Icy fangs chow down hard on his skin, bypassing all protective layers of clothing. Morro rubs both arms, trying to get the blood flowing, clamping his teeth together to prevent the obscenely loud chattering in his mouth from revealing his hiding spot to the whole world.
The November wind is as frigid and merciless as ever, and clearly trying to get him sick from its ruthless onslaught against his poor, abused thermo-receptors.
An itch slowly works its way up his throat, and, inevitably, Morro has no choice but to scratch it, coughing so harshly he can feel his heart twinge.
Correction: Clearly trying to get him sicker.
He woke up this morning to a splitting headache and relentless coughs that have yet to let up in the slightest. It's prime breeding time for diseases though—FSM knows all the colds he's had throughout his lifetime with an immune system as compromised as his.
The difference between those past instances and Morro's present circumstances, however, is that, back then, he had a warm bed to crawl into, a blanket to pull over his ears, a soft pillow to rest his throbbing head upon, and a nearby toilet bowl to empty his stomach into if that became relevant.
It sincerely Sucks with a capital S to be coming down with something on the streets, where he doesn't even have access to those bare sick-care essentials, but there's not a whole lot he can do about that except try his best to keep warm.
He snagged himself a thick sweater from a laundry line some time back in October, wearing it over the T-shirt he also so got for free from another stranger kindly leaving their laundry unattended, since his old T-shirt eventually became so sweat-infused and frayed that both looking at and being the unfortunate wearer of the damn thing was absolutely repulsive.
On top of the sweater is his much more recently acquired fur-lined winter coat. That took a lot more planning to get his hands on—visiting what must have been every one of Ninjago City's hundreds of clothing stores, scanning tags for the cheapest prices, and looking out for the highest quality. From there it was just a matter of pulling his usual money trick a few times over, skipping a couple of meals, and bam, he was set.
However, even wrapped in two layers of clothing and the warmest jacket he could find, he's still gonna shiver his ass off out here at this rate.
He cups his hands and blows some warm breath into them, trying to regain some feeling in his numb fingers.
Spending all his time outside in the winter months is definitely proving to be a test of his endurance. Sitting here, on top of a mountain of papers and cardboard, in an enormous container, within one of the city's many recycling drop-off stations… probably isn't one of his brightest moments either, though.
The wind can still reach him in here, slipping in through the giant gaping hatch. And even when the bloodthirsty gusts do quell for a brief moment to catch their breath, preparing for the next wave of attack, it's still freaking freezing, since the container made of heat-sensitive metal isn't insulated.
Not like there's any place better for him to be, though.
He would be at his old, considerably more wind-proof hideout behind the power boxes, but, falling in line with Morro's usual streak of bad luck, it's recently become rat infested, because, of course, he isn't the only street inhabitant seeking refuge from the brutal cold. Stupid rodents, why can't they just hibernate like every other critter that's far smarter than them? If he had the choice of just sleeping the winter away, protected by a naturally generated thick, fuzzy coat, he'd accept it without even considering his other options.
Cause, uhm. After a lot of meticulous deliberation, he has reached the unfortunate conclusion that there… admittedly aren't a lot.
He's already gone and done the obvious thing—concealing himself amongst the masses in indoor, public places; going to shops pretending to be a customer, scanning shelves for products he's not actually planning on buying, and maybe occasionally slipping a chocolate bar or pack of gum into his pocket if the opportunity presented itself.
But even there he got shot down. Because, of course, the most straightforward path is a no-go when Morro most desperately needs it.
It always ends the same. Two burly men with the word "security" written plainly across their shirts walking up to him, telling him he smells so bad it's "disturbing customers" and that they'll call the police on his ass if he doesn't leave.
Ok, is all he can think by now. He gets it already, the first dozen times were enough to thoroughly cement it as a lost cause.
Were the times different, Morro would have simply nabbed himself some organic soap and gone to the ocean. However, the Endless Sea is just one bad day away from completely freezing over. No way is he stripping down and letting the cold tear into his bare skin just to go and dunk himself in liquid ice.
So long as he can't get rid of that vile stench, however, he can straight up just trash any hope of staying inside somewhere warm for more than 10 minutes.
The wind leaks in again, and Morro's entire body involuntarily shivers from the sudden injection of cold, his jaw dislodges itself and his teeth go haywire again, triggering another round of uncontrollable coughs.
Shit. He could really use some warmth, preferably sometime very soon. But his willpower isn't so pathetically weak that he'll break the moment a harmless cold veers its neck. Being sick is an annoyance, yes, but nothing more. He's already overcome far more imposing and seemingly insurmountable obstacles out here, so what's a stuffy nose and a few breathing complications compared to that—
His train of thought comes to a screeching halt.
Gravel repeatedly crunches in the near distance, over and over, in the repetitive rhythm Morro easily discerns to be footsteps. Whoever is responsible for making the sound, they're getting close, too damn close for Morro's liking, only stopping when they reach the exact container he is currently residing in. Right on the other side of the very same metallic wall that his back is pressed up against, as far as he can tell.
A low-pitched, grating voice speaks, "The hell… is somebody in there?"
Morro stiffens. His heart is already running amok, bouncing and crying out in alarm, making a ruckus when he really just needs it to shut up. Though, that's not what he's concerned about giving him away.
He carefully places a hand across his mouth, trying to mute his rapid breathing.
All he accomplishes by that, however, is making the itch in his throat absolutely unbearable; like stepping on a gardening hose while it's pumping water. You're only making the inevitable explosion worse.
He erupts into a violent coughing fit, nearly hacking up a lung this time, choking on nothing but air until his head feels about ready to burst.
Well, crap. Seems any hope of staying hidden has just been pulverized.
Thankfully, the absence of good luck in his life is nothing Morro isn't prepared for. Time for his contingency plan to make itself useful.
Morro slowly manages to get up, managing to keep his balance in spite of his legs wobbling dangerously under the strain of his body weight, which, at this point, consists mainly of bones and rapidly deteriorating muscle mass.
With great difficulty, he trudges through the ankle-deep sea of papers, but then, thinking better of it, he gets back down and crawls towards the exit instead. His joints are stiff and ache after being out of commission for so long, his entire body feels thoroughly sucked dry of strength, and his vision darkens as he starts exerting himself, but, gradually, one step—erh, crawl?—at a time, he manages to climb out of the recycling bin all on his own, now facing the chest of the intruder who so rudely infringed on his hiding spot.
It's a worker wearing a neon yellow safety vest, unsurprisingly, perhaps, seeing as the sky has already turned a dark shade of blue, the clouds appearing as solid black puffs of smoke. Obviously, somebody has to stop by and lock the metal fence that encloses the drop-off station, so the dubious kinds of people don't come in for a nightly treasure excavation dive.
People like him, Morro regrettably laments, because, yeah, it certainly does seem mighty suspicious for a kid to be camping out in one of the containers so close to closing time, doesn't it?
He tries his hardest to keep the displeasure over his never-ending misfortune from bleeding into his otherwise neutral expression, refraining from raising his head even the slightest and risking catching a glimpse at the worker's face.
"Sorry, sir. I won't do it again. I know it was stupid and unsafe, and I see the foolishness in my actions," he says, speaking hastily and without making eye contact.
Whether the man is startled into speechlessness or simply doesn't care so long as he gets out of his hair, Morro doesn't know. But he leaves completely unhindered, speed walking until he's miles away from the scene of the crime and any hope of tracking him would be long gone.
At least… that's what would have happened if he lived in a happy, idyllic world where everything always went according to plan.
In reality, Morro doesn't make it further than what he estimates to be a single mile before he's so utterly winded that he feels about one step away from passing out and has to collapse on a nearby bench, sprawled across the seat in a heaving lump of misery that's so pathetic it can't even seem to perform the skill that's so basic even infants instinctively know how to do it—breathe.
He doesn't even know how long it takes him to finally reclaim control over his airway, but it's longer than he thinks can be considered healthy. It's certainly longer than it usually takes him to recover from being out of breath.
Ok, what the hell? Between the months of endlessly wandering the streets and dashing at top speed for minutes on end every time he needed nourishment, he's built up at least a decent reserve of stamina.
That damn virus/infection—whatever the exact term for his ailment—seems to really be getting a kick out of torturing him, huh? But, again, what the hell is he supposed to do to make it go away? He needs rest, but there's nowhere comfortable enough that he could realistically get more than a few hours of shuteye, he needs warmth, but that's the single most valuable resource during winter—a luxury, something Morro seems to be consistently proven unworthy of.
Regardless of the lack of any long-term solutions for making his survival past the winter actually feasible, Morro still needs a place to sleep tonight. He struggles to push himself into a sitting position, skimming the area for any potential emergency beds.
He scowls when he sees that he's surrounded on all sides by small shops and service buildings, ones that are either closed or he can't enter with his current attire.
Great, absolutely fantastic. That leaves him with a vastly varied selection consisting of 3 entire options.
Option 1) The back alleys. Alleys are far from his preferred place for sleeping. They aren't insulated, nor are they especially inviting with their cold concrete flooring and heaps of reeking trash. He's had to resort to them on occasion, however, so, he's at least familiar with all the drawbacks you can expect after using a glorified outside storage space as a bed. Which mainly involves a tremendous dosage of back pain, and that really would not help any with making him feel less like an old geezer at the moment.
Option 2) He could sleep on a bench. The very bench that he's already seated on would actually serve his purposes perfectly. It is an extremely nice bench. Though, as enticing as the thought of not having to move an inch, just shut his eyes, and let the outside world fade away for a few, blissful moments may seem, he knows the meaning of the words hypothermia and frostbite, and staying out in the open would certainly do nothing to decrease the size of both of those dangers currently hovering over his head.
Option 3) He could implement the same tactic that has saved him from the cold every other unbearable winter night. Theaters, museums, amphitheaters, arenas... he's targeted buildings with the most ancient infrastructure and treasured architecture, places that aren't well suited for over-the-counter modern security measures such as cameras or sensors or electronic locks.
He's managed to… find his way to the backrooms of such places… during the night… without paying… or informing anyone.
Ok, yeah, that may be the exact definition of trespassing, but it's not like he's hurting anyone or damaging property, he just sleeps until, inevitably, cleaning staff or security discover him, then he bolts. Add it to his ever-expanding tab of criminal activities, sure, not like it's gonna make a difference at this stage.
That would be his ideal solution for tonight as well. But frankly he… he just doesn't have it in him, wandering that far, spending energy that's already completely burnt up, and with his sickness, he moves like a person 6 times his age, so who knows how badly he'd flop an attempt at actually running.
There's also the issue that if he keeps taking advantage of private institutions' premises, he'll only increase his chances of getting on the police's radar, and well… that's a mess his already overcrowded brain simply doesn't have the capacity to deal with.
Those are his only options, none of which are particularly appealing. But, for the sake of having no choice but to make a choice, Morro rises slowly to his unstable feet, sauntering over—miraculously without losing his balance and face-planting into the asphalt—to inspect one of the nearest alleyways.
There's a partly decomposed box of sushi, some soggy cardboard, a rusty, abandoned kick scooter, and heaps of other worthless, discarded pieces of junk. A horde of cockroaches has infested a dumpster, appearing more like an oversized ant colony than anything. Morro scrunches his nose, which leads to him coughing yet again, a never-ending saga it seems, though, worst of all, is the shivering, the bone-chilling cold that he just knows won't go away even if he puts up with the horrendous sleeping conditions.
Honestly, he doesn't know if staying in an alley will lower his chances of dying in his sleep any more than if he just gave in and stayed out in the open. If he had to choose between dying while moderately comfortable, or dying when it would actually serve as a pleasant escape from his screaming, agonized back muscles, then it's a no-brainer.
However, even as Morro starts gathering resolve, meticulously steadying his breathing and tensing his muscles in preparation, his legs seem to only intensify their ceaseless trembling, so much so that he has to wonder if he could even complete the trek back to the bench without passing out.
In the end, his total exhaustion wins out, and Morro, using the solid wall as support, ventures deeper into the alley.
After a prolonged period of unsuccessfully searching for metaphorical gold among heaps of litteral reeking trash, Morro has to settle for something that's far from worth all the trouble of getting here. A floating staircase made of concrete leads up to some kind of musty old building Morro can't identify with the darkness of the night shrouding his vision. None of the windows are lit, and neither are the windows in the shop that's directly across from it, which means he's maybe getting an inkling of privacy for a few hours. That's… that's a plus, at least.
Morro collapses more so than he sits down under the staircase, once again heaving like his body has forgotten how to perform one of its core functions needed to be alive. He wheezes, heart skipping a beat every time it feels like the air he sucks in doesn't reach his lungs, though, eventually, it all just devolves into a big mess—spitting, choking, nearly vomiting, like he's just emerged from the ocean floor after running out of breath.
Eventually, tears get mixed into the mucus-snot-spit concoction. Morro is lightning-quick to scrub his eyes clean.
No. There's no time for that right now.
"Crybabies don't get to whine when it hurts."
He doesn't have the right to feel sorry for himself, not when he himself is the catalyst for all of this.
Morro pulls his knees to his chest, a futile attempt at gathering a bit more body warmth, he knows, but still it's...
He sniffles, snot gushing from his nose, and at this point, he can't tell if it's the cold or the sickness, or his inability to take control of his emotions that's at fault.
FSM, he's never felt this awful. Like his body's been through the meat grinder, sucked dry, and then spat out and grounded into the asphalt like a chewed-up piece of gum. If only he had a pillow, or his blanket, or, or… or any possessions really, anything at all to help make his condition even just the tiniest smidgeon more bearable.
If only he hadn't been so brainless as to fuck his life up beyond repair.
If only… if only he could have gotten somebody to care, then… maybe things could have been different.
Maybe he wouldn't be sitting here in the first place, abandoned on the side of the road like a helpless, wet, sniveling kitten. That's it. That's Morro. That's all he's ever amounted to. A curled-up ball of misfortune and self-imposed isolation and worthlessness.
Though his mind is strongly against the idea of letting go of his grip on consciousness and allowing control over his body to slip away, Morro is asleep the moment he lets his eyes fall shut.
Ninjago city welcomes the first snowfall of the year before the sun has even risen.
It can't be later than ass'o clock in the morning when Morro somehow manages to lift his impossibly heavy eyelids, blink the grogginess away, and get enough fog to clear from his pounding head that he can comprehend why his blurry, swimming vision is engulfed by a veil of blinding white.
A pained groan escapes through his mouth, and Morro rubs the bridge of his nose, trying to suppress the impending migraine.
Snowflakes drizzle peacefully from the sky, coating the streets with a crisp white blanket—a layer of shimmering diamond dust. You can only really see the tiny, glittering specks of frozen water under the stark light of the street lights, since the rest of the world is still currently enveloped by an impregnable blackness.
Ugh.
The unbearable itch in his throat from yesterday is back with a fiery vengeance, leaving Morro coughing and sputtering like an old machine that's hacking and spewing oil just to remain on its last legs, again.
Great, seems he's still got that to contend with. At least he had the foresight to take cover under the staircase, or he would have wound up completely soaked by the end of the night and, consequently, would have woken up as, quite literally, a living icicle.
So. He isn't a frozen block of ice. That's fantastic and all, but human bodies still aren't built to keep out the winter's cold when exposed to it for the duration of an entire night with zero protection beyond a jacket. His internal body temperature should've plummeted hours ago, brain functions slowly shutting off one by one until, eventually, his heart rate dwindled to a flatline and his organs started to malfunction, so how…
No… the question of how he survived is not particularly hard to answer. What, is the bigger riddle that has Morro absolutely stumped. What's going on? What in the bloody hell is this?
Unless his illness causes extensive memory loss too, something hella freakish is going on here. Because Morro's currently wrapped up like a burrito in a thick, insulated blanket—the kind hikers use to keep warm on the peaks of mountains. And that isn't all.
He turns his attention to the real point of contention, staring it down like he can get it to spill its secrets.
Steam rises lazily from the snout of a blue ceramic teapot. It's got the silhouette of a Japanese dragon swirling around the top, and there's a matching yunomi cup as an added bonus. Morro touches the pot, and, yup, confirming his suspicions, it's scorching hot to the touch. Alongside the freshly brewed batch of tea, there's a neatly packaged paper baggie just sitting there, untouched, practically begging for him to open it. Inside Morro finds three perfectly golden and absolutely stunning meat buns, also steaming hot.
His brows furrow, a deep, contemplative frown solidifying on his face.
Seems he's somehow acquired himself a secret Santa, and, whoever they are, they were indisputably here very recently. However, the identity of his unknown supplier doesn't bother him as much as the fact that somebody's intentionally keeping track of his location and actions. His list of problems is already getting too long, adding a stalker to that list surely can't be good for his mental health.
Because, really, what else could this be if not a ploy to gain his trust?
It'll start out small like this—a few minor contributions, some food and beverages, then, slowly, it's gonna evolve into bigger, far more extravagant gifts, like clothes, or maybe even just straight-up cash. That's how things will play out until Morro starts to become reliant on the donations, expecting them, then, finally, the mystery doner will make his grand, dramatic entrance, promising him gold and silver and all the happiness in the world that he can't attain out here if only he jumps into the back of his car and comes with him, and then…
He hugs his knees a little tighter, his scowl deepening in disgust.
Though he's immensely dizzy, Morro manages, while clasping the blanket with all his strength to keep it in place, to crawl forward just enough to peek his head out of the alley.
Kids are already out and around, decked out in so much winter gear they might as well have been wearing full sets of armor. A clear indication of overprotective parents. They're rolling around in the snow, making snow angels, chasing each other to stuff snow down each others' pants, throwing snowballs at walls and windows, and causing harmless mayhem, laughing.
That is akin to getting brutally punched in the gut. But, considering the intolerable feeling of unwell that's currently circulating throughout what feels like his entire bloodstream, Morro would rather not give thought to his stomach receiving any kind of blow, regardless of the fact that, currently, it's so empty nothing would come back up.
No, no time.
Morro bites his lip until the memories vanish and his eyesight focuses on what's actually in front of him, observing his surroundings. People are milling about, there's the occasional car whooshing by on the plowed roads, but that aside, there's nobody in the near vicinity giving even the slightest indication that they know of his location.
While that would have been reassuring on any other day, it currently leaves Morro with an entirely different kind of nausea.
The proof that his mystery doner was here recently is irrefutable. How could they be out of sight already? Why would they even want to hide away like some principled superhero refusing to take credit for their accomplishments if their plan is to lure him in? It's pointless if he doesn't know their identity, isn't it? Also, how come he didn't immediately wake upon somebody approaching in the crunching snow, much less wrapping him up like a newborn baby? He's always been a light sleeper, but it's a skill he's honed to damn near perfection after moving to the streets where there's no alarm to wake him in the morning.
Has his illness dulled his senses that much? Morro's head pounds from overthinking, worsening the pre-existing headache and making it harder to use his brain.
Well, amongst all the uncertainty, Morro at least knows one thing with absolute confidence. Whoever the hell it is, they picked the wrong guy to turn into a victim. He isn't some clueless little kid who'd cater to a stranger's kindness and blindly trust them just as that. He's definitely gonna watch out for any sudden overly friendly and helpful pedestrians. In the future. At the appropriate time. When the vague, looming concept of a threat actually materializes before his eyes and proves to be a tangible, immediate worry.
For now, though…
He sneaks another glance at the steaming tea, unable to resist. Of course, he makes it a point not to drink mysterious, unidentifiable liquids of unknown origin.
But… well… the steam and heat that the pot is giving off is damn near irresistible. Unable to help himself, Morro removes the lid and gives the contents of the teapot a cautious sniff.
It smells heavenly. Like roses mixed with a tint of indescribable freshness.
Come on, his teeth have surely been filed down a few millimeters from the constant chattering, his legs are practically paralyzed from his joints becoming so stiff, it hurts every time he so much as wiggles a pinky, his fingertips have turned an alarmingly dark shade of blue, and he hasn't checked a mirror for months, but he's pretty sure his lips currently don a very similar complexion.
What's the danger in relishing the stuff he's so readily handed for free?
Morro's hands shiver so hard that the simple motion of pouring himself a cup leads to at least half of the precious tea spilling onto the ground. Only on his third try does he finally manage to get the cup to his lips, and it's actually so scalding hot that he physically recoils in pain.
He spits out the mouthful of tea, coughing, taking a moment to recover. This time he blows at it first, then downs the hot liquid greedily.
He can't distinguish the taste, mainly because he's never, by any stretch of the imagination, been a tea connoisseur, but also in part due to the fact that his tongue has been scorched.
Whatever, taste isn't even remotely important right now. Warmth, the invaluable warmth seeps into his very bones, and for the first time in what feels like months, Morro can actually feel his toes again, his teeth stop chattering, his hands are cured of their chronic trembling, the raging monster scratching and tearing at his throat also seems to be appeased for a brief moment, and, honestly, Morro has never felt this relieved.
He just sits like that, letting his eyes drop shut, just savoring the feeling of everything not going to absolute shit for once. It's oh so wonderful, and way too good to actually be lasting. Morro opens his eyes before he starts dozing off, sparing the paper baggie that came with the tea a halfway disinterested look.
Strangely, the prospect of food doesn't arouse his stomach in the slightest. Though knowing his BMI was already in the unhealthy range prior to his rapid exit from his home, cobbled with the fact that he hasn't eaten anything since getting sick, he still gives eating a try, but he ends up just nibbling away at the meat buns slowly, only managing to get one and a half into his stomach before it feels so overstuffed he fears he would puke upon taking another bite.
Maybe he should see that as another bad omen. Another nail hammered into the perhaps not-so metaphorical coffin that it's starting to feel like he's inevitably marching towards. But, frankly, Morro can't help but see his missing hunger as a blessing. Not having to exert energy on getting food is perhaps one of the only upsides to feeling like dog crap.
He pockets the leftovers, even knowing meat buns become hard and rubbery as they cool down. Hey, shitty food is better than no food. So long as it's edible you won't hear him complaining. If his street adventures have taught him anything, it's that picky eaters are spoiled children who don't know the true value of food because they've never been without it.
As the effects of the warm beverage start to subside, the weather really takes its toll on Morro again. The hulking skyscrapers do a lot to block the wind and reduce the chill factor, but a breeze still manages to weave its way through the thick concrete jungle and lick his naked face and, effective immediately, thousands of razor-like teeth bite down on his nose and cheeks and it's so. Cold. Whatever the exact number of degrees, it, quite obviously, must have a minus tacked on in front of it.
Another cup of tea is in order, and Morro finishes it just as quickly as the first. Another one follows that, then another, and another. The pattern repeats until not so much as a drop comes out of the teapot.
He releases a soundless sigh. Of course, not like he expected it to be bottomless. This isn't some happy, whimsical fairytale he's a part of, it's reality, and as such, he can't just keep sitting here all day unless he really wants to stress test his body's resilience to the cold. Walking is the best way to keep his blood circulating and his heart beating, though the problem with that is it'd require him to actually get up and move.
As if rubbing salt in the wound, another cough works its way up his throat and leaves him breathless and incapacitated for another while, unable to even make an attempt at gathering strength. It goes without saying that it's immensely discouraging to be staring up at a mountain while he's got his hands tied behind his back, then being told climb.
No, get up.
Today isn't the day he lays down and plainly lets himself be defeated. Not after he's overcome everything else that's been thrown at him in an attempt to strike him down. Not like this, like some lowlife maggot who's so pathetic he's uncertain if anyone would even find his body. Not after he, by some fluke, got a second chance. The world can rip away all his possessions and safety nets and sources of happiness and he'll just stand and watch, helpless to do anything, but this… this is different.
Morro doesn't have a whole lot left to fight for, and… frankly, it's not even like his life's worth a whole damn lot either. But he's the one who gets to decide what to do with it. He made up his mind that day. Even if it's something as simple as whether to get up or stay down, he's the one in control now, so he'll fight, until every ounce of breath has left his body.
He'll never conform and dance like someone's puppet ever again.
Morro scoots out of his hole, and already black spots creep into the corners of his vision like a sprawling ant colony, though he stubbornly ignores it. He tries using the railing of the concrete stairs above his head to pull himself up, but his twiggy arms lack the strength to fully do so, so he crashes back to his knees, heaving, hacking up saliva for a good while.
Ok. Seems he'll have to try something else.
Though turning his pulsating head is nauseating, Morro's eyes scan the area for anything that could be useful as a boost. The alleyway has nothing to present but disappointment though. Deteriorated car tires? Absolutely not. The roach-infested dumpster? Fat chance.
The stairs may be reusable, though. Morro awkwardly crawls on all fours, getting fingers and knees and the blanket soaked in the process, to the other side of the concrete staircase, to the inclining steps. He sits, pushing himself as far up as he can. This way he's not quite as far down as when situated squarely on the ground. Not by much, but… it has to be enough.
Gathering a mouthful of air, he grabs the frigid metal railing once again, then pours all his remaining strength into a single, behemoth push. His limbs tremble with effort, face heating up as the blood comes rushing to his brain, but he resists the screaming voice in his head telling him to stop and rest and that it fucking hurts.
His stomach does a cartwheel and nearly sends all its content the wrong way up, and Morro comes dangerously close to losing his balance and falling flat on his ass again, though his grip around the railing proves secure enough, and he stays on his legs, though they shake beneath him.
He takes a substantial break to recover after that. He's still quite queasy, so out of breath it should probably be concerning, but he's still standing, and that's progress at least. Standing is better than sitting, but walking is the ideal that he's striving for. So he gets to it—forces his legs to fulfill their intended purposes.
Using the brick wall as support again, it only takes him about 5 minutes to reach the main street. Which… admittedly is not a time worthy of a place in any record book, but he's trying here. There's a reason participation awards exist, right?
The streets of Ninjago City are as though submerged in thick molasses. Morro's entire world is fuzzy, sounds dulled by the cloth over his head and the shrieking, shrill ringing in his ears. He can't even hear his own labored breathing, but he can feel it, clawing at his throat, scratching his lungs like long, pointed nails with every breath. Oxygen deprivation blurs his vision, but he can live with that, it's nothing but a minor annoyance since his eyes are locked exclusively on his feet, his focus purely on making it another single step instead of the collective, impossible distance he knows he'd see if he raised his head.
He's probably a walking attention magnet right now. A stunted, filthy, stinking teen walking like a drunk old man while wearing what looks like a knockoff hijab.
He doesn't care. Because he knows nobody else really cares enough to get close enough to make his glaringly obvious problem their problem. Honestly, it's rather helpful that they avoid him like he's infected, because that way he doesn't have to waste focus on trying to avoid bumping into anyone.
Morro walks, and he walks, and he has no fucking clue where he's going. It's not the destination that matters as much as preventing his joints and organs from becoming permanently unusable, but he's also acutely aware that he's gonna wear himself out fast in his current condition if he doesn't find someplace to rest.
But where?
Nothing springs to mind. And, frankly, that's just hysterical, 'cause he can usually never get his thoughts to leave him in peace for a single goddamn minute, and now when he most desperately needs them to fire off every impulsive idea they get, they're just sitting there, innocently twiddling their thumbs in silence.
Morro walks, and he thinks, and he thinks until it hurts. Quite literally.
His epiphany hits him in the form of a metal street light. He curses as pain spikes through his forehead. FSM, he better not be getting a stupid bruise from this—
Morro looks up as he rubs the sore spot and blinks tears away, just to check how many people saw his splendid display of idiocy. Inadvertently, as he checks on the indifferent crowd he also recognizes the area, though that may be a given, since he hasn't left a rock in the city uninspected.
Hold on… wasn't this the street where…
Spurred on by the resurfacing of a hazy, long-since buried memory, Morro walks with purpose for the first time in months. He doesn't have to go far to find exactly what he thinks he's looking for.
A two-story building with dirty, century-old brickwork, dulled in color, weathered window frames, very likely to have horrendous isolation, but still it's…
A homeless shelter.
Morro draws in a breath and sucks on his lower lip, chewing on it thoughtfully.
It still… technically wouldn't count as giving up, right? He'd just be going in there for a break, that's all, allowing himself a chance to regain his footing and letting his head thaw enough that he can think straight again. After that, he'll scram before anybody starts asking questions, before anybody can so much as learn his name or memorize his facial features.
Yeah, that pretty much sounds like a foolproof plan.
"No, sorry, we don't let in unaccompanied minors."
Morro frowns deeply at the unhelpful information, doing nothing to hide his dissatisfaction. The receptionist sitting opposite him isn't doing much to hide her displeasure either, so, really he's just returning the hospitality. The woman's on the verge of qualifying as an old fart, gray spots dotted about in her chestnut hair, cigarette in mouth, nail file in hand. She doesn't even spare him the effort of keeping eye contact during their conversation, apparently more invested in the outcome of her manicure.
"I'd have to contact a social security officer, and they'd probably place you in an orphanage before letting you enter a place like this," she says, squinting at her hand as she continues shaping her nails.
Morro is at least grateful she warned him and that she doesn't press him for any explanations.
Feeling let down but not defeated, he steps onto the streets once more, letting out his frustration with an exhale. Ah well. Ninjago City is a hubbub for people without houses, and the city officials are obligated to accommodate the people when the problem grows as out of hand as it already is. He's spoiled for options here, really, if shelters are what he's after.
"Oh, I'm so sorry but we don't have any space. If you give me the phone numbers of your parents I can refer you to someone who'd be willing to help. I don't see anybody with you, though. Is your mom or dad around hun'?"
The sickly sweetness is almost worse than the indifference he'd encountered at the previous place. Morro grimaces and not-so kindly turns down the offer, walking away once again.
Well… there's gotta be at least one shelter that's kid-friendly or not totally overrun with people this time of year, right?
"No, no room here, sorry."
"I apologize, but we're filled up."
"Can't take any more here, especially children. Try the shelter on Flemming Street."
"Yeah, sure, we've got the room."
Hope, fleeting and meager, sparks to life in Morro's chest.
"Then can I-"
"No."
It's the look that accompanies that simple, one-word sentence that truly makes Morro's heart drop.
The receptionist narrows his eyes at him, evaluating him before answering, "We don't let in the sick. Frankly, kid, you look like death rolled over. You belong at a hospital, not a shabby place like this that wouldn't be able to provide you with the extensive treatment you probably need. Here, I'll even call an ambulance for you…"
Panic infests every cell in Morro's body as the man pulls out a phone and starts dialing a number.
Shit shit shit shit shit—he can't afford to let himself get caught, let them tie strings around his limbs, pull him in the directions that they dictate, not after he's finally cut the chords of that wretched apartment, he can't, we won't, he won't, he won't he won't, he won't…
"Hey! Kid, wait!"
He runs.
Morro wasn't aware that his battered and broken body had the scraps of energy left to do something so physically demanding, but hey, adrenaline is the most wondrous miracle drug out there.
He runs without reason or even the beginnings of a plan, following a combination of random turns and straights down a random set of streets—concocting a route that he himself wouldn't be able to remember and recreate if he tried.
His lungs cry out in agony as he swallows what feels like needles. He coughs, his pace forcibly slowed to a near standstill, and he has to slump against a building because his fucking head won't stop spinning like he's on one of those asinine teacup carnival rides. Morro refuses to let his knees buckle, repeatedly hitting his worthless calves until the pain from his punches overwhelms that of the physical exertion, then keeps going.
It's not like anybody is hot on his tail, breathing down the hairs on his neck. It's not like a monster's waiting to tear his flesh from his bones the moment he lets his feet stay still. Morro would say he isn't entirely sure why, if that's all the case, he's running away. But that wouldn't be telling the truth.
His voice overwhelmed by another much louder, far higher pitched voice.
"Next time you decide to run away, stay the fuck away! Life isn't so forgiving as to just hand out second chances for free just because you come begging and crying on your knees!"
That's enough motivation to keep his temporary power boost going for just a minute, a second longer.
A staircase. Morro somehow spots it through the blurry ocean of his swimming vision. He doesn't care where it leads, it's a way out, it's an exit, an escape, and so he reaches out for the opportunity that's dangling right in front of his face desperately.
Every step is like a jump down a cliffside, sending painful vibrations through his ultra-sensitive nervous system. Unfortunately for Morro, there's also a slipperiness factor to snow and the ice that could be hiding beneath that he'd failed to take into account.
He trips.
Rolling, the blanket comes undone on the way down and gets left behind because his body just keeps going, spinning, his vision spinning faster than ever, until, finally, his momentum comes to a hard, abrupt stop as he reaches the bottom of the staircase and collides head-on with a pile of snow.
At least his fall was cushioned. Morro's knees spurt blood like a water faucet and his ribs moan louder than old, creaky floorboards, but nothing feels broken.
He can't move his body, though. Not so much as a finger answers to his brain's pleas to give him even the tiniest twitch, however, Morro attributes that to the total overuse of his already weakened muscles rather than any serious injuries.
Agh… crap…
No other thought makes itself heard for a good while. Morro lies in near complete, damn unnatural silence. There's nothing, no people walking by, no cars, trains, or, well… it's there, if he listens so closely that he has to wonder if he's just imagining it.
Hold on… where is he?
Morro grinds his teeth together, calling on every living cell in his body to please respond to his command and make his body stir. Ultimately, all his extraneous effort amounts to nothing more than his head tilting a few centimeters to the left, but it's enough to get a slightly better view of his whereabouts.
Ah.
It's one of the boating districts. That makes more sense. Ninjago City was built with the surrounding ocean integrated into its infrastructure. With all the channels running through the city like an entirely separate roadway, owning a boat might seem like a mighty good investment during hotter, milder months when fish are abundant and vacationing with family is optimal. When the water's as good as an instant death trap to anybody who falls in, and the fuel is literally freezing solid in the tanks? Not so much.
As far as Morro can see, the snow down the entire sidewalk is untrodden, and the boats are all docked and seemingly untouched, windows glazed over with a layer of sparkling ice. Great. So he can immediately dismiss any ideas of a valiant, selfless savior swooping in to save him.
Honestly, he doesn't know if that's a good or bad thing anymore.
Strangely, Morro no longer feels the effects of his debilitating sickness. He doesn't feel the sticky, frigid sweat that a raging fever brings about. He doesn't feel cold, even with his face pressed firmly into the snow. His headache has dwindled to nothing but a light, infrequent ache in the front of his skull. His teeth aren't even chattering anymore.
All his symptoms are just progressively diminishing the longer he lays still, snowflakes melting on his flushed skin and slowly piling onto his unmoving form.
Honestly, the scene is almost kind of… serene. If you look at it from the right angle.
His breathing stabilizes completely and Morro closes his eyes, letting the momentary peace overwhelm every other rational sense in his body screaming at him that this is a highly alarming development and that he should absolutely be panicking right about now.
Maybe he can just… stay on the ground for a while. Savor this unexpected nugget of light in his worthless existence.
The tranquility, however, is quickly and unabashedly interrupted. Morro is struck with a sudden, severe case of can't breathe syndrome, so his body tries to make up for it with rapid, sharp intakes of air, which just agitates his throat and leads to painful coughing.
This time is different, though, from the literal millions of other attacks he must have had over the course of 2 tortuously long days.
Liquid bubbles up in Morro's mouth. He spits it out in between his body's violent convulsions, crimson stains the pure, stark white, and…
Ah, fuck. He's… he's really dying, isn't he?
The surge of emotions that crash into him all in one big package in the next, single second can be summed up in a single word:
Oh.
There's no fear. No disbelief, no denial that this is actually happening. Acceptance, instead, is the dominant emotion.
Maybe that's strange, considering his big, presumptuous speech about fighting for his life earlier this very same day. But, like. At some point, you just gotta stop bashing your head against the wall and realize it's you that's gonna give, not the damn immovable object. Had he given up back then, it would have been pure laziness. Now? It's just self-preservation, as contradictory as that may seem.
All Morro can do is laugh. A humorless, dry chuckle that's barely audible with his mutilated vocal cords. A few months back, he'd made the audacious claim of having hit rock bottom. Well, guess what, turns out life's not a hole with a definitive beginning and end that you can crash into, but more like a bottomless pit. It doesn't stop getting worse until you can no longer collect any new experiences, good or bad. Your current "worst" may be surpassed by something completely unexpected.
A car crash is all it takes to become quadriplegic.
A malfunctioning elevator could cost people their lives.
You could choke on your breakfast, even if it's the same damn thing you've eaten for the past 30 years.
Well, if Morro had to make a tier list, dying certainly ranks above getting evicted from one's own household.
Another cough arises, this time pitifully weak, like his body no longer even has the energy to activate vital survival mechanisms. More blood mixes with the snow.
Heh.
Some happy birthday, this is. Seems every ounce of bravado and perseverance in his being wasn't enough to make it one day past 13.
Morro closes his eyes and breathes out, content that he's never gonna open them again.
Ahh... Hello dear readers. Trust me, I, myself, am not the biggest fan in the world of page-long ANs but please bear with me just this once.
So, it's been a while has it not? Hello, hello. I do apologize for the long wait, but I've got valid excuses! Honestly, I've been so insanely busy that it's impossible for me to list off everything I've done in these past few months, but just to name a few: I've moved out AND changed schools (I live in Denmark, and we have these things called "Efterskole" look it up, cause it's kind of too complicated to explain right here), met my virtual, French best friend for the first time EVER, been sick for over a week twice (I actually find it hilariously ironic that I myself was sick while writing this chapter), and much, MUCH more.
I do feel guilty for the snail's pace that this story is likely going to release at, but I promise it lives rent-free in my head and has done so for literal YEARS, so I have no plans of giving up or even going on hiatus. I just... don't have as much time to work on it as I'd like. Especially since I'm a bit of a perfectionist, so I actually wrote like 3k words of this chapter, then deleted it all and started over again, and that also eats up some time. The chapters are also decently lengthy (6-10k words is a lot for me, not for others, I know), and simply just getting the words written is also time-consuming.
I actually would've liked to make this chapter even longer, but after a lot of consideration... I figured it would be better tone-wise to leave the story here. Hey, I haven't left you guys on a cliffhanger before now, so *shrug.* I also promise this story isn't just Morro suffering on the streets. Next chapter onward, the plot's really gonna start huhu.
Also, here's some fun tidbit of information: Morro's birthday, in this universe, is officially November 12th. Google it, I beg you, and I'm sorry, but once I figure out that it was actually a thing, I couldn't let the opportunity pass me by. *Evil laughter*
Thanks so much for reading! Reviews, Follows, and Faves are highly appreciated *heart*
