Those Cold November Winds - Morgo/Mr Voice x Reader (Little Misfortune)

Chapter 1 - That Soft September Sun

He'd always had such a strange way with the world. 

Your first known memory, at the tender age of eight, had been the morning he tumbled into your room with a battered and soggy box in his arms, spilling himself onto the bed with a giggled apology and three startled frogs,  all four blinking at you sheepishly in the dim sunlight. You had been ready to throw a fit, to ban him from your room until he was well into his 40's, but then... 

He smiled. 

And oh, how quickly your frown smoothed out to mirror his, drawn in by how such moments brought him joy. How simple it was for him to forget the misfortunes around him. Even as you felt the air draw thin, felt the house tremble from the first tremors of your parents' daily arguments, you both smiled. Safe on the little island of his innocence, of his endless joy for life. 

He assumed he was untouchable, as all children do. So secure in the knowledge that every morning would be yours to share.  

And despite everything, you allowed yourself to believe it too. 

The accident came as a shock to everyone. Well. Anyone who hadn't already been 3/4's deep into their third bottle of booze when the news arrived. A tragedy. An unforeseen disaster. Playing in the woods, he said. He only told you he was going to play in the woods. You hadn't even questioned it at the time, had you? So deep in your studies, so focused on lifting both of you out of this Hell with the strength of your grades and a shiny new scholarship. It had taken until sundown for you to even notice he hadn't returned. 

You never got to see the body. You never got the chance to say sorry, to say thank you, to say the multitude of other things you had been saving up each moment, tucked away for some kind of rainy day. There was only one piece of him you ever got to keep. A crumpled shred of paper they had found clenched tightly in his little hand - and on it, in shakily scrawled writing, were those three words. 

"The Eternal Happiness."

When the investigation ran dry, as new leads withered and died with no breakthrough, no resolution, you asked for the scrap. It was tattered, and it was worthless, but it was his. Your only memento, the last thing he had ever held, had ever caressed, had likely ever looked at before he drew his last breath. And so, it was his last connection to the world. To you. To keep always. To remember. 

And so here you were, years later, glowering with a well-worn scowl at your reflection in the scabby mirror. Dark circles pooled under your eyes, face taught with countless years of stress accumulated in your muscles, and you pulled at your hair in frustration as it slid rebelliously between your fingers. You huffed a low growl of frustration, feeling around briskly for a hair tie to use instead.

"Damn it! Three days, and still no hair products? What are they trying to do, save on cooking oil by using the grease from my head-?!"

With a final firm tug, you fastened the tie into a loose updo, carefully teasing any errant strands of hair into submission behind your ears. A firm tug on your top, a brisk rub at a speck of dirt on your cheek, and there you were. Ready to face another pointless day in the uphill battle of your life, tallying up all the little misfortunes that would inevitably come your way. It was high school, after all. One of those places where misery was inevitable, even in your final year. You could see it in the uncanny white masks everyone around you wore, plastic grins spread so wide it would rupture the skin on any human face, frozen in a paralyzed mockery of true happiness.

And they thought you were the freak for refusing to touch the damn things. 

Your dragging feet sent up clouds of dust as you trudged along the path, towards the decrepit bus that lurched towards you. The driver stared ahead, eyes swallowed by the toothy curl of his mask, fingers tapping absently to a tune that could only be heard in his head. Spitballs and wrapped lunches flew around him, launched by a restless rabble of teens. They were already vying for the top positions on the bus, hoping to show their dominance, and you shuddered in dread at the thought of finding a place to sit amongst the chaos. 

Thankfully, a shout from the middle of the bus caught your attention. Your head turned to reveal your best friend, waving a hand casually in your direction. Dodging projectiles, weaving your way through the boys wrestling on the filthy floor, you sank down with a grateful sigh. Your friend only laughed easily in reply, and you soon found yourselves swapping stories and trading gossip as the bus swerved and screeched its way to school. 

The day dragged by with all the agonized determination of an arthritic dog, filled with mocking snickers, erasers launched at the back of your head, and very little actually learned. Your only solace was lunch, which you snuck up to the school's rooftop as always, grateful for the solitude. Your legs dangled over the brickwork of the rustic chimney, skin scraping lightly against the roughened surface. Grease from the local diner hung thick and heavy in the air, filling your nose with the scent of bacon long-eaten, and you paused to breathe deep, holding the warm aroma inside yourself for as long as possible, before letting go with a sigh. Your mind drifted back to happier days as you basked in the glow of that soft September sun, and you soon found yourself so lost in the memories that you didn't even notice the crow's presence until it crash-landed right at your feet. 

With a loud curse you dropped back onto the ground, stumbling over to the twitching bird as it clung on to the last shreds of life, croaking miserably. Its red eyes flicked open once, twice, brittle chest heaving as it watched you draw closer. A single look told you that it didn't have much longer, so twisted from the landing that every second it spent in this world was in itself a miracle. Pitying sorrow seized your heart, and you felt tears start to bloom and fall as you stooped over the poor thing, passing a trembling hand over its eye. A teardrop fell onto the little head, and it seemed to utter a shuddering sigh before growing completely still.

And there you sat, keeping watch, mourning the loss of yet another of the few innocent lives left in the world. Your tears fell, and for once you did little to chase them away with your hand, letting them flow freely in a show of grief. The sun retreated behind brewing storm clouds, the wind picked up speed from a gentle breeze to a persistent gale, and still you sat. Oblivious. Unknowing of the danger that was now drifting its way towards you. It was only when you heard that voice, that smooth warm velvet coating cold steel, that you finally raised your head.

"Oh, dear. Oh my. A lovely soul, shedding such tears over this little tragedy? We can't have that, now can we?"

You turn, to glower at the intruder. You stare, at what awaits your eyes. And as you take it in, as your mind races at what all of this could mean... You are only able to gape in silent horror.

-- CHAPTER ONE, END - -

AN: Wow, me, writing & publishing a fic for the first time in -checks notes- 5 years?? It's more likely than you think!

(Watch me wait until the devs release a new game to upload the next chapter, hahaha.)

Little Misfortune was one of those games that I absolutely wasn't expecting to grasp me in the way it did. I've always had a penchant for a mix of the dark and the joyous, and I hope I can capture a little bit of that here. Morgo was definitely a lot more appealing than I was expecting. Is the voice? Is it the bad-boy aura? Is it the fact he's an eldritch forest demon with unfathomable powers? Answer: Yes :)