It all started with a secret. One harmless little omission of the truth.
Charles Ofdensen had lived his life for Dethklok, bending over backwards for their every idiotic whim, practically running himself ragged to ensure their safety (even when they had no idea that they were in the hot seat), but there was a time when that wasn't the case. Seventeen years ago, sometime before the formation of Dethklok, he had lived for himself, doing what he wanted to do when he wanted to do it and seeing who he wanted to see when he wanted to see them. Meeting at a concert by sheer luck, Ofdesen there as an assistant to the band's flaky manager, he had met the vivacious Ravenia Nightfury. After one chance encounter in the the men's room, their lives had changed forever...
After sharing one night together in the back of a bathroom stall, Charles hadn't seen or heard from Ravenia, nor had he expected to. Seven months had passed, the encounter forgotten in his mind, when randomly one day, on a coffee run for his boss, he had seen a very familiar face waiting tables. A very pregnant face. Figuring through some quick mental math that he could have been the father, Charles approached her. She tried to deny it, but he persisted. After she had the baby, a few weeks premature, Charles had demanded a DNA test that ultimately proved his suspicions correct. He was a father.
Proud and independent, Ravenia had reached a bargain with Charles, helping him to further his career almost overnight, on the condition that he left her and the child alone. In one of the most regretful moments of his life, he had agreed to her terms, additionally paying a handsome dollar to their daughter, of his own volition. Well compensated for his absence, their daughter had been born to a large trust fund, told her entire life by her mother that her father was dead, no further information given to her, the money supposedly inheritance.
Seventeen years later, after being rendered unconscious and forcibly removed from her home, she had woken to find herself in Mordhaus. Walking down the halls, she stopped at a sound she took to be torture. Bursting into the room, she saw not a man on the rack, skin split from a whip and oozing infection, but a man in the throws of self-passion. A man she would alter grow to care deeply for, who had come to care for her in return. Fleeing from the sight, she had ran into none other than Charles Foster Ofdensen, the father she had known to be dead. Charles, taking her into his office, had told her of her mother's will, revealing that she had been left under his legal guardianship until the time she reached adulthood.
Attempting to balance the knowledge that her mother had just died with the feelings she had for a certain drummer, heart weighed by the guilt, she had found herself involved with the older man, he himself weary of her situation. They knew it was wrong on so many levels, but it felt so right... Thrown yet another curve ball when they had discovered that Dethklok was about to go on tour, the couple had made preparations to handle the pressures of the road. Hiring her old babysitter to pose as Pickles' girlfriend, the teen had fallen unconscious during the show, having been sick prior to the collapse. Rushed to the hospital, the doctors had found the cause of her illness not to be food poising or the flu as suspected, but pregnancy. Learning of this, though unaware of who the father was, Charles had left her in the room alone, furious. Checking on her, Pickles had come into the room as an ultrasound was being preformed, finding out that her father had not been mistaken when he told the band. Frightened and feeling unworthy, he ran, leaving her alone, pregnant with his child...
- Metalocalypse -
- Eight Months Later -
The room was bathed in darkness, the bottle-green curtains drawn tight against the outside, casting an unhealthy sap-green light that amplified the lake theme of the bedroom. Dejected, various clothes items littered the midnight blue carpet, a week old puddle of puke near the foot of the circular bed caked to the aqua undertones. The bed itself, meant to resemble a lily-pad, was a jumble of spring green blankets and light coral sheets, a fluffy vanilla bathrobe discarded haphazardly at the edge. More than filth, the room stank of despair, depression, and abandonment...
Dark head turned away from the mirror, the shape of a woman was slumped against the vanity, her shoulders heaving as she cried, hands crossed under her forehead, umber locks falling into her dead grey eyes. Today should have been a day for rejoicing, a day for smiles, laughter, family and friends, but instead it was a painful reminder of what she had lost. Pickles. Oh, God, even thinking his name was like ripping away the flesh from bone, rubbing lemon juice and alcohol over the wound with a barbwire brush, the skin just pulling away, leaving nothing left.
There was a soft knock on her door. Looking up hastily, her hopes half up even though he had barely looked at her since running out, she tried to rub away her tears, but the evidence remained regardless, so she had given up the effort, her voice shaky, "Come in."
A blonde head poked into the room, taking stock of her meager surroundings with abundant distaste, though he did not comment on it, "Scouts, the parties ams almost dones." He looked at her, noticing that she was only half dressed, "Yous shoulds reallys finish gettings dressed."
She looked down, seeing that she was still wearing nothing more than a slip, the material bunching up slightly at her enormous belly, one of the eggshell straps hanging off her shoulder, "I'm sorry, I sat down here to brush my hair," Her eyes flickered over to a sturdy wooden hairbrush, "But then I started to think about him, and I..." She started to cry again, dipping her head to floor in shame.
It wasn't in his nature to care, his mother seeing to that with her neglect and promiscuity, but all the same, Skwisgaar did not favor the notion of watching the teen bawling her eyes out over the likes of Pickles. Oh yes, he had known of their secret romance almost before they did, quietly observing the way that they would look at each other when they thought no one else was looking. He wasn't stupid, he could see the way she would light up when the drummer had entered the room, the red head himself becoming a little less dark. It would also explain her lack of interest in the strapping Swede.
Gliding smoothly over to her, Skwisgaar picked up the hairbrush, running it through the strawy rat's nest she called hair, "If Is ams not holdings it, Is woulds have asked yous if yous ams havings a brush."
"I remember when my mother used to brush my hair," She sighed, her mother's funeral feeling like a lifetime ago, another person ago, "Did your mother ever...? No, I guess boys don't have their hair brushed."
They were silent for a moment, Scout wincing every now and again as he loosened another knot. At first he had more or less attacked her head, but seeing that it was causing her pain, he laxed up on his strokes, moving his wrist slowly, rhythmically. She had been through enough already; she didn't need him to add to it. A good mannequin, she moved her head at the slightest nudge, turning her head with the shadow of gesture.
Whatever had happened between them, it had left her a scarred husk, the bright girl she had once been gone, replaced with a mere shadow of her former self...
"Mys mother used tos has mes helps hers gets ready. Is woulds brush hers hairs ands helps hers gets dressed." He said at last, breaking the sob-filled silence, "Buts thats ams years ago."
If asked when she had first moved in with her father if she would have ever expected that in a few short months, she would have stricken up an unlikely friendship with Dethklok's resident philanderer, her answer would have been something along the lines of a 'hell no'. Ever since arriving at Mordhaus, Scout had known next to nothing of her new roommates, with the exception of a few rumors and Skwisgaar's reputation with the ladies. That had done nothing but land him automatically on her bad side, and as far as he was concerned, she was of little to no consequence, registering more as an ambiguous Klokateer or bandmate's girlfriend than a female. That didn't exempt her as prey, but it did stall the hunt.
It had been a livable arrangement for the two of them, until the second or so time that they had crossed paths directly. It had been the morning after a party (not a particularly good or memorable event), the guitarist waking early with a hangover, going to the kitchen to get some coffee for his head. She had been awake already, eating her breakfast while reading a textbook for her home studies, not suffering as she had not partaken in the events of last night, though she had been present for them. Mistakenly thinking that she had hit on him, he had hit on her, only to be rejected for "not being her type".
Set against each other from that point onwards, she did not hide her contempt for him, nor him from her, both taking every chance they got to be rude to the other (for the record, she was nothing but sweet to the rest of the band, even Murderface, who completely hated her). But that was before she had found out that she was going to be a mother...
- Metalocalypse -
- Several Months Ago -
Alone with Skwisgaar, Pickles and Scout were sitting in the hot tub, Nathan at the dentist, Murderface in the studio with Dick Knubbler, allegedly working on some stuff for his side band, Planet Piss, and Toki was away hanging out with Dr. Rockzo. They had been planning on a little alone time together, but having shown up after Skwisgaar had noticed them, muttering something Swedish about Scout, they had no choice but to spend some time with the guitarist. All of the band more than aware of Skwisgaar and Scout's feud, Pickles had tried to help them find some middle ground (more than a little annoyed by their bickering).
"So, Skwisgaar, did ya know that Scout here plays the violin?" He went with the one thing he knew that they had in common, not knowing much about the other man, despite the fact that they had known each other for years.
He scoffed, "Pft, the grandpas guitars? Thats ams dildos."
Though she had lost her passion for it when her mother passed, she was infuriated that he would besmirch the name of such a beautiful instrument, "How dare you!" Her eyes narrowed down to slits, hands clenching so she wouldn't slap him, "Insult me all you will, but you had best leave the violin out of it! I mean, can you even play the violin?"
He opened his mouth to argue, but this once, just the once, she had him, "Nej."
She smirked, glad to have this one victory over him, though she was disappointed that only Pickles was there to witness it.
- Metalocalypse -
Setting the brush, made of ash and inlaid with Brazilian rosewood, back down on the vanity, Skwisgaar turned from Scout to face the dresser, lined with overflowing, unfolded clothes, and began to fish around in them for something for Scout to wear. He knew that once, before her disastrous break-up with Pickles, she was a neat person, much like himself, everything tidy and not a seam out of place. It sickened him to see her reduced to more than a wild animal living in its own filth, feeling so low and uncaring that she stubbornly refused to let a maid in to clean.
Pulling out a layered mint-colored skirt and an off-the-shoulder cyan sweater, he draped them over the back of her chair, "These wills looks goods with yous eye."
Skwisgaar had been so good to her, understanding and helpful, not once trying to extort her (not that she had anything to give him even if he had tried). When Pickles had abandoned her in that hospital room, she had felt her world caving in around her, even the baby not enough to keep her on this earth. She had been utterly devastated, but Skwisgaar had given her the strength not to end it, to be the best mother to her child that she could be...
Thin hand upon her bony (slightly meatier now that she had put on some baby weight) shoulder, Skwisgaar gave it a tender squeeze before leaving the room so she could get dressed, assuming that his presence had recalled her to the present. Seconds before he could remove his hand from her bare shoulder, looking up at him with her grey orbs from behind a curtain of brown tresses, she placed her hand over his, a ghost of a smile upon her lips, her skin clammy. With his free hand, he took her hand in both of his, raising it to his bent head as he rubbed it so she could warm up, breathing on it.
"Thank you, Skwisgaar, you've been such a good friend to me, taking care of all the things I can't... If it weren't for you-"
"Shh." He commanded, dropping her hands, "Don'ts talk likes that."
Solidifying ever so slightly, her smile was joined by a slight nod, "Thank you, min hopplös vän."
It was a term of endearment turned cruel irony... My Hopeless friend... She had become the hopeless one...
I do not own Metalocalypse.
I do not condone the actions that may or may not take place throughout the course of this story, including but not limited to language, sexual content, drug use, and any illegal activities involving minors.
Swedish provided by Google Translate.
REVIEWS ARE ALWAYS WELCOME!
Hopefully, this captures the tone I was going for... The sense of loss, of unbridled pain and the sinking despair of an emotionally impaired, pregnant teenager. And hopefully Skwisgaar wasn't too far off the mark either...