6. exterminators must be GROUNDED!
A delicate moonflower.
That was the nickname his mother had given him, after her favorite flower. A bloom that only opened beneath the night sky, wilting with the morning dew. She used to say it reminded her of him.
But lately, she had stopped seeing the flower.
It didn't matter, she said.
She would just look at him instead.
And that made him happy.
Ansel had grown up in the Tregs, a collapsed haven twice the size of New Haven but with less than half the resources. It was a place where the desperate clung to survival, a graveyard of the forgotten. Orphans and the homeless packed into overcrowded slums, abandoned by whatever fractured governments still remained.
He and his mother were among them.
The other kids were cruel, as kids are. But he was different. Weird. Every strand of hair on his body was stark white. His mother told him it was because he'd been born in a polluted zone, that it had affected his growth but made him special.
The other kids didn't think he was special.
They thought he was contagious.
And they treated him like it.
Still, every evening when he came home bruised and muddied, he told his mother he fell. He didn't want her to worry, because even if she never said it—he knew.
She was sick.
He didn't understand how he knew. He just did. She had always been sick, for as long as he could remember. So he worked harder, pushing himself double to make sure she never had to. He refused to let her stress, let her tire.
One evening, as she sat curled up in her chair, a book in her hands, he finally asked.
"Mom, do I really look weird?"
Looking back on it now, it was a pointless question. He already knew the answer.
But maybe, just maybe, he wanted to hear her say it.
Or maybe he didn't.
His mother didn't glance up, simply flipped a page. "How so?"
She was stunning, gorgeous even, despite the years of hard living. Her raven-black hair fell over her shoulders, her warm brown eyes flicking across the pages. A complete opposite to him.
"You know what I'm talking about," Ansel muttered, stepping behind her chair, peering over her shoulder at the book.
"Hmm." She pretended to think. "Well... you don't eat chocolate, you hate soda, you love the taste of unseasoned meat. If you weren't my son, I'd think you were a dog."
"Mom," he laughed, shaking his head.
She finally glanced at him, "What about your appearance?"
"Isn't it... unnatural?"
His mother's smile didn't waver. "Is black and brown more natural?" she asked, tilting her head. "What about green? Every tree has green leaves—if my hair was green, would you throw a fit?"
"Probably not."
"Then there's your answer."
Ansel hesitated before asking, "What about white?" He didn't know why he was pressing the issue—maybe he just wanted to hear something different. He searched her gaze, those warm brown eyes, always so gentle.
His mother didn't blink. "I think white is the most natural color of all," she said, her voice genuine. "More natural than any other color in the world."
Then, with a teasing smile—"Plus, it's really cool."
Ansel stepped back from behind her chair, moving toward the middle of the room where a cracked mirror rested against the wall. He stared at his own reflection—the stark white hair, pale complexion, eyes too light to belong to anyone else in the Tregs.
"Am I secretly the coolest person in the world?"
His mother closed her book, setting it aside before walking over. She knelt, lifting him so they were eye-level.
"Not secretly."
She grinned, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Now, it's time for the coolest person in the world to go to bed."
He groaned but didn't argue. Moments later, he lay beneath the tattered blankets of their bed, his mother's hand running gently through his hair. He watched her, studying the way her eyes glowed faintly in the dim candlelight.
"Why a moonflower?"
His voice was quieter now, laced with the undertone of sleep.
"Hm?" she muttered, glancing up as if the answer were written in the air. "Why a moonflower?" she echoed.
"Is it just because of my color?"
"Nope," she said, her voice soft. "It's because of how tenacious you are. No matter what happens, no matter what's thrown your way, you always push through. Like a weed."
"A moonflower is a weed?"
"Sort of," she mused. "I've seen it grow by lush grass, dense forests, even cracked roadsides. And no matter where it is, it always blooms. It's always beautiful."
His eyelids grew heavier, his body sinking deeper into the mattress. "Do you think I can be like the moonflower?"
His mother leaned in, pressing a final kiss to his cheek. "Oh, honey," she whispered. "You already are."
And in that moment, he thought—he loved her.
More than anything in the world.
Later that night, he woke suddenly, staring at the ceiling.
To this day, he never knew what had woken him. A dream? A sound? A whisper in the dark?
The room was quiet, wrapped in heavy shadows. The only light came from the flakes of moonlight seeping through the cracks in the walls. He sat up, the chill of the night brushing against his skin.
"Mom?" he murmured, voice hoarse with sleep.
He half-expected to see her curled up in her chair, where she usually dozed off reading.
She wasn't there.
His gaze drifted to the door. It was slightly open.
He slipped through it, stepping into the empty streets of the Tregs. The air was damp, heavy with the scent of stone and rust. He called her name, louder than he meant to, uncaring of who he might wake.
No response.
Then—movement.
To his side, just beyond the reach of the moonlight, a crouched figure lingered in the shadows.
His heart stuttered.
Was it her? Had she found a new plant to fawn over, a rare bloom hidden in the cracks of the street? Or maybe—maybe she had finally found the moonflower again.
He stepped closer, feet light against the cracked pavement.
Then the moonlight shifted, illuminating the figure.
Not his mother.
A man draped in a dark coat, his face concealed beneath the smooth, expressionless surface of a crow mask.
The man wasn't looking at him.
He was looking at the ground.
Ansel followed his gaze and saw it—a beetle, toppled onto its back, its heavy carapace too much for its tiny legs to right itself. It twitched frantically, legs curling and unfurling, trapped in its own body.
"Excuse me, sir. Have you seen my mother?"
The figure didn't move at first. Then, with an unnervingly slow tilt of his head, he turned toward Ansel. He shook his head. His voice, when it came, was coarse and distant, muffled through the mask.
"No. Unfortunately, I haven't."
Ansel exhaled. He didn't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. "I see," he muttered, shifting on his feet. He turned away, ready to leave.
But the man's voice stopped him.
"What do you see when you look around?"
Ansel hesitated. "What do you mean?"
The figure didn't answer, his attention drifting back to the beetle.
Ansel frowned, glancing around. The Tregs were as they always were—crumbling buildings, broken streets, garbage bags dumped on every other corner.
"I see... houses?"
A rasping chuckle slipped through the mask, uneven, jagged, as if laughter was something his body had forgotten how to do.
"You're not wrong."
Ansel walked away again, this time the man's voice didn't call to stop him.
He glanced back one last time—just in time to see the man's gloved finger press against the beetle's shell, pinning it in place.
A chill ran through him.
He turned and bolted away.
His house stood ahead, a shadow among shadows, the doorway still slightly open.
He rushed inside, heart pounding, expecting to see his mother waiting for him, scolding him for running off.
But she wasn't there.
The chair where she always sat was empty. The blankets were untouched.
His breath hitched. His fingers curled into his palms. Fear was creeping in, slow and suffocating.
Had she been kidnapped?
No. That didn't make sense.
Maybe she just went to get something.
This late at night?
The air inside the house was thick and stagnant. He could barely see through the darkness, the moonlight barely cutting through the cracks in the walls.
He needed help.
He turned sharply on his heel, his boots skidding against the stone. The orphanage was just a few streets away—if he could wake them, he could have dozens of people searching for his mother.
He took one step.
Then another.
Then the world split apart.
A piercing screech ripped through the night, sharp and hollow, driving through his skull like a rusted nail. The air trembled. The ground beneath his feet shuddered.
And then—
Impact.
A Myutant crashed into the orphanage.
Its wings tore through concrete, sending debris splintering into the streets.
Screams. Dozens of them.
The sound of stone and bone breaking as one.
Indistinguishable.
Indifferent.
And Ansel could do nothing but watch.
He didn't run.
He didn't scream.
He just stood there, frozen, as the world around him collapsed into chaos. His legs felt like they had been cemented to the ground, as if the sheer weight of his own fear had nailed him in place.
The Myutant stepped through the wreckage, its massive, horrifying form moving with unnatural grace. Its jagged mouth split open, another ear-splitting screech tearing through the air. From the surrounding buildings, fresh screams answered in kind as panic took hold.
People ran past him—bodies, shadows, fleeting shapes. Some brushed against him in their desperate retreat, but not a single one stopped. No one grabbed him, no one pulled him along.
He was alone.
And yet, he still didn't move.
He didn't know why he was so scared.
He had never felt terror like this before.
But then, like a cold breath against the back of his neck, realization crept in.
That morning—his mother had mentioned the orphanage. A meeting. A conference. A discussion about merging their haven with another, an attempt to secure a future.
She was inside.
His breath hitched. His vision blurred.
His mother was dead.
No, She couldn't be.
His mind rebelled against the thought, but his body refused to move.
Even as the Myutant lumbered past him, crushing streets and homes beneath its weight—he just stared at the burning wreckage of the orphanage.
A part of him still wanted to believe this was a dream.
That he'd wake up in his bed, hearing the soft hum of his mother breathing beside him. That he'd walk into the next room and find her passed out in her chair, a book draped over her face. That he'd sigh, put his hands on his hips, shake his head, and pull the book away.
Maybe she'd laugh. Maybe she'd smile.
Maybe everything would still be okay.
But this was reality.
And his mother was dead.
The Myutant screeched again, and as Ansel came to, its jaws loomed directly in front of his face. Its small, beady eyes locked onto him, unblinking. The stench of its breath—a mix of rotting flesh and acid—burned the inside of his nose.
Its mouth stretched wider.
It was going to devour him.
"Ansel!"
Something hit him—hard—throwing him to the ground. He hit the pavement, his head ringing. The Myutant's jaws snapped shut, but he was no longer in its path.
His mother was.
His vision cleared just in time to see her—standing in his place, pushing him away.
The Myutant closed its maw around her.
He saw her expression—a smile.
The same smile she gave him when she cleaned his face after he ate.
The same smile she gave him when she watched him leave the house in the morning.
The same smile she gave him when she ran her fingers through his hair at night.
And then—she was gone.
Ansel didn't remember what expression he made. He didn't remember what sound escaped his throat.
All he remembered was the feeling.
His knees collapsing beneath him.
His body hitting the pavement.
His tears streaming down his cheeks, falling onto the cold concrete.
The Myutant didn't even look back.
It just walked away, leaving him there.
Leaving him to suffer.
His head pressed against the ground, the weight of everything crushing him at once.
The last thing he heard was his name.
The last thing he felt was the push of his mother's hands.
The last thing he saw was her smile.
And he cried.