Bonus Prose: Belmont (Patreon)

I mentioned with my last DOTU update that the next chapter of Merritt's story was being pushed to next week.  So while we wait, I wanted to share a bit of bonus prose.

I generally write to unwind at night before going to sleep, and to explore different characters and ideas.  So here's a little excerpt from... Belmont's story?

In the end, I decided to post this to $2+ folks since Merritt's story was delayed and $10.01+ patrons will get an inktober drawing today too.  There are no overt spoilers in this excerpt, but it might be kind of spoilery to see some of Belmont's history and motivations from his point of view.  At the very least, it's a different perspective that goes beyond what's been shown so far in Merritt's story.

This takes place when Belmont was in his early 20s and had just graduated from the College of Science and Medicine.

--------

Belmont traced the raw bruise on his cheek with fingertips that still shook from fury. An open-handed slap would have been enough of an insult on its own. To leave a palm mark was excessive. His dad hadn’t been satisfied with just showing his displeasure with Belmont; he had to make sure everyone else could see it too.

His finger skidded across tender skin until it hit a warm rivulet at his cheekbone. Cursing under his breath, he wiped the tear off his face, only for the obliterated stream to be chased by another one newly emerged.

“Fuck!”

He grabbed a dress shirt in his fist, slamming it with a punch into his suitcase. The suitcase bounced atop his mattress and flopped closed on his wrist, fueling his already overflowing aggravation. With an unrestrained growl, he smacked the suitcase back open and shoved another shirt inside.

This was all Archer’s doing. That bitch. Why couldn’t she have just gotten out of his way? What would she have lost for ranking as salutatorian? He’d met her parents at the College of Science and Medicine’s family weekend. He’d seen the way they fawned over her. She had the unblemished hands of someone whose parents had never whacked them on the knuckles for holding their silverware incorrectly. Surely, they wouldn’t have withheld her place-keeping bribe if she’d dropped to second.

No trickery, no threat, no sabotage could knock her off the throne of valedictorian. The woman was invincible. Invincible and heartless.

Coming in second at the North Sphere’s most competitive school would have been more than enough to land Belmont a prestigious job, provided it was accompanied by a bribe sizeable enough to prove his North Sphere elite lineage. The bribe was expected to be paid before he even sat down to an interview. It would be refunded if a job offer wasn’t made, but it was still required upfront with every interview he gave.

His dad had made it clear: second place was not good enough for a son who carried his surname. He would not pay the bribe.

And without the bribe, Belmont was no better off than an ace—a peasant with no lineage and no education.

It had all been a waste. Every unpaid summer internship, making connections and kissing asses. Every flawlessly executed assignment. Every sleepless night spent studying till his vision swam. He might as well have spent those nights partying, trading in his books for a glass pipe and a handful of pills like so many of his carefree classmates whose paths were already paved with their parents’ money.

A tear dropped onto the lens of his glasses, sliding down to the lower rim and warping a stripe of his vision. The glasses weren’t sitting right on his face. He pulled them off, seeing that his dad’s slap had bent the metal. His hands still shook too violently for him to bend them back into place. With a disgusted huff, he shoved them back up the bridge of his nose.

Hopefully, Professor Matson would give him a place to sleep for the night, maybe even for a few weeks or months. They’d shared a bed enough times during the past semester as student and teacher, after all. On one of those nights, the professor had asked why Belmont had propositioned him when he was already getting an A in his poisons class.  Belmont had answered with nothing more than a secretive smile, knowing that his diverse talents had earned him the right to call in a favor sometime in the future.

Part of him wondered how many nights he’d have to spend face down to get Professor Matson to chip in a portion of his place-keeping bribe. It was such an exorbitant expense. If he’d spent his entire college career trying to rake in enough money to cover the bribe, he might have succeeded. He had ways of getting people to fork over their hard-earned cash. What his charm and his body couldn’t get him, a bit of well-timed blackmail could. Such techniques had paid for countless fancy dinners and weekend parties at school—dinners and parties that no longer seemed worth it.

With the right amount of luck, he could have saved up the bribe money in four years, but now was too late to start. Even if Professor Matson gave him a place to stay rent-free, he didn’t know how long the arrangement would last. And he’d still have to pay the countless other expenses that came with living in an elite neighborhood. The chance that he could save up bribe money while also covering his expenses was slim.

As he crossed his bedroom to grab his shoes from the closet, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. His neatly trimmed brown hair, usually slicked perfectly across his scalp, stuck out at odd angles. Nothing like having one’s head grabbed and smacked against a wall—punishment not for his second place rank, but for having the audacity to make excuses for it.

He’d sulked long enough. As much as his throat still ached and his heart still torched his chest, he had to bury the evidence of his torment. He was a North Sphere citizen, after all. He was a blue-tie. Blue-ties did not show their emotion.

At least they didn’t show their true emotion. What Belmont lacked in a poker face, he made up for with a theater mask. He’d give his dad a cocky smile on the way out to accompany his middle finger.

Retrieving a comb from atop his dresser, he slicked his hair back into place. Once the strands were aligned, he ran his palms over them until they were perfectly smooth. Then he redid the knot in his blue tie. He was a North Sphere elite, and the blue tie was a symbol of his sphere citizenship. His knot had to be impeccable.

Once his belongings were packed, he hoisted the strap of his suitcase over his shoulder and headed for the hallway. His dad stood at the entryway, waiting for him to leave. His face was at absolute zero, as cold and emotionless as a blue-tie could get.

Belmont expected him to speak, but he remained silent even as Belmont reached for the ornate silver door handle. It was as if he didn’t even care. As if the loss of a son meant nothing to him.

Before the sting in his eyes could overtake him, he turned toward his dad with fists clenched. The cocky smile wouldn’t come to him; instead, he bared his teeth in a feral scowl. “It won’t be long before I outrank you, Dad. And when I do, I’ll come back. And every last thing you cling to, I’ll rip from your weak, wrinkled hands. I’ll take this house down to the ground with you inside. You’ll be forgotten. The only Belmont the underground will remember is Grant Belmont.”

His dad didn’t flinch. As emotionless as an animatronic doll, he lowered his gaze to the door handle and back to Belmont.

Belmont yanked the front door open and stalked across the lawn toward his motorcycle.

“Bike’s still in my name,” his dad called after him.

Scowl deepening, Belmont fished his phone out of his pocket to call for a ride. He kicked the motorcycle to the ground on his way to the curb.

*  *  *

“I don’t know how I’m going to get to all my job interviews without a motorcycle.”

Professor Matson’s sweat hadn’t even dried on Belmont’s back before the words emerged from his mouth. The story he’d given his former teacher was that his bike had been stolen, and because his parents had already set aside the cost of his place-keeping bribe, they’d refused to help him with the down payment on a new vehicle.

He wouldn’t tell Professor Matson—or anyone else—that his parents were withholding the bribe. To confess such a thing would be to reveal that he was powerless. He’d tell Professor Matson that he was in a bit of a bind, but he wouldn’t allow the true depths of his desperation to show. He had to maintain the upper hand in his negotiations.

“You’re welcome to ride on the back of my motorcycle anytime,” Professor Matson purred before sliding his tongue into Belmont’s ear.

Belmont held back a shudder. The professor was lucky he was hot and useful; it just barely made up for the creepy sensation of a tongue tip in the ear canal. Rolling onto his side, his legs tangled in bedsheets, Belmont groaned, “I can’t stand riding as a passenger. I’m too tall for that shit.” He ran a hand up and down the professor’s arm before shifting to his hip. “I already set aside whatever money I could, but I’m still a few thousand short.”

“That must be frustrating,” Professor Matson replied before leaning in for a kiss.

Why yes, it is frustrating. Belmont let his head drop onto his pillow, his lips all but slack as Professor Matson continued to kiss him.

His gaze shifted to a pewter prisoner figurine on the dresser across the room, most likely modeled off one of the fabled founders of the underground. As licks and kisses continued to rain down on him, he contemplated the state of his finances. He had a few thousand dollars set aside, but he’d already allocated them down to the dollar in anticipation of his coming expenses. He hadn’t accounted for the need to purchase a new motorcycle, and riding a used bike in a neighborhood as upscale as this was out of the question. It would be hard enough getting anyone to give him a minute’s consideration without his place-keeping bribe; a cheap bike would destroy any chance he had.

Professor Matson finally rolled onto his back beside Belmont, staring up at the ceiling. “I have a spare motorcycle in the garage. It’s a ’45 Flare. I never let other people ride it, but if you really need it, you can use it while you’re staying here.”

Belmont chewed on his lip, considering the offer. What he really needed was money, but if this was the best Professor Matson would offer, he’d take it. And he’d ask again for the cash when Professor Matson seemed to be in a more generous mood.

“I’ll take good care of it,” he promised, rolling away to face the wall. “The ’45 Flare’s a great bike. You have impeccable taste as always, Prof.”

“You’d look great riding it.” Playfully, Professor Matson grabbed him by the hips and gave him a nudge from behind. “You look great riding just about anything.”

“Ha ha,” Belmont muttered, rolling his eyes. He sat up, sweeping the hair off his forehead. “I’m going to use the shower first since you don’t seem like you’re in a hurry.”

Ten minutes later, Belmont stood in front of the lightly fogged mirror, coaxing his wet hair back into place with his fingertips. The North Sphere’s proprietary five day hold waterproof hair gel ensured that, after getting wet, his hair would dry back into the position that he’d styled it in when last applying the gel, but he could tell by the feel of his hair that he was near due for another application. He couldn’t remember if he’d packed his gel in his hurry to get out of his dad’s house, and Professor Matson apparently didn’t use the stuff.

He’d have to add that to his list of necessities to pick up before hunting down interviews. What a pain.

“Breakfast?” Professor Matson asked as he emerged from the bathroom with a towel around his waist.

Belmont glanced over his shoulder. Professor Matson was already pouring coffee into two cups before getting a response, which annoyed Belmont even though he wanted the coffee. On the counter were a couple of packaged breakfast meals, ready to be heated. Fighting the urge to curl his lip at the prospect of eating vacuum-sealed lab-grown pre-cooked eggs, he said, “Let me get dressed first.”

As he pulled on a dress shirt and a pair of slacks in the privacy of the bedroom, he thought back to the many nights he’d spent at Professor Matson’s house. He’d always snuck out in the early morning, so it hadn’t occurred to him that Professor Matson wouldn’t have a hired hand to prepare his meals. Was he really that hard up? Even middle class North Sphere citizens often had live-in servants or, at the very least, a meal delivery subscription. With Professor Matson’s job at the most prestigious school in the North Sphere, surely he was paid well enough to afford live-in help. He supposed it was possible that Professor Matson simply liked to cook for himself, as some people apparently did. But if that was the case, Belmont would have expected better quality ingredients from him.

He finished tying his North Sphere blue tie in front of the mirror, making sure the knot was flawless before pulling on his suit jacket on the way to the kitchen. “I’ll take the coffee,” he said. “But do you have a travel mug or anything? I don’t want to be late for my interview.”

“You sure lined that up fast,” Professor Matson said, rummaging through his cupboards. He unearthed a travel mug and poured Belmont’s coffee into it. “Creamer? Sugar?”

“Black,” Belmont said, bypassing the comment about the interview he didn’t actually have.

“You didn’t answer about breakfast.”

“I’ll grab a meal bar on the way,” Belmont said, taking the travel mug and heading for the door.

“Don’t skip it. You’re already too skinny.”

Belmont paused with his hand on the doorknob. He was having trouble pushing past the annoyance at Professor Matson’s casual comment on his body. Since when was he too skinny? Skinny, yes. But too skinny? Professor Matson never seemed to have any issues with it before, and now was a hell of a time to spring it on him.

“What?” Professor Matson asked. “Forget something?”

“No,” Belmont said with a wide, artificial smile. “Just praying for good luck.”