Psychic City: I'm so sorry that it took me a right eternity to even begin to upload this. However, I got an ample amount of reviews over the past couple of days and, surprisingly, I think that there's been a whole new surge of interest in this all over again. So, I've got the motivation to continue it if anyone's still up for it as well. Please don't hesitate to submit a review and let me know your thoughts, opinions, or questions! They are all read and greatly appreciated.
So, without much more ranting, here's chapter four, after what has turned into a matter of weeks of waiting. Sorry! I promise that if the interest continues, the story will as well! Thing is, I was looking for some more stories based off of Stu and Murdoc's beginning, but I could really only find one other one that went into it. Huh.
Chapter Four:
Caretaker
Stuart remembered with a twitch the moment when he was little and no one would sit next to him at the lunch tables. He remembered this in the middle of the haziness that overtook his memory and everything was blurry and almost a little bit foggy. Yet, he could still picture himself at the back of the school with his uniform gray blazer over his head like a spare hood. He remembered, clearer now as the haze started to just slightly melt away, the rain clouds ahead and the fast-paced he had tried to maintain in his footing. Despite the dream-like atmosphere of Stuart's childhood memory, he seemed almost oblivious to the day's prior worries of forgetfulness and immobility. Instead, his main focus remained on the memory as if it were really a current issue. Thus, he once again placed himself on the cold and dreary side walk, once again clung tight onto the school blazer above his head, and once again heard the pounding of oncoming footsteps close in behind him.
Other than the usual worry that flooded Stuart during his alleyway walk home from school, there was something particularly frightening about the current effect of the memory. The extra footsteps bounded against the brick walls of the tall buildings before him and his grip tightened against the fabric of his jacket. A fit of incomprehensible whispers made a cold shiver travel down the boy's hunched spine and he focused on his feet, despite the fact that their speed was only rather mediocre. Then, from the depths of the alley, a voice shouted, "incoming!" and- splat-- a brownish yellow banana peel landed directly in front of him, missing his sneakers by inches.
The boy whirled around, still hiding cautiously behind his jacket. Yet he barely peeked out from behind the raised sleeve, scanned the darkness, and surveyed the four massive shadows at the end of the long street. Tall, thick, and giggling, the dual pair of boys wore matching smiles. They chuckled at Stuart as his shoulders slumped, recognizing the figures from the school yard. They towered over him and each were almost virtually twice his size. Their cupped hands held a collection of fruits, and Stu heard the middle one shout, "four!" before a bright red apple spun right in his direction.
The thing landed just before him, splicing on the street within minutes. Stu's grip on his school blazer slackened and he dropped the rather expensive thing as he stumbled backwards. Though the boys were much quicker. Their shadows advanced and with a couple quick strides, they had found their way up to Stu without much trouble. "Cute 'do," grunted the shortest of the four, though also the most wide. His stomach busted out of his own matching uniform and his eyes glistened with the mischief of someone much older than a fourth grader. Still, he outstretched a meaty and and flicked the boy's pale forehead with a simple twitch of his finger.
"Anyone ever tell you that you look like a stick of cotton candy?" asked one of the two in the middle. He tugged ruthlessly on the dangling bits of Stuart's blue head just below his ears. When he noticed the boy's face redden however, he let go and turned to the other three for a chuckle. "Look at him," he accused, extending a finger under the young Stuart's chin, "I think we really got under his skin."
Really, Stuart just wanted to leave. He wanted to go home and crawl back into his room. He didn't care about the color of his hair or about the blazer that had been knocked to the floor in the rain puddles below him. He decided right then and there that at that moment, he could care less about his blue hair. He just wanted to be able to have a head after he was certain the boys before him would try to knock it clear off of his shoulders. Yet he couldn't help the instant shiver that overtook him. He chewed anxiously on his bottom lip and blinked out the haziness that came into his eyes. Vision blurry with the onset of fresh tears, he braced himself for what he only knew was coming.
The bigger of the four, he latched onto the front of Stuart's white school polo and pulled him up from the ground. "I think," he said, chewing on a big bubble of pink gum, "we can help you with your hair problem, Tusspot," and from behind his back he pulled out a pair of shining metal scissors. Even in the lack of light, the sharp things glistened behind the shadowy atmosphere of the alleyway. The boy's fingers drew the two blades apart and he snapped the blades back shut with a forceful snap. He felt the raised boy twitch above the ground and a larger smile spread across his wide and puffy face. "What do you think, boys?" he asked, still missing several teeth of his own. He questioned the other figures with a slight glance over his shoulder, "think we could help Stu out with his hair problem?"
"Sure do," pipped in the others, withdrawing their own scissors from behind their backs. Stu saw them draw in closer, felt someone tug with full force at his shaggy blue hair and yank Stu's head drastically to the left.
A panic overtook Stuart and he remembered raising his trembling fists without really thinking. Despite his sweaty palms, he extended his own scrawny hand forward, not really a match for the four bulky boys that held him down, and clawed for the scissors himself. However, his movement had done him some good; his sudden jerk had caused the boy around his shirt collar to stumble back, obvious not expecting the move. Squealing, he released his tightened fist and Stuart fell to the ground and his head slammed back against the wet pavement. For a split second, Stu and all for boys remained motionless, each listening to the quiet little whimper that emitted from Stu's throat. He blinked up at the rain cloud laced sky, feeling the wind rush bitterly out of his heaving chest and noticed the scrape on his extended palm.
The four uniform school boys exchanged glances, first back and forth at one another, then back at the boy on the ground. "You slimy little bastard," shouted the tallest, whose scissors had fallen from his own hand, cutting his palm in the process. He cradled onto his bleeding fist and then lunged back down to retrieve his fallen possession. With a rapid swipe, he lifted the scissors back up from the cement pavement and grabbed Stu's skinny ankle, yanking him forward across the alley ground before his meaty claws reached back for the boy's squirming wrists.
"You will pay for that," he reassured Stu and grabbed the largest fistful of blue hair that he could fit in his hands. With that, he snapped shut his scissors around Stu's outstretched locks, sending a mass amount of azure strands into the rain puddles in a few short moments. The shortest boy neared Stu, glanced harshly in his eyes, and wrapped a hand around his classmate's mouth. He started in, snipping away at a brand new handful and leaving a butchered bare spot in the top of the boy's head.
And then the haze that had drawn Stu so strongly back into his memory returned around the corner of it, just as mysteriously as it had come. Swirling and majestic, it floated around the scene like powder and devoured gracefully the alleyway that it passed through. First it erased the trash bins and the rain puddles. Then, without hesitation, it swiped away the shouts of the boys and silenced Stu's anxious mind. Despite the headache that he could still feel, and despite the ill nausea that washed over him intensely, he found safe satisfaction in the vanishing scenery.
The moment pulled away from him slowly, thus leaving Stu to the darkness, to his own private thoughts where he remembered only the essence of that day and how he never, ever wanted to be bullied ever again in his lifetime. The sensation of reality felt to be even quite a pleasure to him and he felt comfort in knowing that, though he could not move, he could sense the presence of someone leaning in close to him. And he heard the voice of someone slur. Despite the whisper, he heard the tone of someone curious say, "give Mudsy-Wudsy a smile..."
And he tried. Despite his blatant unsuccessfulness, he felt joy in knowing that he was out of his nightmare. Even in the utter blackness of seeing behind his eyelids, a certain warmth spread throughout his vastly beating heart and, nonetheless, calmed him greatly. For a second he thought he could recognize the voice and the sound of it, but as the presence of the being leaned away from him, he only heard the squish of a cushion sound out before him. For a moment he wondered it the being had settled down, though he only became quite certain when he heard the rough grunt of what he assumed was a man. "Come on," the voice said again, "don't look so down, Stu. You're getting a 'get off easy' card, you bloody git. Me, on the other hand, ehh... not so much."
Was he? Was he getting a 'get off easy' card? In his catatonic state, he wasn't exactly sure what he was getting, though he was quite certain that it wasn't much. He still had not been able to move his arms or legs, and every so often, he would rev himself up into consciousness.
However, at the very least, Stuart considered the possibility that, at least, he was getting some insight. Usually people talked as if he were not there, as if he did not exist. And thus, Stuart oddly enjoyed being the fly on the wall in these situations, though, try as he might to wake up. Still, he was positive that he could feel the warm embraces of what he'd assumed were people's arms around his shoulders. Every so once in a while, he could feel their embrace around him and, though he could not hug them back, felt a slight sense of ease at the notion of their warmth.
Yet something about this man speaking to him now seemed a bit different. Stuart could tell that he was not exactly happy with him, yet he could not explain why. Though, still, unable to question the slurring voice, Stu Pot remained a silent listener, however trapped behind the veils of sleep.
Something shifted him from underneath the covers and Stu Pot felt a collection of five cold fingers slip underneath him. Though his body could not physically shutter, he felt an intense bout of ice travel up his drawn out spine. For a moment, he thought he might yell out, and he seemed to also forget that he couldn't even do such a simple thing in the first place. Still, the fingers yielded, and the voice ahead of his grumbled something inaudibly. Leaning forward, Stu could feel the hot, horrid breath at the front of his face. What he could not see, however, was the expression that Murdoc Niccals was giving him from above.
The green skinned man considered the comatose kid's sloppy facial expression for a moment, feeling a strange ping of unfamiliar guilt, a feeling that was not completely normal to him. The look etched on Stu's visage was a loose one. His eyebrows were positioned upwards, in a confused sort of manner, and the gaping hole that was his mouth only just hung open. Despite the long tube that extended out from the inside of his lips, Murdoc's shoulders fell down ever so slightly. "Oh, come off it," he muttered, referring to the pathetic look, "it's not like I have a choice. That bleedin' doctor of yours gave me a list." Still, he continued in his work, fixing Stu so that he flopped on his side.
Yet, dumbly, his body flipped over as it was positioned to, and his lifeless hand swung over the skeletal side that struck out in the air. There was a shuffle of papers and the man before Stuart seemed to give the list a good reading over before sighing grievingly. "Sodding bastard," the man retorted, giving Stuart one hardy push and watching him reactively fall face first on the mattress. Stuart did not move a single muscle as he felt his face plummet into the depths of a soft white pillow and the back of his hospital gown lift up within the instant.
"Oh."
Murdoc's face changed drastically as he caught sight of the horrifying vision of the kid's posterior back. He had only lifted up a fractional amount of the mint green gown, graciously covering the boy's backside, but still managed to see the damaged state of his pale skin. His left eye gave a slight little twitch, outwardly loathing the doctor and the hospital staff for putting 'clean wounds' on his list of daily tasks. Still, as he scrutinized the bloody mess at the young kid's bare back, he had to admit- they did look pretty daunting.
His face crumbled as the mere thought of the hospital staff crossed his mind. He was certain they'd enjoyed seeing him enduring the dirty work of caring for Stuart Pot, the asshole. In his detest, he could imagine the lot of them, huddled up in a corner as they watched him gaze down at the massive and open wound, just waiting for him to start. For the second time, Murdoc cursed the kid for sticking his face at the bumper of his car in the first place as he grumpily reached out towards the bucket of washing water that had been casually left out for him.
Over his unmistakable grumbling, he rung out the soft cloth, analyzed it miserably, and forced it upon the back of Stuart's exposed skin. He had to admit, however, that the injury was quite the unfortunate one. Whatever had caused a hefty majority of the boy's back to scrape off had done quite a job at it. In the sense of a brutal flashback, Murdoc recalled seeing the Saturday boy slam harshly on the carpet floor before sliding thickly across it. Then, coming back to his current senses, he mumbled bitterly as he furiously scrubbed away at the thing.
"You know, you're certainly not making this easy for me, Pot," Murdoc groaned, glancing to the side of the desk and noticing with a sinking heart that the hospital had also left a hearty amount of bandages for him to conclude with. The snake-like image of rolled up gauze made Murdoc's blood boil. "You just keep coming up with more and more injuries just to piss me off, don't you?" With a swift and angry jerk of his arm, he pushed the wash cloth back over the exposed parts of the patient's back. "Don't think I'm not on to you."
Stuart Pot, however, did not even slightly flinch. Inwardly, however, he could feel his heart twist unforgivingly. As the man drew the wet towel over the surface of his wounds, Stu felt an intense amount of pressure that made his head swell and his guts twinge. However, he mentally gritted his teeth, feeling weak even in his consciousness. And even, for a split second, he felt sorry for the man who had been assigned the job of cleaning his injury up. Sympathy filled the comatose boy's heavy chest. Surely the man did not deserve to be bothered with such a burden and, sheepish, Stuart couldn't help but feel a swell of guilty humiliation wash over him unexpectedly.
But Murdoc had finished as quickly as he had started. Despite cleaning up the boy in a sloppy way, he lunged over and grasped the gauze, unraveling it messily before stretching it over Stuart's back and whacking the covered wounds with the face of his clammy palm. "Good as new!" he shouted, triumphantly and then, leaning back, he returned to the lengthy task list with an open mind. However, his feeling of completed accomplishment faded as he caught sight of the next bullet point.
His mismatched eyes scrambled over the surface of the laminated sheet and he felt the little amount of color drain conclusively from his face. The second item on the list lunged out at him clearly and, though the fog that captivated his blurry vision, Murdoc read the words: physical therapy. His dry mouth cracked open and he checked the time on the clock above, noting that he was already late as scheduled. However, the few directions under the second bullet told him that the therapy process was simple. All he'd needed to do was to move the boy's limbs around, gently. Still, there was something about the notion of physical contact that made Mudoc involuntarily shutter and, wincing, he snorted, "you've got to be shitting me."
Murdoc glared down at the face-down vegetable. His stupid azure blue hair swung limply across his pale face, and his shut eyes showed off the intense purple bruise that tainted the outside of the both of them. Yet, the man at the other end of the hospital bed gave a disheartened sigh, wanting to punch the sleeping kid in the face rather than gently move his arm around in a loop of useless circles for an hour. However, his eyes danced up to the blinking camera in the corner and, resisting the urge, he once again pressed forward and flopped Stuart back onto his back with a dissatisfied grunt.
His chilly fingers wrapped around Stuart's tightly and, curling his hands around the boy's skinny wrist, Murdoc hissed as he moved the kid's arm up and down consecutively. "Sodding bastard," he grimaced with a moan, swaying the lifeless limp back and forth. However, with the unconscious kid now face up, Murdoc was certain that there was something amiss about the boy that he hadn't noticed before. There, in the white light of the hospital bulbs, Stuart's bruised eyes gave a slight twitch and even his lips trembled, despite his obvious delirium.
There was an oddly painful moan that emitted from the boy's parted mouth and, flinching, the boy gave a timid little groan before his eyes flickered open.
Horrified, Murdoc stumbled back. His arse slipped from the front of the chair and, sloppily, he found the floor within the instant. Stuart Pot, however, seemed almost unfazed. His face did not move further and, dazed, he seemed to only stare at the nothingness out before him. He had stopped moving completely, yet the sight of his face was enough even to make Murdoc Niccals uneasily squirm. In the sanitary white hospital bed, Stuart looked significantly damaged and a little out of place. His bruised eyes were crusted with sleep, however, only one of them appeared normal. On the other hand, Murdoc could not deny the black void that had overtook the boy's other pupil by storm. Whatever life had once flickered behind it beforehand was utterly and completely diminished.
Reeling back, Murdoc scrambled to regain himself back from his clumsy composure. "What the fuck?"
Yet he quickly apprehended the patient, leaning back towards him deviously and analyzing the fucked-up vision of his pitifully damaged visage. "Er... nurse?" the Satanist called out, feeling a bit uneasy in the sight of Stuart's unusual appearance. He flicked his wrist outwards, signaling for someone to attend to him as soon as physically possible. However, despite hearing the usual clip-clop of heels against the tile floor, he found that he was being rather rudely ignored. "Nurse! S-Something's not right 'ere..."
"What is it, Mr. Niccals?" The head of Stuart's doctor popped in vibrantly around the corner. He looked rather tired, by all means, and his face showed the signs of bitterness towards Murdoc completely. Although, despite his sourness, he caught on to the drained expression that Murdoc had given him and, reluctantly, he slipped forward into the clean room, clipboard in hand.
"What do you mean 'what is it'?" Murdoc rushed, extending a long finger forward at the sickly looking figure upon the hospital bed. "Just fucking look at him!"
Casual, much to Murdoc's dismay, the doctor assumed a steady approach towards his patient's hospital bed. Gently, he set aside the clipboard and smoothed back Stu Pot's messy blue hair, exposing more of his innocent and clean shaven face. With his unusually azure hair pulled away from him, the opening of his eyes had become more obvious, though the doctor did not seem to react in the slightest. Although, despite the other man's calm stature, Murdoc Niccals felt a thick spasm rush up his crooked spine. "It seems Stu's opened his eyes," the professional said, still scrutinizing the mismatched pair; one void of pitch black, the other a bright shade of captivating blue.
Murdoc kept his significant distance. "So, what?" he asked, hopefully, "that means he's awake now? Job over?"
Sourly, the old man's face melted into a frown. He shook his head back and forth and straightened himself out mildly. However, in Murdoc's hazy delirium, he managed to finally catch a glimpse of the name scrawled across the whacky old bat's name tag: Dr. Herbert Osgood. "Mr. Niccals," Dr. Osgood said morosely, "it is not unusual for a catatonic patient to open their eyes at times. In fact, after some time, Stu might be able to be spoon fed."
"For fuck's sake..." Murdoc growled, allowing himself to trail off continuously.
"This is, however, the first time Stuart's shown any sign of awareness," Dr. Osgood noted. "Curiously enough, his first breakthrough occurred in your presence." For a moment, the man seemed to consider this and, mulling it over, he squared Murdoc Niccals up and down uneasily. Then, shrugging, he made his way towards the front of the door again, gesturing towards the above clock to signify that Murdoc's care time had only just ended.
But Murdoc's leaving time had been admittedly delayed, however. Still caught between the awkward phase of glaring curiously at the unconscious vegetable that was undoubtedly Stu Pot, he dizzily snatched up his heavy raincoat and waddled sloppily out the door, and back into the rain.
Psychic City: Sorry it has taken me so terribly long to update this! Please submit a review to show me if you are still interested in the continuation! It would certainly make my day!
