Chapter Text
In all honesty, there are probably better places to seek shelter from the rain.
The back-alley Morro has the displeasure of finding himself in is like taken straight out of one of those violent gang movies any reasonable parent would probably keep their children far away from. It's shrouded in near pitch-black darkness, if not for the light of the city's streets leaking in and at least making the contours of the various trash cans and abandoned bikes and molding pallets visible. Every surface from ground to walls to trash bags is smeared in grime and soil or whatever dirty substance makes things dirty. Oh, and then there's that abhorrent stench emanating from one of the dumpsters that smells a little too similar to how he imagines a dead body would.
It's the sort of place kids his age get carried off by kidnappers, but the part of Morro's brain that's supposed to be alarmed at the fact is too tired to give a damn.
So is the rest of him, for that matter. A bone-deep exhaustion, making his entire body ache. He's too damn tired to care about endangering himself, too tired to get up and at least find someplace comfortable to spend the night, too tired to even brush the damp strands of hair out of his eyes.
The torrential downpour hurtles against Ninjago City hard as hail. He's shielded under the metal eave of an old antique shop, but that doesn't change the fact that he already got doused earlier tonight while wandering the streets, because the summer storm decided that was the perfect time to drop by unannounced.
He's probably lucky it's one of those insufferably hot summer nights, that way he doesn't catch a cold or, you know, straight up die from hypothermia, though, frankly, he wishes it was winter and he was freezing his ass off, because that way at least he'd have some actual excuse as to why he's shivering that isn't… that isn't…
"You little shit! I can't do this anymore! Go, leave! I hate you!"
The rain hammers against the corroded metal above his head like thousands of angry, murderous needles, but the thundering sound can't drown out those blasted words playing on repeat in an endless loop in his mind.
Morro pulls his legs to his chest, propping his chin on his knees. There's nobody here to scream his ears off for being a crybaby, but, weirdly, he still finds himself chowing down on his lips until he tastes blood just to avoid letting so much as a single tear spill.
This is what he deserves anyway.
Or so he tells himself, but, for some reason, his usual trick that's supposed to put a cork in the flask with his overflowing emotions doesn't dampen the feeling of sickening betrayal swirling in his stomach.
Come on, how gullible and childishly optimistic could he be? His father didn't even want to stay with Morro. Why should his mother be any different? Frankly, he should be grateful it took 12 full years before getting dumped. It was bound to happen eventually, it was inevitable, so what's the point in getting all upset about it? He was never anything but a burden to her, and this is simply what you do with worthless things—you throw them out and leave them on the side of the road to rot, never wasting another thought on them again.
In that sense, his current position is maybe kind of poetic. Sitting here amongst the rusty, tetanus-loaded heaps of trash. Where he belongs.
His eyes burn again, and Morro scrubs at them viciously, until he realizes that they don't just hurt from holding tears back, but that his eyelids are also remarkably heavy.
He has no clue what the time is, but it's late enough that there are barely any passersby or speeding cars. Meaning; probably around 3 am, at the earliest. Whatever. The concept of having a bedtime has never meant anything to him. Being unable to tell the time is also perhaps a milder consequence of not having his stupid phone on him. It's at home—well, former home, he supposes is the more accurate term now—along with everything else he's ever owned.
Not like there was a lot of that. Not like there was a whole lot for him to lose in the first place. And in that sense, maybe it is kinda weird for him to be so materialistic and care so much about the physical things he's lost, but like… to have everything that's ever made life worthwhile ripped away from him all at once… that does admittedly sting a bit.
He's gonna miss his comics. Every new issue of Starfarer was like 30 minutes of escape from the hellhole that's called reality. He's gonna miss his video game console, for the same reason. He's gonna miss his warm, dry bed. He's gonna miss at least having someplace to be, somewhere to go, no matter how aimless his existence felt. And… as nonsensical as it may sound, he's gonna miss that old hag. He doesn't even know why for that one.
He swallows bile and the forming lump in his throat. His mouth is dry and his spit tastes putrid.
Honestly, his current situation is almost funny. Morro would be laughing his ass off if he himself wasn't the punch line of the joke right now. It's downright comical how fast everything went from crap to a burning pile of shit. He thought he'd hit rock bottom years ago, but now it's like life said sike and pulled some hidden trap door reserved exclusively for him from underneath his feet.
And all of this just 'cause of one brainless blunder. A poorly thought-out action, that's all it was. Nobody got hurt, nothing was broken, he even turned back—but his punishment for his lone, once-in-a-lifetime sincere screw-up is losing absolutely everything.
It's typical, really. Other kids make mistakes by the dozens every day, and their parents' unconditional love prevails no matter what. Morro spends his entire life walking a tightrope, terrified every time he trips over his own feet, and then the one time he royally messes up it results in him falling to his immediate, irreversible doom.
But he's just deflecting responsibility and shifting blame by pinning this all on the vendetta the universe clearly has against him. By trying to pretend this is not all solely his fault.
He knew what he was doing was wrong, and yet he still went through with it. What can you even say to that? You don't condone the deplorable actions of horrible people, so of course he'd be reprimanded for it one way or the other. It just so happens that this is what's deemed suitable for him. It makes sense that his mother would get rid of him the second he's proven that the trouble of keeping him around and spending money on him is too great.
He brought this on himself. It's simply the natural consequence of his actions. All of this happening is fully sensible and justified if you use logic and try to rationalize it. But the stabbing pain in Morro's chest and that infernal searing sensation in his eyes just can't seem to grasp that and won't quit it.
He digs his nails into the skin of his backhand. He's trembling worse than an old man at this point, but even the hot flare of pain traveling up his arm can't make it go away, why, why won't it stop, why can't he just stop thinking and stop being such an emotional wuss—
He feels something wet trickle down his cheek.
Oh.
Oh.
Oh, he's already crying. Wow, brilliant. Seems he'll have to add "weak-willed" to the list of everything that's wrong with him later on.
But now the waterworks have been opened. There's nothing Morro can do to impede the incoming tidal wave at this point.
He hugs himself because there's no one else around to comfort him, no one else to tell him it will all be ok, no one's here when he needs it, because there's never. Been. Anyone. Because he is and forever truly, will be utterly and irrevocably alone.
He wails like a baby, his cries going unheard by the sleeping city and the world that couldn't care less about him.