Chapter Two: The Right Call

During his collecting of wood, Moreau continued to snigger over his achievement of pulling the wool over the silver-scalp man's eyes. Like how he left the backdoor open as a failsafe, slipped the last of his vial's contents in the tea while the door was being closed, and let the teabag steep longer in the cup to cover the taste of the sleepy-bye liquid.

A dreamy, misty breath escaped the fish-man's raised, broad lips.

"Hmm-hmm-hmm... I was so smart!" he giggled, slowly bending with his knees to pick up another branch to add to his held bundle.

During Moreau's reflection, his smile dropped, along with a loose twig. Because that spark of self-esteem had quickly snuffed out...

Earlier, when the silver-scalp man was made unconscious, Moreau dragged him many meters away from the cabin. Just in case the cadou rejected him.

The silver-scalp traitor may have been stupid. But Moreau, sure as hell wasn't!

Still a devoted follower, the fish-man used his last parasitic nematode and remaining filled syringe on the incapacitated elder, as one final attempt to locate a strong vessel for the special child. It had actually been a good thing that he'd found a subject when he did. The cadou was starting to appear weak and required a host soon; it couldn't sustain itself any longer in its preservation jar.

When dawn arrived, Moreau peered from the safety of the locked-up cabin to recheck the results of his experiment, he became disappointed. Again.

The silver-scalp man was gone and had somehow absconded from the enzyme, which had coated him from torso to toe. And there weren't any signs of movement because nightly snowfall had covered any possible tracks. The green binding was destabilized by direct sunlight or heat. Maybe that's how he slipped away? However, that was irrelevant. Because where the man had been placed, a lot of blood was found underneath the fresh snow. More so even after the procedure was completed.

This transpired several weeks ago, and Moreau hadn't seen his last subject since. It could be that the man did not survive the experiment because of his age, had crumpled into calcified dust, and was blown away by the subzero gusts. Or he managed to wander off to die... or succumbed to the harsh elements of the frozen forest.

The fish-man sighed once more, but this time, it was from melancholy. Again, the stupid little traitor's fate didn't matter anymore. As perusal, Moreau had failed and now... she wouldn't come to collect a viable vessel, since there wasn't any vessel to be had.

Every evening, when he lived in his shack in the mines, he drank the alligator beer to help him fall asleep. But Moreau had stopped guzzling down his sorrows because the bitter brew always made a hammer pound inside his head the next morning. Furthermore, the fizzy drinks made it even harder to cite all the words for the prayer of Mother Miranda.

Moreau closed his eyelids with a pining whimper. Mother...

Since the fish-man had fled the Village, he cried himself to sleep every night for her forgiveness... For running away. He'd do anything she'd ask to make up for his cowardliness and failures. Moreau wanted... No. Needed to show her that he was still a very good son.

Nevertheless, two snarling wolves gnashed their fangs, as they combated within his despairing psyche. One barked of Mother's death. Whereas the other, howled to the heavens that the priestess's glory and immortality stayed supreme, and she would find him someday.

But every day was continuously the same. No Mother. No cruel siblings. Just... no one.

The extra loneliness had the fish-man contemplate a different outcome for the silver-scalp man. Perchance, if the man wasn't a defector but benevolent, and had offered boarding Moreau might've even forgone the experiment to gain a companion. The man seemed to like books. Maybe if Moreau had not fooled him and offered his favorite stories, they could have read together...

Abruptly, Moreau shook his head. Trying to acquire the perfect vessel was the right call. That mattered. Not him...

Never him.

Besides... someone actually being compliant was nothing short of pure fantasy. As what had become the norm, the fearful x-villager was disgusted, the instant he had laid his hateful, hazel sights on the fish-man's blemished body. Hell, the sleepy-bye medicine probably was not even required. With his horrid face alone, Moreau could've simply yanked his hood down and that would've been enough to make the elder collapse to the floor in mere moments.

So, despite being water under the bridge, it would not have changed a damn thing... No one liked him. No one ever liked him. The only confidante he had was his own miserable mind.

"Al-Alone..," Moreau murmured between hoarse hiccups into his twigs. "I'm, I'm al-always... alone."

After snuffling and wiping his moist face with a free, frayed, leather sleeve, he looked to where the splinter had impaled his thumb. The small cut had stopped bleeding and was already healed... Fast recovery and resilience were two of the few benefits of being an accepted host of the cadou...

Moreau frowned at the unnaturally spiky nails of his webbed hand...

Well, borderline accepted.

But strangely enough, though his right pupil was milkier than his other, he still could see clearly from that eye. Maybe the cadou had something to do with it? Or had it made the eye that way? The fish-man yearned for pictures of himself in his youth. What did he look like before he was so ungodly grotesque?

Moreau gave his hung head another leaden sway. He just didn't know. It seemed that the only thing he did know about himself was... not knowing. Maybe Moreau was better off that he didn't have any tangible memories. For they would certainly bring more pain to his cursed existence than it could ever torment him with.

After the mental self-degrading, the saddened fish-man finished the tiresome chore. It took forever and it was quite mundane, still, it was imperative that he attained as much timber as he could. There was an axe at the cabin, however, there was no possibility for him to wield it with such a heavy, hunched back. But broken branches would suffice and were much lighter to carry. The porch held a hefty number of logs, but Moreau wanted to err on the side of caution.

The fish-man craned his big head to the sky which was analogous to his video box after a movie had finished. Snowfall was becoming heavier and so were the infinite, darkening, thickening clouds. And living in this eastern part of the county for as long as he could recall, Moreau was well aware of what all of this meant...

This underway blizzard was going to be very big and very bad.

Moreau grumbled as he trudged through the whiteout while trying not to trip in his new footwear. His destination wasn't too far off, but the wicked weather made it feel like he had walked far enough to fall off the earth.

The fish-man scanned his quiet surroundings; the only sounds were the swishing of air and the rising layers of snow being crumpled by his moving girth. Everything in this sparkling, fresh woodland world appeared so bright and so pure. It was such a contrast to the gray tone, ominous Village. Moreau would admire nature's decorating... if it wasn't just so damn bitter cold!

The wintry wind was beginning to pick up and Moreau let out a long and shivering, gruff groan. He lost count of how many times he told himself about hating the cold. Then again, counting wasn't really the fish-man's strong point.

Notwithstanding the hoarfrost sticking to his crinkled brow and fringy, blowing strands, Moreau reeled through it with another rare smile upon his aged face. For his newfound, secret, special place would be within reach, soon enough. Not to mention that his feet were no longer unprotected.

"Almost... there!" he breathed as oversized winter boots took him onwards.

At least, this seclusion was in much better comfort. Moreau's luxurious lodge was juxtaposed in size to what his dilapidated, underground hovel used to be. The cabin was six hundred and forty square feet of dry, wooden flooring. With his altered simple-mindedness, the fish-man was unaware of those dimensions. Nonetheless, his memory could still recognize that it contained much legroom. Much more than the old, drippy, constricted corridor that used to mock a chamber.

And instead of just one, uncomfortable solo stool, he now had chairs. Finally having a bed was bittersweet, as the crooked, cumbersome fish-man had issues with lying down and getting back onto his feet. However, he now had a comfy couch to sleep on! And it was unbelievably soft, too!

Albeit, Moreau was a bit dismayed on the account of no longer having a television to watch any movies. But he did have plenty of his books. And though he still knew he was a failure, this royal residence made Moreau regret tossing away his alabaster crown. Hence, why he allowed the silver-scalp man to regard him royally. For the fish-man had discerned right away that he would be the Lord of the Lodge.

At long last, when time seemed to freeze everything but the plummeting ice, Moreau carefully wobbled up two wooden steps of the threshold to his ligneous castle. Panting, he turned to the right side of the extensive porch and dumped the extra kindling to the surplus firewood, courtesy of the former dweller.

Moreau made a toothy grin at the prospect of warming himself by the brick chimney's hearth. And after the marrow from his bones would thaw, he'd be able to admire nature's artwork through the windowpanes... while resting on his soft, comfy couch.

Walking to the center entry, Moreau brushed off his accumulated snow. Then, removing an old key from a pocket in his pants that was still intact, he stuck the metallic teeth into the tiny hole, under the copper doorknob. The hidden gears clicked under the chilled fish-man's impatient giggles. And with a turn of a skinny wrist and a short grunt, the dense door was pushed inward.

But instead of closing his grand entrance, the hand of the Lord of the Lodge remained clamped to the unpolished knob. And his curved lips had slowly parted like an aground trout in dire need of water.

Because something else had also made the right call with using the cabin to elude the blizzard.

N/A: Quick thanks for the folks who left nice reviews. They are greatly appreciated! Please, if you're enjoying this story, do give it a follow and please leave comments so I know that Moreau is getting the recognition he deserves.

For Guest's last review: I'm glad you enjoyed the last chapter showing that little dark side of Moreau. Most other fan works, whether they be fiction, artwork, fan animation, perceive him as just a victim, and forget the victims in his experiments. True, Moreau has suffered greatly, but the guy still has skeletons in his murky closet.