Parental Advisory

Subject: Mortimer | Classif.: Sirath

The grimy mosaic floors stared at Tim, the puddles seeping from the nearby shops refracting his downcast gaze back at him at various angles. Pity. Disgust. Indifference. The half-burnt cigarette between his dry lips did not shield him from their judgmental eyes. Not like it used to. But as long as his reflections weren’t talking to him, he could take it.

But if he couldn’t, he was not going to find any alcohol here in the White Market. Stalls of vegetables and the meat of monsters pincered him from each side. The pungent perfume of blood, soil, and sweat conquered his nose, clogging the cavity inside. And his ears weren’t spared either, traders assaulting him with their boastful shouts of the quality of their goods. They stood behind their assigned stalls, fly swatter in one hand, pistol in another as their staff conducted business.

Their eye-gouging prices only catered to the top 10% of Pitstop. Gangsters. Criminals from all the various syndicates congregate to buy their essentials. It was a miracle. The colors from each gang were paraded all around, and not a single dead body was in sight. A miracle only made possible by the Big Four, Pitstop’s biggest crime families, designating the White Market as neutral ground.

But even in peace, nothing changed for the bottom 90. The rest of the population fought each other for scraps in the dumpster outside. The luckier ones lined up in front of the cash converter at the corner, hoping to sell the oddities they scavenged from The Wishing Well and move up the rickety social ladder.

Going deeper into the market, Tim hid his trembling hands in his pocket, making himself smaller, trying to avoid grinding against the protruding belly or open chest hairs of the folks in the crowd. Entering the middle of the market was like wading in a can of sardines. People sweated like pigs. Tim was no exception. Dehydrated, all he could do was lick the moisture from his lips and drink his saliva. His throat craved the burning touch of beer. Only legal items were sold in the White Market. Alcohol, guns, and everything outlawed in The Mids had to try their luck elsewhere.

Times like this, Tim wished he were Mia. Small enough to slip through the torn trousers of some hooligan. Or, like that one time he brought her here, waltzed right in as the head of the O’Keefe family, splitting the sea of people from his presence alone. There was so much practical use in her Gift. In contrast, his won’t even let him kill himself.

Having squeezed through the human spaghetti strainer, he finally could breathe again as the densest part of the market thinned out. He bumped into two children playing tag, but didn’t mind it at all. There was so much more space in this section of the market; he actually welcomed the distraction. But after half a minute or so, he heard the voice of a young boy calling him out.

“Umm, Mr. Tim.” It was one of the children who bumped into him earlier.

His sister caught up, standing next to him. “Sorry for stealing your wallet,” she said as she handed him his pouch.

The brother explained, “There’s no money inside, so we felt bad. You can have it back.”

Tim got down to their eye level. “Thank you, kids. That’s awfully nice of you,” he said, graciously accepting their generosity as he ruffled the boy’s hair.

Getting up, he took a couple of steps only to turn around and tell the children, “Hey, you’re Leticia’s kids, right?”

They nodded.

“Could you kids do me a favor?”

They nodded again.

He thought for a bit before continuing, “You know, Mia likes playing tag, too. If you have the time, why don’t you drop by and all play toge—”

“Uhh, err, wow, our quota tripled, right sis?” He turned to the girl, sweat dripping buckets down his forehead.

“Y-Yeah, there’s soooo many wallets to steal! Catch you later, Mr. Tim!”

They vanished into spaces between the stalls, leaving Tim hanging with a sigh. He knew Mia was “special,” but he’d hoped the other kids would be more open to hanging out with her. How would she succeed in life if she didn’t develop her social skills? Not every interaction has to end with a bullet in the head.

“Mr. Tim!” This time, it was the voice of a grumpy old lady. Blindfolded and in a wheelchair, she looked like she had her one remaining foot in death’s door, but simply refused to die out of spite. “Looking for me?”

“Grace.” Tim turned to the lady who sat behind her stall. “Only if you’re free. I don’t want to impose.”

“Does it look like I have any customers? I’m blind. Not stupid. Come, sit next to me.”

Making his way over, his eyes were drawn to the clothes folded and laid out on the stall. Lovingly cross-stitched to perfection, there were simply too many zeroes on the price tag for each one. The old hag valued her handiwork far too highly. But Tim knew her real business lay elsewhere.

Nearly tripping over the rifle leaning against the stall, he sat on the rocking chair next to Grace. Despite how comfortable it was, his words still got stuck in his throat.

“So, um, the market treating you well?”

“Starting a conversation like that?” Her side eye pierced through her blindfold and into his heart. “You, sir, definitely need a drink.”

Grabbing a bottle of baijiu from the crate next to her, she yanked the cap open with her teeth before handing it to him. She repeated the process, popping one open for herself. Clinking their bottles together, they both took dangerously-sized gulps.

“Ah,” she moaned, drinking what was essentially industrial fuel like water. “Not bad, right?”

The fire in Tim’s throat wasn’t one he was fond of, but he appreciated it nonetheless. “Where’d you get it from?”

“Molly Mosquito,” she answered. “The girl buys grains from The Mids and cooks this stuff in her toilet. Now she’s just waiting for the highest bidder to buy her recipe. Then you’ll see it everywhere.”

“I thought Molly’s dead.”

“Nah, the coffin you saw in the parade was a sham. Did all that to slip away from Sourpuss’s thumb. And the only person in Pitstop who knows where she is is me.”

“Sourpuss’s men don’t bother you?”

“They can try.” Her wrinkly fingers tapped on her rifle. “No one’s gonna bother ol’ Granny Grace anyway. Except you, of course.”

“Your kids? They still haven’t visited you?”

“Why in the hell would I want to see them? Worked my ass off to get them a life in The Mids. If they come back, I’ll shoot them myself.”

Despite her harsh tone, Tim saw the loneliness through the cracks. But the guarded lady wasn’t one to let him open it up any further.

“So? What is this time?” Grace asked. “You didn’t show up just to talk about the market. You only come here ‘cause of Mia.” Sensing his awkwardness, she prodded further. “What? She having her first period, now?”

“She wants to be King of the Immortals.”

“Hah!” Grace slapped her thigh, laughing like a dying hyena. “And I reckon you haven’t even told her what you did to the king.”

“Of course not! I don’t want her anywhere near The Surface!”

“You can’t keep your little bird in a cage forever.”

“I know. I just… I just want to give her a normal life.”

“Normal? If that Skinwalker going around town is who I think it is, then you did a damn fine job making sure she’s following your footsteps.”

Rocking in his chair back and forth, Tim’s eyes were lost to the ceiling. Try as he might, there were no answers to be found behind the dusty fluorescent lights.

Grace suggested, “Why don’t you just move to The Mids?”

“And start another war?”

“Mr. Tim, is there any place in this entire Spire where your presence will not kick off an international incident?”

“I wish.”

“YOU are the problem, you see? The only place where your Mia is safe is with you. But as long as she’s with you, she’s turning into you. The old you. Got that into your head, yet?”

“So what am I supposed to do?”

“You know what to do. You just don’t want to do it.” Taking another fiery swig from her bottle, she served him the cold, hard truth. “Your ego won’t let you go back to The Surface.”

“Ego? You think I have a choice?” The bottle in Tim’s hand cracked, colorless liquid leaking out. “Immortality is a curse. I’d rather die than let her live forever.”

“You can’t.”

“Exactly.”

“You just proved my point.”

Unable to find a retort, he slumped back down, stress and concern wrinkling his forehead.

“You need another drink,” she said.

“Yeah, sorry about that.”

Like before, she popped another bottle open for him, not minding the spill he just made.

“You know.” Her brash tone gave way to a more grandmotherly one. “You really should think about giving The Surface a second chance. Hell, you were in line for the throne at one point, no? I bet you could end immortality if you really wanted to.”

“That’s… not possible.”

“Still, think about relocating. If not for you, then Mia.” She smiled, her spotty, leathery hands cupping his. “You should get the hell out of town. You’ve already done enough.”

“Sorry.”

“Hey, I meant that positively. You still sorry for what? Killing the governor? Bah!”

“Not like anything changed.”

“Oh, everything changed all right. This market right here is all you! You’re the reason why we even have food in the first place.”

“And yet, people are starving.”

“Still a helluva lot better than cannibalism, don’t you think?”

Bogged down by his thoughts, he found it hard to agree. It was just one good deed. One good drop of milk in a rotten sea that was his past. And no matter how much he drank, it wouldn’t go away.

After a long, wordless exchange, Grace changed the subject. “You remember the first words you ever said to me?”

“I don’t even remember what I had for breakfast.”

“‘Take more.’ That’s what you said when I stole a tomato from your garden 77 years ago. Take. More.” All those years when she was a scrawny little girl flashed once more in her head. “Every veggie sold here could be traced back to your garden. The meat from the monsters that live in your forest. You’ve done more for everybody than anybody, and I mean it.”

Emptying her bottle, she continued, “All I’m saying is, maybe it’s time you do something a little selfish. Like ending immortality.”

“Hah.” Tim shook his head, letting out a deep sigh. “I’ll sleep on it.”

“Oh you better! When I die, I’m saving a spot for you in hell. I'd better see you down there.”

“You literally can’t see.”

“Well, that’s what you get when you have liver failure.”

“You sure you don’t want me to heal you?”

She stuck out her palm. “Nuh uh, don’t you dare put your hand on me, Mr. Tim! If I started walking again, I won’t get no excuse to sit around the whole day.”

“Fair enough.” Downing the last drops in his second bottle, he got up, stretching his back and letting the buzz spread throughout his veins. “Thanks, Grace. Tell Molly she should try adding fruits to this. She’s not a poisoner anymore.”

“My my, what a picky customer.”

Just as Tim was about to leave, she pointed to the clothes she had on display, “Pick something out for Mia, why won’t you?”

“Sorry, I’m broke.”

“On the house. Tell her it’s a tribute to the future Immortal Queen.”

“I’m NOT encouraging her.”

“Just be a good father and give the girl something to be happy about, sheesh! And be quick, it’s almost time for my afternoon nap.”

Tim hesitated. Did she even need new clothes with how much she relied on her Gift? But with Grace’s blind pressure pricking his skin, he ended up going with a cute hooded scarf, complete with a pair of teddy bear ears.

Everything’s colder outside of Pitstop, after all.