As much as he wished it could, the joy of digging could not pay the bills. A man needs work. When Gaetan is certain he's learned the whole of his land enough to remember it, the Frenchman bids adieu and travels to England.
They call him "Mole," there. Obnoxious Brits though they may be, Gaetan repeats it, savoring it. Taupe, like his father sometimes called him. He likes it.
He finds work there, too, and new rocks. The white cliffs of Dover taste far too delicious to really hate the English. The Frenchman inside him aches a little, but he's enjoying the discovery too much to care.
He learns English, but he doesn't stay. He doesn't like it much, trapped on an island with water on all sides instead of good, wholesome dirt. He pays his way across Europe. You'd be surprised what kind of work you could get, when you're the best at something. Even the best at digging could find his way. Mole remembers the sales pitches his father taught him and never sells himself too short. He always gets himself at least two new shovels before he agrees to any of the boring jobs.
Nothing is really boring when you're digging, though.
One day Mole decides he's going to America. There's not much reason to it, at least that he can explain. He's heard heard of that gold rush thing in California before. The wild frontiersmen digging on the Yukon. Mole thinks he'd like to try that.
On the boat ride he fills his coat and bags to bursting with his collection of dirt and dares anyone to say a word about it. They do, but never to his face. It didn't matter much, because Mole had stopped paying attention long ago.
He spends irritatingly long at sea, daydreaming of burrowing under the ocean all the way to the New World(but Mole's not stupid, he knows the Earth like no one else and even for him the risk is too high), and finally he sets foot in New York. He instantly drops to his knees and licks the ground. New. Different. He likes it.
He'd missed the ground after so long at sea. He'd already uprooted his life--Mole decides to try something new. Different. He rents a place to store his things (it simply wouldn't do to lose the precious bits of his homeland he'd brought with him) and prepares with a feast. Only the most delicious of French foods, for him. The Americans don't do them quite right, but the chef assures Mole that watery broth is pot-au-feu, and with his dinner he is ready. Mole goes out to the street and strips down to his nethers. He doesn't want the clothing to get in the way. He keeps his tools on a strap round his back, though, and he pulls out his pickaxe and breaks through a pothole. He's so giddy with the fun of it he barely even notices all the women screaming. Mole readies himself, throws one last obscene phrase and the stupid sky, and then he begins to dig.
He's long gone when the reporters and police arrive for him.
Mole lives down there. He's always felt like his home was really there, but this was longer than he'd ever burrowed before. He learns the strange new rock and dirt and creatures of America in the best possible way, from within. He's an explorer mapping out a better place for mankind. He's an aviator in the opposite, the better direction. He's making every dream come true and when he's through no one, no one, will know the dirt better than Mole. For now he really is a mole. Burrow, little taupe, burrow.
Mole knows he's still human, of course. Someday he does have to come up. But for now he feeds on the worms and the creatures who live beneath the ground like him and he's happy.
He keeps a calender and a diary. He thinks someday they'll find his writings and preserve them for geologers of the future. They'll have his name and face in textbooks and students across the world will study Mole's snaggly grin. He's sure of it. It makes him laugh to think about. Everything makes him laugh down here. But he's got the date marked off and sooner or later it becomes as long as he can risk staying down in the dark without sun.
He breaks through, blinking and cursing, into the sun.
He can hardly see a thing. He's naked and filthy and encrusted with all manner of disgusting residue. All he wears is a pair of goggles on his eyes and a shovel on his back. The dirt covers him as thick as a real mole's fur. Mole sniffs at the air and squints at the people around him and he feels the breeze blowing everywhere on his sensitive, earth-covered skin.
Finally something breaks the silence.
"Well there," says Mr. Thatch. "It looks like we've got company, Whitman."
"Either we've both had too much to drink and we're imagining the underground molemen have finally come for us, or we've just found the man we need." Mole can't really see it yet, but he can feel one of them smile at him. "You a geologist or just insane, son?"
"Of course," snaps Mole. "What else do I look like?"
When Audrey tells the story of how Mr. Whitman met Mole, she doesn't censor it, like he did. After the description of Mole's "naked mole rat" flapping in the wind in all its glory, she doesn't stop laughing at the look on Sweet and Vinny's faces for weeks.
Lol that ending. Perfect. XD It's nice to come across fic that fleshes out side characters that I didn't think I'd be interested in reading or knowing more about. You did an awesome job with it!
I apologize for the lateness of this, but I've just come back to dig (ha) through this meme and what a joy it is to stumble upon one of my prompts filled! There's no need for you to apologize - it's true I had prompted for something on the wacky side, but what you wrote for me is even *better*. I actually really enjoy plausible, well thought-out back stories like this one~
That said, I think you did a great job fleshing out Mole's character! The salesman father wasn't something I would have thought of and yet it fit him perfectly~ I liked how very integrated his lifestyle was with dirt - the descriptions of the different kinds and his reactions to them were a nice touch, plus the instance where being covered in dirt all the time bolstered his immune system and saved him from the disease that took his parents was clever. I must admit that I was very amused by the idea of him not caring what everyone thought and burrowing nude towards the end - and when he met That and Whitmore! Pff priceless! And the little mention of Audrey's take on the story was the perfect way to wrap it up~ XD
Thank you so much for writing this for me! Not gonna lie - I kind of want to taste dirt now ahaha~
They call him "Mole," there. Obnoxious Brits though they may be, Gaetan repeats it, savoring it. Taupe, like his father sometimes called him. He likes it.
He finds work there, too, and new rocks. The white cliffs of Dover taste far too delicious to really hate the English. The Frenchman inside him aches a little, but he's enjoying the discovery too much to care.
He learns English, but he doesn't stay. He doesn't like it much, trapped on an island with water on all sides instead of good, wholesome dirt. He pays his way across Europe. You'd be surprised what kind of work you could get, when you're the best at something. Even the best at digging could find his way. Mole remembers the sales pitches his father taught him and never sells himself too short. He always gets himself at least two new shovels before he agrees to any of the boring jobs.
Nothing is really boring when you're digging, though.
One day Mole decides he's going to America. There's not much reason to it, at least that he can explain. He's heard heard of that gold rush thing in California before. The wild frontiersmen digging on the Yukon. Mole thinks he'd like to try that.
On the boat ride he fills his coat and bags to bursting with his collection of dirt and dares anyone to say a word about it. They do, but never to his face. It didn't matter much, because Mole had stopped paying attention long ago.
He spends irritatingly long at sea, daydreaming of burrowing under the ocean all the way to the New World(but Mole's not stupid, he knows the Earth like no one else and even for him the risk is too high), and finally he sets foot in New York. He instantly drops to his knees and licks the ground. New. Different. He likes it.
He'd missed the ground after so long at sea. He'd already uprooted his life--Mole decides to try something new. Different. He rents a place to store his things (it simply wouldn't do to lose the precious bits of his homeland he'd brought with him) and prepares with a feast. Only the most delicious of French foods, for him. The Americans don't do them quite right, but the chef assures Mole that watery broth is pot-au-feu, and with his dinner he is ready. Mole goes out to the street and strips down to his nethers. He doesn't want the clothing to get in the way. He keeps his tools on a strap round his back, though, and he pulls out his pickaxe and breaks through a pothole. He's so giddy with the fun of it he barely even notices all the women screaming. Mole readies himself, throws one last obscene phrase and the stupid sky, and then he begins to dig.
He's long gone when the reporters and police arrive for him.
Mole lives down there. He's always felt like his home was really there, but this was longer than he'd ever burrowed before. He learns the strange new rock and dirt and creatures of America in the best possible way, from within. He's an explorer mapping out a better place for mankind. He's an aviator in the opposite, the better direction. He's making every dream come true and when he's through no one, no one, will know the dirt better than Mole. For now he really is a mole. Burrow, little taupe, burrow.
Mole knows he's still human, of course. Someday he does have to come up. But for now he feeds on the worms and the creatures who live beneath the ground like him and he's happy.
He keeps a calender and a diary. He thinks someday they'll find his writings and preserve them for geologers of the future. They'll have his name and face in textbooks and students across the world will study Mole's snaggly grin. He's sure of it. It makes him laugh to think about. Everything makes him laugh down here. But he's got the date marked off and sooner or later it becomes as long as he can risk staying down in the dark without sun.
The Mole borrows up, up, up.
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He can hardly see a thing. He's naked and filthy and encrusted with all manner of disgusting residue. All he wears is a pair of goggles on his eyes and a shovel on his back. The dirt covers him as thick as a real mole's fur. Mole sniffs at the air and squints at the people around him and he feels the breeze blowing everywhere on his sensitive, earth-covered skin.
Finally something breaks the silence.
"Well there," says Mr. Thatch. "It looks like we've got company, Whitman."
"Either we've both had too much to drink and we're imagining the underground molemen have finally come for us, or we've just found the man we need." Mole can't really see it yet, but he can feel one of them smile at him. "You a geologist or just insane, son?"
"Of course," snaps Mole. "What else do I look like?"
When Audrey tells the story of how Mr. Whitman met Mole, she doesn't censor it, like he did. After the description of Mole's "naked mole rat" flapping in the wind in all its glory, she doesn't stop laughing at the look on Sweet and Vinny's faces for weeks.
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That said, I think you did a great job fleshing out Mole's character! The salesman father wasn't something I would have thought of and yet it fit him perfectly~ I liked how very integrated his lifestyle was with dirt - the descriptions of the different kinds and his reactions to them were a nice touch, plus the instance where being covered in dirt all the time bolstered his immune system and saved him from the disease that took his parents was clever. I must admit that I was very amused by the idea of him not caring what everyone thought and burrowing nude towards the end - and when he met That and Whitmore! Pff priceless! And the little mention of Audrey's take on the story was the perfect way to wrap it up~ XD
Thank you so much for writing this for me! Not gonna lie - I kind of want to taste dirt now ahaha~
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