes to fetch his robot with a black plastic bag. He stretched it over Mister B and secured a knot at the bottom, only grimacing slightly at how much it reminded him of stuffing body bags. Ick. The robot's leg stalks stuck out like a bug's as he hauled the bag onto his back, and disappeared.
Once outside, Scudworth lifted- or rather swung weakly on a noodly arm- a stone through the front window.
He stuffed the bagged robot in the backseat, clambered behind the wheel, and sped away.
-0-0-0-0-
Driving down the highway some ways into tall grass territory was too quiet. Most familiar radio stations didn't reach this far out, and Scudworth wasn't in the mood to listen to some hick radio show made earsplitting by static.
At times he doubted he was getting any closer to Willow Acres. Grass grows, trees die, cliff formations crack and crumble onto roads, but the twist around the deer crossing sign remained the same.
Scudworth didn't find nature all what great poets waxed on about. The sun was nice, until it burnt you. Fresh air was invigorating, until you suffered allergies. The only room for it in his life, apart from decor and food, was tampering with it for a greater goal to be appreciated by beings capable of rational thought.
None of the trees and squirrels cared for any of that. They just live without philosophical finery, only what nature designed meticulously for them. It was almost carefree and Scudworth never admitted out loud how jealous he was for that part only.
Scudworth found himself asking if he was there yet. No.
His grip tightened on the steering wheel as he counted how many trees there were before the next major turn. Five or so cycles later, his jaw clenched hard enough he thought his teeth would recede into his gums instead of causing a headache.
Occasionally another car zoomed opposite of his destination. He counted seventeen when the sun kissed the ground on his right side through tall evergreens. As the road led through thick greenery, breaks leading towards settlements increased. Moss framed a handcarved wooden sign pointing to what looked like a giant shack, and he parked his car sloppily on its lawn.
Despite his tired body screaming at him for sitting down a long time, he got out with wobbly knees and knocked gently on the door.
"I'll be there in a minute!" Misty sang. When the door swung wide open, Scudworth was greeted by a white bob of hair cupping large granny shades that came up to his middle. Her gown swirled as she called Jeff to come welcome his son, and her smile widened while she appeared to stifle a laugh.
Jeff limped up behind his wife, grinning with apparent humour. Scudworth took after his looks a lot, and he hoped he didn't look as much like a turkey vulture by then.
"I told ya it was woman troubles!" Jeff laughed as he shot out his index finger at Scudworth's disguise. The old man found it so funny he leaned on Misty for support.
"Faaaather," Scudworth whined, "you know Delilah and I haven't talked since she left me with... a gift." He removed the pantyhose carefully and let it hang by his side like a laundry sack.
Misty's smile dropped. "Oh I know, my little sprig," she said, standing on her tip-toes to pat Scudworth's shoulder.
"I'll get my other bag and join you lovely folks inside." Scudworth said as he glanced at his car.
His father started out the door and wobbled towards it with the support of his walking stick before Misty could let out a "Jeff, no."
"I'll pick him up, don't worry," Scudworth called as he followed his brittle yet stubborn dad.
Misty shook her head dismissively as she laughed, "Cinny, no."
But they defied her wishes anyway, sort of. Scudworth supported his dad's left side as the latter yelled "what've ya got in here, a nuke?" before bursting into rib-cracking laughter as the three- really four- rejoined inside. Misty pranced ahead of them into the old kitchen.
The living room was bright with wall hangings against the soft yellow walls, and various scents he could barely pick out hung thick in the air. Nothing like the stripped exterior which smelled of wet wood and rot. The kitchen however, was an unsettling fleshy pink just like he remembered. Mom's soap-making operations must take place here, the scents were making his eyes water and giving him a headache.
"Have you eaten, Cinnabun? You can tell us all about your 'woman troubles' over some biscuitroot bakes."
"No," Scudworth said, settling his father into a chair, "and although I could hear the quotation marks around 'woman troubles' I feel the need to correct you both."
"Robot problems?" Jeff asked, the bag's tie undone.
Scudworth turned pink. "Nooo, and you stop snooping right now!"
Jeff looked up at Scudworth, eyes wide. "Son, ya don't come all this way to throw garbage out. Not unless ya're driving a huge truck, or ya've got something to hide."
"Is that... Butlertron?" Misty asked, pressing a finger on the hem of Mister B's cardigan.
"He's simply out of battery juice, no big hooey." Scudworth swept his hands in her direction to urge her to bring out whatever that root bake thing was supposed to be.
"I thought he was an expensive spine massaging machine. It's them wheels." Jeff pointed at them.
Misty whirled between the men, brandishing a tray of roasted... potatoes? They looked like lumpy potatoes to Scudworth. He never could get in line with their ways, but he picked a roasted lump to snack on anyway. Strangely, he enjoyed the taste. Misty smiled as she set it down on the table and sat herself in a chair beside Jeff.
"Anyway, in a sequence of events nobody saw coming and had no power to stop, I am no longer the principal of a highschool full of students with promising futures."
Their eyes widened, they shared a look, and then Jeff said, "did a man bite a dog?"
"No father, it's real. It's all over the news where there's an outlet for it."
Jeff's mind didn't have to work hard to conclude the obvious. He snapped out of his seat, pleading, "ya, ya didn't...? Ya didn't hurt nobody so badly, right?" Misty's arm wrapped around Jeff's as she pressed herself beside him.
Scudworth reddened realizing what his father meant, and stammered, "HEAVENS NO. E-e-veryone got the pink slip," then angrily, "I can't believe the land will be developed into a happy go lucky home environment after such a chilling incident shook up the district!"
Misty's pale hands cupped her nose and mouth in sympathy. Jeff gave Scudworth a look that cautioned him to lay it on gently.
"What... what on earth happened?" The old woman's voice went thin with apprehension.
"The entire graduating class of the school died on prom night," Scudworth's gaze met the floor, "and the school faculty were all found at fault- do you not get the news here?" As if he needed to ask. Jeff shook his head.
"Yer mother defenestrated the television some time after you left for uni, said it was harshing on my torn soul. Only a borrowed laptop with DVDs were allowed since."
"Cinnamon," Misty detached from Jeff with her arms open intent to hug, "you and Butlertron may stay as long as you need to." Scudworth bent so she reached his neck, and she sobbed into his shoulder.
Jeff had sat down again with his elbow on the table, fingertips balancing his head. He stared at nothing specific as he said, "we'll pull out the couch for ya. Tomorrow morning, you help your mother stir soap."
"Do people really-"
He met Scudworth's gaze. "Urbanites who've never seen the sun, and practicing witches, yes. Tourists from gassy cities too."
That would explain how they seemed adjusted and aware despite living in the boonies and without contact of the news. On the other hand, Scudworth hoped to stay in the back, avoiding being sighted by anyone he'd known from his job.
His father enlivened with yet another realization, "speaking of gassy, tell yer mother to stop giving me mint tea. I hate mint, yech!" He stuck out his tongue for emphasis.
That night, Scudworth pulled out the couch, and his parents retired to their room near the backyard.
Silence made itself a companion to a wide awake Scudworth once more.
{{Who's gonna tell 'em? Not me! Not directly at least. I feel horrible for putting this upon fictional people. Anyway, the phrase "man bites dog" is an idiom for an unlikely story. Mint was used as treatment for farting, I'm not kidding. Whether it actually works or not, I haven't looked that deeply into it.}}