Well well well, lookie who's back! It's been a while by now, hasn't it? Sorry you guys, but final exams and a nearly broken finger put me out of commission for a hot while. At least now we have summer vacation, and I have the opportunity to dedicate every wake second to writing on this fic huhu. Strap in folks, it's gonna be a good vacation with lots of updates, drama, tears, and a healthy sprinkling of feels-good family bonding moments to lighten the mood!

Also, WARNING, cannot stress this enough WARNING:
Chapter contains instances of heavily implied/borderline showcased child abuse, light self-harm, heavily implied/borderline showcased drug use (not by Morro, for anyone concerned), and Morro having the absolute shittiest self-esteem in existence

If any of those things trigger you, please click off right now or DM me for an edited/abridged version of the chapter!


Morro remembers spending entire days curled up under his bed's blanket. Sometimes the door to his room was locked from the inside. Other times it was locked from the outside.

When the former was the case, it was usually to save himself from having empty or full glass bottles hurled at his head, or receive a deft fist to the face, courtesy of yet another drunken fit. In instances of the latter, it was mainly because he screwed up somehow—saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, mentioning dad, mentioning therapy, mentioning the empty fridge... really, any of those things was like a free one-way ticket straight to his room.

Morro is not stupid. He knows none of that is normal, he knows it's messed up. But like. Why wouldn't anybody raise a finger to get him out of that shithole if he didn't deserve every last minute of it?

It was common for him to attend school with broken bones or with bruises in places he couldn't hide, maybe even more so than it was for him to arrive unscathed. Of course, even appearing at school was itself a momentous occasion worth celebrating. He's not aware of the exact percentage, though, surely, his absence rate must have been high enough that red flags should have been raised.

But nobody ever questioned anything. Not the students, and certainly not the teachers.

See, you can forget about second glances when Morro is the person in the spotlight. He doesn't know what he's done to be so supremely unremarkable, but he's truly at times questioned if he hasn't already left this mortal coil and is now living out his eternal punishment in Hell as a ghost, from the way people's gazes just seem to phase right through him.

Maybe it's precisely because the warning signs were so obvious that others decided they just didn't wanna deal with his shit. That'd make sense. He doesn't even wanna deal with his own shit most of the time. People stay away from diseases out of fear of being infected themselves, right? Same concept here.

It just sucks that even the teachers were in on it. Like, being gone for weeks on end and then finally pulling himself together enough to return to school, only to find that nobody noticed he was gone…yeah, that really stung as much as being physically slapped in the face at times. Not being greeted with a single, "Hey, where have you been?" or "What have you been up to?," not even the smallest, most impassive "Hi," just to be polite.

It really gets the imagination running wild. Spurring on such wonderfully uplifting thoughts as, What am I doing here? and the classic, What's even the point? But it's the school's reputation to not give a damn about the students, so maybe he shouldn't be surprised by the adults' incompetence. He would even wager money on them forgetting he attended Darkley's at times.

Not like he… has any right now, but… his point still remains.

Things would be no different now. Especially since they're neighbors to a manic warlord who likes to spend his weekends attacking the city, destroying buildings faster than they can rebuild them. It should come as a shock to just about no one then, that homelessness ranks among the leading causes of headaches among the administrators of Ninjago City.

Law enforcement is already neck-deep in a pile of work, trying to figure out what to do with the increasing influx of people who can no longer maintain a job or lose their businesses in the attacks. Maybe that's Garmadon's strategy. Bringing Ninjago City to its knees by crashing the economy.

Oh well, not like Morro particularly cares for the survival of this rotten place anyway.

Point is, another kid without a place to stay isn't gonna raise any eyebrows. And, here's the thing, even if—if—he went to the police and somehow got them to spend precious work hours on him instead of actual problems, he'd just go straight into the system, to foster care, where he could play pretend with a fake family until he's pestered them enough that they decide he's not worth keeping either.

No, Morro's had enough of hoping he'll ever be accepted by anyone. Clearly, he was born a broken puzzle piece, so he's just deluding himself by thinking he'll ever truly fit in anywhere.

'Sides, there are loads of books and movies about 12-year-olds who set out on epic, danger-filled quests to save the entire world without parental guidance or family or any of that crap, so who says he can't even take care of himself? And he'll be 13 soon… ish. Then he'll be a full-fledged and wholly capable teenager. 13-year-olds certainly don't need their parents to wipe their asses, so he'll be fine.

And all that's in the past, so he's just wasting head space by allowing those sorts of thoughts to take up room. He needs to be here in the now, where his attention is way better spent.

He needs a plan. That much becomes pretty damn apparent, as he remains sitting in that back alley until the black night sky turns a bright, cloudless blue, staring for hours at the endless stream of chattering, cheerful people that blindly pass him by, without the slightest clue as to what the hell he's supposed to do with himself.

His usual survival tactic of becoming invisible and shriveling up into nothingness isn't exactly gonna work when he's been stripped of all his hiding places.

He can't go back to school. Obviously. Or at least there'd be no point. He can't reach out to the authorities for help, not unless he wants to find himself swarmed by adults who all think they know what's best for him. And, certainly, he can't afford to even humor the idea of ever returning to that place.

A painful lump amasses in his airway, but Morro swallows it, destroys it, and shoves away the rising panic before it can get a proper grasp around him.

No, he'll make this work. He isn't out of options here—they're simply sparse. Ultimately, however, he just has to do what he's always done. Suck it up, quit whining like a baby about circumstances he's powerless to change, and adapt.

He hasn't ever needed anyone else to get by before, so, really, why would he now?

Yeah, he'll be fine. Totally fine.


…At least, that's what Morro keeps telling himself the following week. Inexplicably, it seems to work some kind of unheard-of magic, because, somehow, at that point, he's still alive.

It's a steep learning curve, though. All uphill. But it's Morro we're talking about here, so, really, what else is new?

The first and perhaps most obvious lesson that raw experience beats into him: Concrete sidewalks do not make for comfortable mattresses, and trash bags are not a suitable substitute for soft, cottony pillows. He already feels approximately 50 years older from all the discomfort his back is bringing him, and he swears he'll murder someone the next time he wakes up to his neck muscles spasming out on him or whining in protest of the aforementioned unpleasant mattress.

Second tip when one finds themselves coming down with a sudden, unexpected case of homelessness: You might as well just give up on good hygiene or looking presentable, it's virtually impossible without a toothbrush or easy access to running water. Sure, he can wash his face in public toilets, but FSM does he miss hot showers and a fresh set of clothing.

And third, although he already knew as much, everyone in this city is a bunch of selfish, unsympathetic, unreliable assholes.

He learned that particular lesson when his shortage of food become such a dire and immediate threat to his well-being that his stomach started eating itself out of desperation, the hunger gnawing and swirling nausea around in his gut, until he felt too sick and weak to take another step and his vision become consumed by tiny, black, dancing dots, his blood sugar levels dropping too low and—

Next thing he knows his chin is pressed against a scalding hot, sun-soaked sidewalk, with the hundreds of bystanders that must have been packed into that bustling street not approaching, but rather, stepping around the body lying prone on the street, like it's just some inanimate, inconvenient obstacle that's suddenly appeared in their way.

Hah. Seems the ethics of Ninjago City's citizens don't cover extending a hand to a child passed out on the middle of the sidewalk. How peculiar. But Morro's better off avoiding people anyway, so that suits his purposes just fine. Especially since showing his face in public makes him feel so damn paranoid and spikes his anxiety to previously thought-to-be impossible heights.

Because, as much as Morro sincerely hates it out here; sleeping in the filth, sharing his food with the rats, relying on public toilets for hydration and whatever hygiene he can manage, the thought of being forced to return to that shitstorm of an apartment and effectively give up the iota of control he's finally attained over his own life is somehow even more revolting than having to dig his lunch out of a dumpster.

Therefore, he makes the executive, mature, and responsible decision to stay the hell away from all places where he's at any risk of being recognized. And he's pretty good at that—disappearing from everyone's sights. Ninjago City is the biggest in the land, after all, it's really just a matter of avoiding the hotspots he knows his old classmates were attracted to; skateparks, the actual park, the mall, playgrounds, easy as pie, none of those places are essential for his staying alive, so long as he's always occasionally making sure to cast a glance across his shoulder, he's gold.

Oh, and uh. He makes sure to keep at least 10 meters away from any patrolling policeman at any moment. He's… fairly convinced they would have found him by now if they were actually searching for him, but… that tiny voice in the back of his head that's so shrill and high-pitched that it penetrates every other much more logical, deeper and calm thought tells him it's best to be safe. Just in case.

So, for the next while, Morro lives undetected as one of the many in the densely packed crowd or moves around like a shadow in the city's back alleys, successfully not existing.

That is… until the day arrives. He gets too greedy—decides to bypass the trouble of finding dinner by tucking in for the night in front of a small, semi-secluded bakery near one of the suburban areas, lying on a large piece of cardboard he's recently collected from a recycling bin.

Really, he's not entirely to blame. The pervading smell of freshly baked apple pie and cinnamon is unreal compared to the wretched dumpsters and oozing, coughing cars he's grown so accustomed to. And there aren't many people out and about, and certainly, nobody he knows would venture this deep into the city's more obscure corners, and he isn't blocking anybody's path so… how should he know this particular shop owner has an irrational phobia for homeless people?

Waking up from his slumber when something kicks his ribs and consequently finding himself staring up at an adult dressed from head to toe in blue and shoving a badge in his face, now that comes as a real, hard, ice-cold shock to his system.

Morro starts into awakeness and shoots into a sitting position, his body pumping with panic and making his heart race out of control.

But all the pounding fear, the intoxicating adrenaline rush, the plans of escape that rapidly flow through his head in a dizzying, incomprehensible stream is… momentary. A month of preparing for this precise scenario—of twisting and turning and squeezing his brain dry for the right retorts to spit in the face of anyone who dares to try and get too close, a way to show them he doesn't need their meddling, that he's perfectly fine on his own it… all fizzles out and dies, just as that. He's incapable of putting up even the poorest, most pathetic excuse of a fight.

Acceptance washes over him instead. A bone-deep, crippling sense of defeat, and it feels… strangely comforting. Not having to fight anymore. Knowing that it's over, that this is it, the moment he's found out. Where somebody else comes along and takes the steering wheel, where he's taken away, but at least something will finally change, even if he's, in reality, just transferring from one hell to another—

"Hello? Hello?" Fingers suddenly snap in front of Morro's eyes, freeing him from his stupefied trance.

"Are you even listening to me, kid? You're not high on drugs or anything, are you?" The policeman's eyes narrow into thin, scrutinizing lines.

Morro's attention sharpens at that, answering the adult's suspicion with an incredulous look of his own. That should suffice as an answer. And it does, clearly, because, in response, the officer expels the same sort of exasperated exhale that Morro's heard more times than he can count throughout his lifetime—disappointment, this time topped off with an aggressive sprinkling of unfiltered frustration to boot.

"Listen here, kid." Though the man kneels down to his height, Morro is fairly convinced it's got nothing to do with appearing less intimidating, since he keeps penetrating him with those condemning eyes, like he's the bad guy here.

"Shop keep' told me you were scaring off customers and asked that you leave immediately. I also don't exactly appreciate you wasting my or the police's time like this. I get it—I was your age too at one point, but here's an adult piece of advice: Whatever it is you think you're trying to prove by doing this, just don't. Give it up. You're acting foolish and hurting yourself and your loved ones for no good reason.

"Go home, kid."

Morro's uncontrollable pulse throbs in his throat, the blood rush making his ears ring and his head spin faster than a spinning top. This time, though, it's a different kind of dread that seeps through his skin.

Oh. Oh. So this is how it gets to be, is it? This is what he gets for finally slowing down and stopping to catch his breath and realize that, in spite of the break-neck running pace he's been keeping this whole time, he has no clue where he's going?

It's the usual, then. Since it always, somehow, comes back to this. It's always somehow him that's at fault, isn't it?

'Go home.' Home? Home? Morro doesn't even have a stable place to sleep, much less something as outrageous as a safe, warm, dry building with four walls and a roof above his head to protect him from the elements that the word home would indicate. It should be obvious, so painstakingly evident from the dirty, unrecognizably rags that hang too loosely around his frame, from the dark circles that he can't scrub away from under his eyes, from the hair that's so filthy it sticks to his forehead and the fact that he smells worse than death that something is horrendously wrong here.

And yet, the one person whose job is literally to seek out injustices in the world and right those wrongs, one of the modern-day capeless superheroes, like those from his comics that he admires so much, dismisses him, deems his troubles unworthy of even a shred of concern.

The police officer watches him pack up his cardboard and leave. And with that, Morro wanders the dark streets alone again, searching for someplace safe to settle down with a stomach that's cussing him out for skipping dinner and with the first conversation he's had in weeks playing on repeat in his head.

Seems he's just learned another pivotal lesson about being a dirty street rat. Namely: That he was a fool for thinking anybody would be coming for him.

He isn't missed. Nobody has reported him as missing. The police don't go out of their way to save people they don't think need it, and, what through their eyes is a rebellious prepubescent kid who's on the streets of his own volition probably fits perfectly under that.

But you know what? That's fine. This is exactly what he wanted, this is what he should have expected. He never should have allowed himself to hope in the first place, he knows how that usually ends.

This is the way things have always unfolded. It's the way things are supposed to be—the norm, the neutral state when everything is in peace and order. There's no reason to be a bitch about it all playing out differently than in his head. It's… just… gaining actual real-life confirmation of the total null of his existence is… it's…

No.

Morro's fists curl at his sides, teeth coming down hard on his lower lip. He puts a stop to the repetitive cycle of moving his feet, standing alone in the dark of the parkside street while the city bustles and glows around him, pulsating and working like a beating heart that would die if it ever stopped moving. A group of babbling, young adult friends who stink of alcohol walk past him. Angry cars honk in the distance. A rushing monorail whooshes overhead.

The urge to punch and pulverize everything in his vicinity into oblivion is nearly unbearable. But Morro pinches the delicate skin on his backhand and manages to quell and redirect the anger in the right direction—inwards, at the person who really deserves it.

No. Hold up. Just slow down and think about it pragmatically for half a damn second. If everything from loved ones to strangers to the environment to even the people who're supposed to help are nothing but enemies, then, usually, then the trigger for all that misfortune and the victim who's on the receiving end of it are one and the same.

The only kind of people who stubbornly cling to blaming everything and everyone around them are the egocentric narcissists or the pessimistic jackasses who've never got anything but complaints to spout—horrible people who refuse to see their own faults and acknowledge that they themselves are the source of their misery.

Heh.

How fitting. Because he just can't seem to stop obsessing over his own miserable life and just let go of that stupid belief that anybody would ever reach out and help him carry this suffocating burden, can he?

This is exactly why he's been abandoned by everyone that was supposed to love him. This is why nobody would ever want to take him—take his liability.

He is the problem here. He did this to himself. Because he's somebody so despicable that nobody ever could love him even if they wanted to. That's why nobody wants Morro around, that's why they aren't searching for him or informing the authorities. They're happy to forget about him, forget about his burden.

In return, he sure as hell will gladly forget about them too.


Thank FSM for the public TV screens and the news people announcing the date on the daily, otherwise, Morro would have no way of keeping track of time. But, you know, three months fly by surprisingly fast when you live every day doing your damnedest just to scrape by.

The more he lives, the more experience he amasses. Morro knows about most nooks and hiding corners in the city by now, from all his excursions looking for food, hygiene options, and dry shelter, and it… becomes acutely relevant exceedingly quick.

One night, while deciding to take a shortcut through the central park because it's well-lit and probably empty at night and therefore should be safe, Morro gets another reality check.

They're a group of 6 boys who look like they could be in college, donning that freshly grown facial stubble look, each equipped with at least one nose-piercings and 3 ear-piercings, carrying around a bunch of plastic bags and blowing puffs of smoke into each other's faces while laughing and cursing, and they go absolutely ballistic when they see him.

Honestly, it's not even like he attacked them or stole or broke anything, he literally just… walked in on them. A completely unintended accident that he would have just forgotten about if he'd had a choice, because what else would he have done—called the cops? Trying to convey that to a bunch of wasted hooligans doing shit they know is illegal, however… probably isn't a battle he could ever hope to win in any alternative universe.

One grueling chase sequence and what felt like hours of holding his breath while concealing himself in a dumpster later and he's, with the exception of a black eye and a few scrapes and holes in his knees, still completely intact.

Fine. He's fine—that's what he wanted to say. Brushed the dirt off his clothes, got back up, and is now permanently steering clear of abandoned buildings and parking lots and the city plaza and, especially, central park at night. Definitely smartest to avoid the shady, greasy types who'd probably do real shady shit to a little kid who's alone and vulnerable on the streets.

It's not all bad experiences though. For instance, as… regrettably scrawny and below the average height for his age as his frame is, being small, he's found, has its advantages too... occasionally.

He's found himself this nice place; behind two giant power boxes situated in an indented wall that has been custom-made to fit them. They are bolted to the ground and installed so close to each that only somebody exceptionally slim could squeeze through the crack between them.

There's just enough space behind them for him to sit if he presses his knees together, and, after removing cobwebs and the multitude of multi-legged crawlers, it's actually kind of cozy. No adult would ever see nor be able to reach him in there even if they knew about it. You can maybe argue about the safety hazards of literally sitting next to a huge cube conducting electricity, but at least it's dry and safe and exclusive to him, which is more than he can say about those overcrowded homeless shelters.

So yeah, he's got himself an adequate hideout, at least for now.

Also, he's figured out the whole 'bathing' situation. As it happens, Morro can actually consider himself lucky for what's perhaps the first time in his life. Ninjago City just so happens to be situated quite literally on a beach—a massive body of semi-clean water that nobody can charge him for making use of.

Sure, the salt water makes his hair stiff and doesn't exactly do much to extinguish the rancid stench that's clinging to even his eyelashes at this point, but he'll take it over not washing at all any day of the week.

Oh. And uhm. One unassuming, peaceful night he nabs himself a toothbrush from a supermarket when the underpaid employees aren't paying attention.

Ok, sure. Sue him. He caved and took something because he's still flat broke. But what kid hasn't stolen something small and insignificant in their life? One free toothbrush probably isn't gonna make giga-corporate Chen's Goodies go bankrupt.

With that his hygiene is mostly taken care of too.

Now, food is still the most annoying box to check off, but he's found himself this handy little trick that almost never backfires. And compared to stealing a toothbrush… this is perhaps where you could start making a valid argument for him undergoing a criminal transition.

See, spending all his time outside every day has provided Morro with the wonderful gift of time—time to make some educated observations. It's honestly staggering how mind-numbingly unprepared every citizen is when they're out in the streets—especially considering Ninjago City has the equivalent of a natural disaster living next door.

Everybody is just distracted by their conversations or so thoroughly immersed in various kinds of shopping that they don't pay attention to their surroundings unless somebody somehow calls attention to themselves.

He can make use of that. And it's not long until the day comes when it's time to put his theory to practical use.

He finds a senior couple occupied with feeding breadcrumbs to a paddling of ducks in the park. The old woman has left her purse just sitting there out in the open, completely unattended on a bench. Morro carefully sneaks up, cautious to not make the even smallest noise that could alert them, snatches it up, and bolts out of there.

An angry, boisterous voice curses after him, but nobody stops him.

Later, when he's absolutely certain nobody's coming after him, he collects all the loose change from the woman's wallet, around 100, and uses the money to buy himself a scoop of mint chocolate chip ice cream, stuffing the rest in his pockets for later.

Like he said: A handy little trick.

Sure, stealing from the elderly is far from honorable, but being a law-abiding goody-two-shoes was never in his future to begin with. If he was literally born on the wrong path, then he can't exactly stray from the right one, can he? And, really, what else is he supposed to do? Having no money and being so evidently a minor that he can't lie about his age really puts a stop to any get-rich-quick schemes.

Sure, he could beg, but that'd be calling attention to himself. That would give people the chance to ask questions, unlikely as it is. He prefers being completely invisible to just being tucked away in a corner where somebody at some point eventually could notice he's there.

'Sides, he leaves cards and the actual wallets somewhere obvious for the police to find and just takes the raw cash, so it's not like he's irreversibly ruining people. He's just feeding himself—doing what has to be done. Call him a villain for that, sure, he doesn't care anymore.

So yeah, things are… actually semi-decent. Maybe looking up a little, for the first time in years. Or not. Either side has reasonable arguments in their favor.

At least he's finally managed to somehow make some semblance of a life out of his miserable existence out here.


And so, August 31st rolls around, and with it hits the second unexpected summer storm of the year. Lightning tears the skies apart, thunder drowns out the city's usual racket for a few hours, until, finally, it calms enough that it's just the rain taking out its pent-up aggression on the city, ferociously hammering against the buildings as if trying to demolish them.

Morro ignores the palpable sense of Deja vú that surges through him as he sits in a trash-packed back alley with his back against a brick wall, shielding himself from the harsh weather under the awning of a nail salon.

He's got to focus here, there are more urgent matters than a couple of dumb memories that should take precedence—lest he wants to miss his second meal of the day as well.

Besides, the rain isn't necessarily a hindrance to his plan. There are less people out when the weather's bad—guaranteeing fewer witnesses—they're all carrying umbrellas that get in the way, and they'd hesitate to run after him or struggle with catching somebody who's intimately familiar with the city's geography when the ground's slippery.

Also, it's still nauseatingly hot and humid even this close to fall, so he wouldn't risk getting sick by letting himself get drenched. Easy decision, today is gonna be a snatch-and-dash, done-and-over deal. All there's left to do is locate a suitable involuntary cash-doner.

And so Morro scouts, scanning the scant and pitiable options for another few minutes until he finally strikes gold.

An old man. But, unlike every other pedestrian that's taking precautions against the sea coming down on them from the sky, he's wearing no raincoat, but, rather, a traditional kimono, and in place of an umbrella is a conical hat keeping him mostly defended from the violent downpour. He's wrinkled as a raisin and has probably the longest beard Morro's ever seen, but, most of all, it's the bamboo staff he's using as a walking cane that's perhaps the most incriminating proof of his age.

Huh. What a strange old nutcase. "Old'' of course being the determining word here.

Morro can tell from the way the man's head hangs low and from the fact he takes tiny, snail-paced steps one at a time that he's frail and equipped with poor reflexes and speed. An ideal target.

Though… there's a bell of familiarity that chimes in the back of his head upon closely examining his features, but he can't place where exactly he would have seen such a strange oddball before, so he suppresses any trepidation and gets his ass moving.

As such, the long game commences. Morro stalks after him, keeping enough distance to remain undetected, but staying close enough that he could swoop in and snatch the loot the moment there's an opening—the bag of groceries the man is clutching to his chest. It's the only one he's got on him, so his wallet must be hidden amongst the food, since kimonos traditionally don't have pockets.

And, honestly, he's got to hand it to the geezer. For being so agonizingly slow his stamina is solid. After 20 minutes straight of weaving in and out of narrow, obscure streets and turning around more corners than he can keep count of, he hasn't stopped for a break once—which would have been his opportune moment to strike. However, Morro still gets his opportunity, break or not.

The old nut stops at a pedestrian crossing, waiting for the tiny red man to turn green, not for the first time during their trip. But, for whatever incomprehensible reason, this time he puts the groceries down on the wet ground to do stretches. Seriously, it's like he wants to get robbed.

Morro doesn't waver for a second. He can barely even follow his own movements as he lurches forward at top speed, scooping up the precious prize and holding it tight against his stomach with both arms, before dashing off again, disappearing as quickly as he struck.

The few crucial seconds after that—where people would typically realize what's transpired and scream at the top of their lungs for help or bellow out commands for his immediate capture… pass silently.

Ok, that's… that's new.

Curiosity penetrates the sound of his deafening heartbeat and the blaring alarm in his head telling him he should be exclusively concerned with getting the hell outta here. Morro, with that in mind… decides it's worth it to take a risk and dares to look back.

The geezer is still standing there, which is good, at least he didn't collapse from shock-induced cardiac arrest. But his stationary, near-lifeless stance is perhaps the exact reason why the feeling of uncanny spreads throughout Morro's body.

The old man isn't throwing a hissy fit or even appearing the slightest bit panicked or even surprised by what just happened, simply… standing there, all composed and unbothered. Watching Morro with this look he can't quite identify because the distance between them keeps growing wider, but, eerily, he still feels ice run down his spine.

Yup, what a total old nutcase.

Morro doesn't even entertain the idea of slowing down until the fire in his lungs is so ferocious that he can no longer breathe, until black dots fill his vision, and it feels like he's got a knife stuck in his side. Only then does he veer off his randomized, untrackable course—almost diving into the safety of a back alley and stopping as soon as he turns around another corner and is successfully hidden from view.

There he tries to desperately suck in the oxygen his body is lacking, nearly choking on the painful, burning gasps of air he inhales. The agony of breathing eventually diminishes, however, and Morro, in spite of his side still cramping and whining, can't prevent a smile from spreading across his lips.

Yes! Another successful haul. His stomach is at least very thankful for all the effort he's exuded just to attain some lunch.

Now to dig out the real reward. He places the bag on top of a trash can and starts rummaging through its contents; at the top are a few basic vegetables and some rice, at the bottom some Green tea, Earl Gray, Chamomile, Herbal, Black—damn, why's there so much tea—

"Excuse me, young man. But I'd like to know what you're planning to do with my rations for the week."

The utter shock of suddenly hearing a voice behind him when he thought he was safe and had lowered his guard makes Morro sputter so uncontrollably that he accidentally knocks the trash can over, nearly tripping over the trash and groceries that spill all over the floor when he whips around to see who owns that voice—

He blanches, his mouth going absolutely-bone dry.

That kimono…. and the conical hat, and the beard, and the bamboo stick… really there's no mistaking it, it's—

That's when it happens. An old, rusty memory slowly sets into motion—of one of those rare times he actually managed to catch a glimpse of the TV screen during a Garmadon attack, and of his utter bewilderment when he saw that the elite force entrusted with the impossible task of defending the entire city against a growing army was just a lone man wielding a single bamboo staff as a weapon—a man who looked so ancient he could conceivably be somebody's great-grandpa.

So then, this man, this old, unassuming, harmless geezer who's outwardly so feeble he barely seems capable of keeping himself standing upright must be—

He's knees tremble.

The disturbing revelation churns sickening horror around in his stomach.

Holy, he's—

He's fucked, isn't he?

Morro's legs give in, and he slumps against the wall, knowing damn well when he's picking an impossible fight.

Hah. Right. Of course. Out of all the literal millions of old people in the entire city, of course, he simply had to go and steal from the only one who could probably kick his ass senseless in his sleep.

Morro doesn't really know much about the legend referred to by the humble, simplistic name of "Wu", but he does know he's backed himself into a seriously tight corner this time, because if the monstrously strong old man with his signature weapon on hand decides the crime of stealing is worth some serious penalty, who would see him lashing out when they're so perfectly tucked away in one of the city's most unknown blind spots?

How ironic. He spends all these years missing sleep from overthinking how to prevent himself from bringing about his own demise, but, turns out, that's exactly what's gonna do him in.

And so Morro sits and awaits his fate, staring blankly at the ground and contemplating the various ghastly and gruesome punishments that will inevitably befall him any second.

He waits.

And he waits.

And he waits a little longer

And he isn't sure how much time has passed by now, but he's growing increasingly assured that something should have happened by now.

Should he…? Well, he's already prepared himself for the worst, so what's he got to lose…

He slowly, hesitantly raises his and locks eyes with the old man. Wu… nods at him, like he just passed some sort of nonverbal test.

"Thank you," he says, sounding inappropriately delighted given the circumstances. "I appreciate that you at least have the decency to look at me. Now, child, would you mind explaining why you have stolen my groceries?"

Morro just stares at him, dumbfounded at what's either insulting audacity or unbelievable stupidity.

"Are you kidding me? Isn't it obvious?"

Though he doesn't intend to, he sounds awfully condescending. But it's ok… maybe… Wu's face doesn't drop into that all too familiar scowl adults always pull out when he makes mistakes—the human equivalent of a bomb that could blow at any one wrong word—instead, his brows crease in… is that concern?

"Where are your parents? Is there no home or family for you to return to?"

Morro blinks at him.

Wow, he makes it sound so unconventional. Like it's not what Morro's life is gonna be like until he's old enough to get those stupid official documents, a job, a license, a car, and then he's leaving this place in the dust. It elicits a laugh from him, a bitter chuckle through his nose.

"You think I'd be out here, living like this if that was an option?"

Silence is his only answer. Got nothing to say to that, huh?

And so, an unexpectedly pervasive moment of tranquility settles over them both. Morro just sits and glares at the old man. He sure as hell won't be the first to crack.

And his stubbornness pays off, because, at long last, Wu is the one to speak up.

"...How old are you?"

Now that comes out of absolutely nowhere. But Morro knows damn well what he's getting at.

"Why do you care?" The seeds of annoyance have been planted in his stomach and now start to bloom. "Come on, don't tell me you're actually pitying me. Sorry old man, but I don't need your charity. I'm doing just fine on my own, for your information."

"I would say resorting to stealing would prove the contrary. Please, child, tell me if there's something I can do to help..." He takes a small, tentative step closer to him, which is about one step too close for Morro's liking.

"It's my duty to protect the inhabitants of this city. I believe you would fit squarely into that category as well, no?"

Now that strikes something deep inside Morro that absolutely should not be touched. Oh, oh he thinks he can just come here, gallivanting in, a knight in shining armor, talk like he knows his stuff, make it all ok with a few, simple words.

He thinks it's that easy to save him?

"What the hell would you know? You don't know me, you know nothing about what I've been through!"

His hands close into a tight set of fists. Morro should probably be warier about his rising voice, but, what the hell, here he goes anyway.

"What kind of righteous symbol of justice do you take yourself for—standing there, telling me I'm doing the wrong thing? Sorry oh gracious and beloved defender of Ninjago, but I don't owe you shit. You might fend off the external force that's threatening to tear down the buildings, but you've never done anything to truly save this city."

Morro himself is caught off guard by the sudden, unstoppable stream of words that comes pouring out of his mouth, but, more importantly, his savage rant seems to have gotten the geezer wholly and dead stumped. Excellent, that's exactly what he needs right now.

With his newly discovered hidden stash of resentment for this total stranger now empowering him, Morro manages to slowly—inconspicuously—pick himself up and rise to his feet.

"You're only looking at the surface without acknowledging the depth of the darkness that's allowed to brew in silence beneath. Just continually taping up the cracks that appear and calling it a day, allowing yourself to think it's enough to save everyone. It's people like me who end up paying the price for ignorant imbeciles like you willingly turning a blind eye and refusing to give up your blissful, comfortable lives to actually offer us the helping hand you so proudly claim to be reaching out.

"Some savior you are."

Wu's eyes glaze over with an undeniable, unbelievably deep look of hurt at those words, and, for a split second Morro feels a stab of regret for his slightly harsh and perhaps unnecessarily reproachful accusations.

But he squashes the useless guilt almost immediately, because what the hell, like he actually cares about hurting his feelings, he's accomplished his ultimate objective and successfully distracted the old fart.

Bolting forward abruptly, he violently shoves Wu out of the way so he can escape past him, his legs moving faster than he can ever recall in spite of his side still stabbing him with pain from earlier.

This time he doesn't look back.

Wu doesn't follow him.


Sorry for how exposition-heavy this chapter is, promise the plot is really gonna kick-start next chapter!

Also, the chapter titles will all make sense later x)

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