A WORD FROM THE NORTHWESTS.
“WELCOME! DUKES AND DUCHESSES, SULTANS AND SPORTSMEN- AND RECLUSIVE 102 YEAR OLD MAYOR OF GRAVITY FALLS, EUSTACE BEFUFFTLEFUMPTER. WELCOME ALL!"
Frederick Flamarion Frederickson IV slumps in his chair at the children’s table. At the respectable age of three (3) whole years old, he surely deserves better than to sit through the active torture of speeches.
Honestly.
He is trying to have dessert here.
“TONIGHT WE WILL ENJOY ONLY THE FINEST OF TASTES, AND THE-”
Uuuuuuuuuugh.
This is boring.
This is so boring. He would never understand adult's obsession with hearing each other jabber on like this.
He stares at the smaller, purple haired kid across from him. He sticks out his tongue. The kid scrunches up his round face and sticks his tongue right back at Frederick.
A mysterious bond has formed.
“WE’RE GLAD TO BE NOT ONLY IN THE COMPANY OF ASSOCIATES, BUT FRIENDS. OUR GOOD FRIEND ELON WAS JUST BY EARLIER- SUCH A SHAME HE MISSED DINNER, BUT WE ALL UNDERSTAND THAT INNOVATION WAITS FOR NO ONE AND INSPIRATION IS EVER FLEETING.”
The purple haired kid sticks his tongue out and lets out a pbbbbt.
“I feel that,” Frederick solemnly agrees.
“-S I MENTIONED PREVIOUSLY, THERE IS NO NEED FOR CONCERN OVER THIS SLIGHT DELAY IN TONIGHT'S ENTERTAINMENT. PLEASE, ENJOY THE MEAL, SOCIALIZE AND PERUSE IN THE MEANTIME. WE’LL RETURN AFTER A SHORT BREAK,” Mr. Northwest finally, finally says.
Frederick practically launches out of his seat, looking around for his mom and dad. But oh boy! They’re talking to other old people. That’s no fun at all, and Mom probably wouldn’t like him being disruptive again.
He wanders back over to the snack table. He sees the purple haired kid again, wearing his tuxedo dress like always.
But the tuxedo dress is besides the point. The real heavy hitter here is that this kid is taking cheese and dipping it into the chocolate fountain.
“You can’t do that,” Frederick says.
“Why not?” the kid asks.
Frederick raises his hand, and then pauses. “You got me there.”
He grabs a slice of cheese for his own and puts it on a skewer to join in this chocolatey quest.
But he can’t keep calling this legendary fountain of wisdom that other kid, because that would be rude. (And also confusing, on account of them both being kids.)
“I’m Frederick,” he says.
“Hi, Fred!”
The newly dubbed Fred blinks. “That is way easier. I’m keeping that.”
"You're welcome," the other kid responds cheerily, shooting him a smile as he spins the cheese skewer in chocolate. “The other one was still nice!” He sticks out his tongue. “Just long.”
"Thanks!” Fred scoots closer to get a better angle of the fountain. (No movies ever showed how messy these were. There were little brown droplets all over the marble well.) “What's your name?"
“Morion,” the kid says in a sing-song tone.
Fred smiles. “Like Moreos!”
Morion cocks his head as he pulls the cheese cube back from the flow. "Who's that?" he asks, eating the entire piece in one bite. (What a champ.)
“It’s a chocolate cookie.” Fred squints. “I think. I don’t really know.”
"... Does it cry?" Morion asks, brows furrowing as the little boy thinks. "Should ask Baba. Baba knows everything."
Fred has no idea who Baba is, but it sounds like a very cool and wise name, so he’s not going to question it. If comics have taught him anything (and they totally have), it was to take the Sage's word seriously the first time.
"I don't think it cries,” Fred hesitantly concludes. “Why would it?”
“Crying Breakfast Friends.”
“Very excellent point, Moreo. Very excellent point.”
The hall speakers crackle with static as the microphones go live. (Rest in pieces, Fred’s delicate child eardrums.) Mr. Northwest is doing that thing again? Standing up and tapping his spoon to his fancy triangle cup, which everyone is just okay with for some reason.
(Fred sees how it is. When Mr. Northwest hits his cup with his spoon, he’s politely drawing attention, but when Fred puts an automatic whisk into a wine glass he’s disruptive and hey, you told me you banned the kid from the kitchen, how’d he get in here?)
“Thank you all for coming!” Mr. Northwest cheerfully announces. “I think we can all say this party was a rousing success.”
“I guess you could say it was a slam dunk, Preston,” a tall man pipes up.
Mr. Northwest flatly looks to the side. “Yes, yes, I guess so.” His face snaps back to exaggerated happiness as he spreads out his arms, grabbing a glass from atop a delicate pyramid. “A toast!”
"What toaster?" Morion mumbles in confusion, squinting at the man and his glass.
“A toast!” Mr. Northwest repeats, posing as he raises his glass. “To our family name-”
The glass shatters in his hands.
The crowd flinches as a low rumbling laugh echoes throughout the house. The force of it shakes the walls and tables, many drinks spilling atop the white linens in the process. The fireplace by the stairs roars, flames distorting until a grotesque, barrel-chested, skeletal man emerges weightlessly from the ashes, blue fire igniting around his face like a beard.
“GENERATIONS LOCKED AWAY, MY REVENGE SHALL HAVE ITS DAY!”
(Wow! Fred understood some of those words individually!)
The… ghost? WIzard? Wizard ghost? The big fiery fellow sweeps his broad arms in a wide arc, pointing accusingly at the crowd below.
“Ah! The Grim Reaper!” an old man wheezes from the corner. “I was wondering when you might-”
The ghost slams his fist, a bright light bursting from his palms. The room goes white, and a wooden tree stands in place of where the old man used to be, wheelchair and all. One might mistake that glow on its once-living cheek for sap. Roots dig and crack into the pristine tile below, rattling with the burden of stone and dirt.
“YOU PROMISED, NORTHWESTS!” The ghost bellows.
Mr. Northwest staggers back, a nervous smile pulling on his aged face. “Hold on, my good man!” he shakily starts. “No need to make a scene-”
“AND SO I SAID WITH FINAL BREATH- 150 YEARS, I’LL RETURN FROM DEATH." The ghost look coldly down at the mortal man. “AND IF THE GATES STILL CLOSED TO TOWN, WEALTHY BLOOD WILL STAIN THE GROUND.”
Mr. Northwest's face blanches, his smile dripping from his lips like wax as the color fades from his cheeks. "N-Now, surely we can come to some solution. I'm not even sure what you're talking ab-"
"YOUR DEBT!” The ghost inconsolably roars. “YOUR DEBT HAS BEEN PILING 150 YEARSSINCE THE DAY YOUR FAMILY TURNED THEIR BACKS ON THE TOWN! SINCE YOU LEFT US TO DIE IN THE MUD AS YOU SAT, LAUGHING WITHIN THE HOUSE WHICH WAS BUILT UPON OUR BACKS! IF YOU WILL NOT PAY WHAT YOU OWE, YOU SHALL PAY WITH YOUR LIVES!”
The walls shiver and crackle as roots and vines climb up their foundations. The countless hunting trophies of the Northwest manor shriek with sudden fury, leaping from their expensive mounts to twitch and shamble towards the living crowd.
Fred feels his entire body tense, tightening like a spring as the energy humming throughout the room makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand stiff. Beside him, Morion instinctively grips his sleeve, and they run.
[COMPLETED: CUTSCENE- A WORD FROM THE NORTHWESTS.]
...SAVING…
...SAVING…
GAME SAVED.
[NEW OBJECTIVE UNLOCKED: SURVIVE.]
>SELECT CHARACTER.
>[YOU ARE FREDERICK FLAMARION FREDERICKSON IV.]
>[YOU ARE MORION VAIRAM MAHESWARAN.]
/selectcharacter_vairam
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