Lover's Triptych (Patreon)

Easter is upon us, so running slightly later than normal, apologies!

This month's lore post features Dr. Mortum and Sky-Raider, for the story, Dr. Mortum and the puppet are both women. Easier with pronouns that way.

---

2018, Los Diablos.

Some might call it a hangar, but Ben always called it his garage. It sounded more reasonable than lair or secret base. That was for villains with bigger egos; when he was out of the Sky-Raider armor, there really was no need for that. It felt good being normal, just a dude in oily coveralls and a bandanna keeping his hair out of his face. Doing maintenance. Felt good being independent like that, at least for the systems he understood. Some he didn't, and for those, he needed expert help. Even though that help was currently pacing back and forth, the heels making little clicky sound on the concrete like a cat too relaxed to sneak. It was alright, though; he didn't need help with this.

"I can't believe the nerve of that man." Dr. Mortum paused, gesturing to an absent audience, and Ben briefly popped his head up from the engine hatch to pay attention to the woman.

"I can." As soon as he had said the words, he realized they were the wrong ones; Dr. Mortum's face committed deeper to the frown she had already been wearing.

"You're not helping." She crossed her arms, her smart suit elegantly cut and very out of place in the garage. Her car was parked near the entrance, currently in its vibrant orange shade. Matching her mood.

"I'm listening, though." He resigned himself to do that. He just needed to wrap this up first. "Would you hand me the piston ring compressor?"

"Here." She stretched up to offer him the tool in question. "Do you want a hand?"

"Belle, Belle, you're dressed up in your best; this is a dirty business." He wiped his oily hand on his coveralls to prove his point. "Please, you can keep ranting while I work."

"I'm not ranting, Benjamin." Her voice was ice and scotch, strong enough to burn his ears.

"Uhuh," he mumbled noncommittally.

"I could have beaten him. I should have." She was pacing again, her anger not named at him but at her nemesis. "I had the better car. I am the better driver."

"Sounds like the car show went well." He had never cared for the stuff. Too many people showing off their own self-importance.

"Don't get cute with me."

"Fine." He paused, looking directly at her. "You say you could have won, and I believe you. So why didn't you? Did he cheat?"

"He didn't cheat," she growled, putting all her disdain in that single word. "I decided to lose because otherwise he would demand a rematch. Or ask me out to dinner, though he did that anyway so I suppose I should just have rubbed his face in the gravel like he deserved."

"Sounds like you played it smart. Ain't that always what you tell me to do? Fly under the radar. Be sensible." He scratched his stomach, watching her seethe. It was rare enough to be amusing since it wasn't aimed at him.

"But you never listen," she didn't bother to hide her exasperation.

"Sure, but I'm a dumbass." He chuckled, making a gesture to sweep back his hair in a flamboyant move before he realized his hands were oily and aborted. "And I think you're better at taking your own advice. You're already one up on him; you know who he is, and he has no idea."

"You're right. I couldn't even use the full capabilities of my car because that would raise more questions. Stay within specs, custom built though they might be. It makes sense. God knows what's in that machine of his. The sound the engine made..." Her words veered close enough to flattery for her to shut up.

"You want me to mess him up?" Ben wiped his hands on a clean rag, though most of the grime remained.

"Please." Her look was hard but more from worry than disdain. "There's not enough surprises in your armor that I'd trust you to fight Charge."

"Ouch." He scratched his cheek, probably leaving a black smear behind. "Is it me you're not trusting? This thing is half your handiwork after all. Doubt you would have done a bad job with it."

"Charge won't come alone, and this armor wasn't made to fight the Rangers." Her voice softened. "You know that, I adjusted it according to your specs. And the new guy is a flier."

"First, you know full well I'm not going to fight the Rangers. Not in a million years. Second, there are more ways to mess with a man than fighting him. I could just steal his fancy car and dump it in the ocean."

"That is a thought." She rubbed her chin, mulling over the thought.

"Just give the word, lil' lady." He sketched her a salute, glad to see the look of fond annoyance on her face from the nickname. That never failed to cheer her up.

"I'll let you know once I've calmed down. I'm not making any decisions while I'm still being emotional." She let out a breath, straightening her back.

"You could be a little more emotional, I think. No harm done there."

"Last time I did, you had to help me dump a body."

"And I would do it again." He climbed down from the armor, walking over to her. "Listen to me, Belle. I don't know what standards you think you have to hold yourself to, but you don't need to."

"But I do, mon ami." She looked up at him, then gestured to the garage with a sigh. "You might be happy with the whole ex-soldier current pirate beach layabout setup you have here, but I'm a professional."

"Ouch." He placed his hand on his chest as if he had been shot. The theatrics made her smile but didn't distract from her rant.

"I'm a black woman in a field dominated by men. I need to be in control; otherwise, I'm hysterical. I need to be rational, not emotional. I need to work harder, be better, and I need to do it all while looking impeccable."

"Which you do." Opting for flattery was never wrong.

"Thank you." She crossed her arms again, defensive. "What I am trying to say is that I know what I got myself into. People see me like I want to be seen. It's hard work, but it's better than the alternative."

"For what it's worth, I think you're beautiful."

"I've seen the people you date, but I choose to take it as a compliment."

"And I choose not to take that as an insult, Miss Quality Standards." He laughed because at least she was relaxing enough to tease back. "You should lower them and live a little."

"I have too much work to do to spend time on frivolous dating. Let alone the serious kind." The admission was more tired than bitter, the legacy of decisions repeated over the years.

"I've heard that before, and it doesn't lead to a happy life even if you get a great career. You don't want to end up alone past forty with nothing but a successful career and nobody to share it with." Ben didn't name any names. Dr. Mortum didn't know about his former associate, and that was the way he liked it.

"You're sweet. And not following your own advice." She patted his shoulder awkwardly.

"Working on it. And I'm not aiming for the stars, just for comfort. I should be dead, now I'm just out here living my dream."

"As a pirate."

"Exactly."

"Merde. You do have a point." She admitted that as reluctantly as she admitted defeat in anything. "I should be enjoying myself. Do you have a spare set of coveralls?"

"None that will fit you, but I suppose that won't stop you?" Ben gestured towards the changing room. He had clean ones there, a couple of sizes too big, but it wasn't like this was a fashion showroom.

"No, I can always roll up the sleeves. I've never liked the way the chest tentacles deploys. Let's see if we can't make the process smoother. If you are going to throw Charge's Lamborghini into the ocean we don't want any hiccups."

"Yes, ma'am." He started whistling to himself as he headed over to pick her out some clothes. Maybe he'll get that adjustment free of charge. So to speak.

Sometimes, he cracked himself up.

---

2020, Los Diablos.

The Air-Raider armor was laid out on the diagnostics table, face down. Dr. Mortum had the back open, downloading data from the telemetry module. She was dressed for work, but there was a ruffled dishevelment to her that made Ben pause. Darker shadows under the eyes, hidden only by the reflections of her glasses. Despite that, she was smiling. Intriguing.

"I was thinking of adjusting the fins slightly," he started, patting one of the leg fins. "Is there a way we could reduce their surface? The armor handles well in the air, but it's damn awkward in cramped areas. Nearly got stuck last time."

"You're not supposed to use it in confined areas." Dr. Mortum didn't even look up. She kept her eyes on the laptop screen.

"I know, but I needed to get the container out. The tentacles didn't have enough reach... are you alright?" She was humming to herself. That alone was weird enough that he had to know.

"Me?" She did look up then, slightly confused, like a chicken interrupted in her pecking. "Oh. Yes, I am."

"You're humming, Belle. Your date went well then?" Fortune favors the bold. Isn't that what everybody says?

"Well, with complications. Did you hear about the museum?" She put the laptop down, letting it run diagnostics without her oversight as she looked down at him. The armor was big, and she was sitting on top of it.

"I read the headlines this morning." And watched the news. Bit of downtown chaos and a new villain. "Some nutter blew it up. Was that the armor you've been working on?" It felt like a Dr. Mortum design.

"It performed admirably, didn't it?" She smiled again, this time filled with more pride than secrets. "I just wished they hadn't attacked the very party I was in. With my date." The sigh was heavy and frustrated, but not even that mood lasted.

"You couldn't know. And from the sound, you both were alright?"

"Mostly. She wasn't badly hurt. Just fell and hit her head. The hospital cleared her... but it didn't exactly endear me to her boss. The attack took us both by surprise."

"What a bastard move."

"D'accord."

"I'm just curious about something." He looked up at her, putting on his best confused expression. "See, I keep hearing bad news all around, but all I'm seeing is a smile. Did someone get lucky last night?"

"Don't be crude."

"So you did." They were both smiling now. "I thought you said those days were behind you?"

"She's different." The admission came with a helpless shrug. "I hadn't planned to get that close. I suppose it might have been adrenaline affecting my judgment. Both of ours."

"I doubt it. You've been smiling about her for weeks. Weren't you worried that once the armor was delivered, she'd piss off and never see you again? Sounds like you were wrong about that." Ben was trying his damnedest not to sound smug. He was genuinely happy for her.

"I was. But in my defense, that was a valid concern. We're both professionals, it's hard to determine what is business sense and what is real emotions."

"Sounds like emotions now, if you ask me."

"Unfortunately so." Dr. Mortum paused, frowned, then admitted, "At least for my part. I'm not sure about her."

"If this was before the armor was paid and delivered for, I'd agree with you, but now? Sounds like she might have been wanting to do this for a while but didn't do it before because it might be seen as manipulative and mercenary." They both knew how things played out in this business.

"She is hiding something from me, though." The frown had stayed. "Something big."

"She's working for a villain. That tends to come with baggage. We ain't all as open as I am." He patted his chest proudly. Best way to make people not look deeper. Be an open book.

"I suppose that's true. And I have my own secrets." She looked down at the laptop, disconnecting it from the diagnostics ports.

"Don't overthink it." He offered her a hand down like a gentleman. "Have a bit of fun. That won't kill you."

"We do have fun," she admitted. "She's going to get me in so much trouble. I hope I can keep up."

"You're not that old. And you can keep up as long as you loosen up."

"I'm not even sure if I can at this point."

"Just stop worrying. You've slept with her. That's the biggest hurdle, right? And she didn't freak out or whatever you've been worrying about." They both knew what, but that wasn't really a thing you brought up if you didn't want to sound like an asshole.

"I haven't told her." Dr. Mortum walked away, putting the laptop back in her briefcase. Assiduously not meeting his eyes. "And I'm not sure if she noticed."

"Does it matter who you used to be?" He knew it did for some people. They were bigger assholes than he was. "I bet you haven't even told her your real name yet."

"I should never have told you," she sighed.

"In your defense, you were very, very drunk. And I am charming and trustworthy." And harmless. For a villain. He had cultivated that vibe for years.

"Ben..." She gave him an exasperated look.

"Shush, let me have this one."

"I'll tell her eventually. Once I find the right moment. Maybe it will end in a week or two anyway. It's not like we both don't work a lot." She removed her thin latex gloves, preserving her manicure from the dirt.

"Just try to let her in a little bit." He held up two fingers, maybe an inch apart. He was an optimist.

"Not sure I can let her in much deeper." The smile was sharp and teasing enough that it took him by surprise. The laugh was half from delight.

"Ms. Abelard, is that a dirty joke?" He did his best to look shocked, and only slightly offended.

"Oh, shut up, Garret. Now tell me what's wrong with ce maudit aileron."

He was still smiling as he gestured towards the leg of the armor. This was going to be a good day.

---

Now, Los Diablos.

Ben hadn't expected a visit. The Sky-Raider armor had been serviced not two weeks ago and was working perfectly. He wasn't an overly cautious man, but something in Dr. Mortum's face on the door cameras made him get his gun before he quickly opened it and let her in. No trace of any shadows; perhaps the crisis hanging over her wasn't something he could chase off with guns. Frowning, he gently helped her down the stairs, trying to judge her mood and failing.

"Belle. Are you alright?" he asked instead.

"No. I'm not." The admission came easy, no attempt to hide the defeated voice.

"Come here, have a seat." He ushered her over to his break area and made sure to check the chair for oil stains before he offered it to her. "Hell, I'll get you a whiskey. It looks like you need it." He had a bottle here somewhere.

"I'm driving," she gestured dismissively.

"Not tonight, you're not. Besides, if you are going home, don't you brag your car can essentially drive itself?" He held up the bottle for her approval.

"Fine. Poison me." The words were filled with resignation, but he poured her a stiff drink all the same, then a second one as she knocked it back immediately.

"So." He wasn't sure where to start, but he had to start somewhere. "Is this a lover's spat? Or do I need to dump another body?" He could. The ocean was big, and the things that lived there were hungry.

"They'll live." She looked down at the glass as if unsure if that made her happy or not. "I patched them up."

"Alright." So there was a shooting. He had suspected there might have been something like that. Why? "I thought things were going well?"

"I... I don't know where to start. Or if I want to." She took a sip of whiskey, grimacing. Ben knew it was a good brand, so it must be memories.

"Look, you don't need to talk if you don't want to." He hated saying that; he was curious and wanted to know how bad this was. "Just tell me you'll be alright."

"I won't." That answer came too quick for his liking. "For a while, at least. But I'll live."

"Damn right." He filled up the glass, and she kept sipping it like tea. "Is this about your little girlfriend?"

"In a way. Things went... bad." The word was heavy enough to hold a myriad of disasters, but still no clue as to which one it was.

"Alright. Bad. We can handle bad. Who do I need to kill?" He was trying not to do too much of that these days, but old habits died hard, and passion was a better reason than duty.

"Nobody. It's..." She broke off, shaking her head. "I need to think."

"Just tell me if you are in danger."

"No." A moment's consideration. "No. I'm not."

"Good." He didn't like the pause, but it seemed like a genuine assessment. "Then there's time to figure out how you feel. Just felt I needed to ask, considering there were guns involved, y'know? You're usually not someone who shoots people ona whim."

"It was a reflex. I was startled. No," she admitted, "I was angry, I suppose. I didn't mean to hit. Didn't think I could have. They're..." She frowned and broke off, biting her lip.

"Alive, from the sound?" He wasn't sure what exactly had happened, but he knew he wasn't getting the whole story. Just tidbits.

"Yes. Just a shoulder wound. Like I said, I patched it up." The whiskey had calmed her down. She spoke slower now, with determination.

"You're pale as a sheet, though."

"That's funny." She didn't look amused.

"It's a figure of speech," he groaned. "Damnit, Mirlene, don't mark words with me right now. You're freaking me out."

"You don't need to worry," she said, which just made him worry more. "I just don't have answers yet. I am safe. This is about... my girlfriend." A strange twitch to her face. "But I don't want to talk about it."

"You've been weird for a few weeks now. Does this have anything to do with that San Francisco shit you mentioned?" She had asked him for contacts, and he had handed them off without a thought. Nothing big. Just research.

"Yes. But you should forget about that." Her voice was hard, insisting on secrecy.

"Done," he lied. "Not that you told me any details anyway. Just let me know if I need to expect one of Lord Ember's assassins to come by and drop your ass."

"No. It's not..." She shook her head. "It's got nothing to do with that. This is personal."

"Okay. Personal. No assassins. Just an accidental shooting. And heartbreak." She looked like she was about to cry; he wasn't sure how either of them would handle that.

"Hah." Less a laugh than a grunt. "Yes. You might say that."

"Just do me a favor, okay? Stay here tonight. We'll get drunk and watch the game, and I won't pry, okay?"

"Your football is still a crime against sport."

"I know. And I'll let you complain about it as much as you want."

"Can we order takeout?" She sounded so tired there, almost lost.

"Of course. And we won't talk work."

"Good." Dr. Mortum emptied the glass, a shiver going through her body. "You're a good friend, Ben."

"And you'll get through this. I'm sure it will all make sense in the morning. And if not..." he poured her another drink. "The hangover will distract you from thinking too much about it."