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wouldntyou-liketoknow · 2 years

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Gifts for a Bat (Part 2): Chaos, Compromises, and Meal-Prep

(Disclaimer: this Resident Evil 8 AU and the character descriptions that come with it do not belong to me. They belong to @that-bat, who has created lore and drawings for this AU on his blog. I highly suggest you give him a follow, because he makes some great art. Please keep in mind that, while I am using Matt and Ethan’s real names, the characters in this story are only personified versions of them.)

(Bat’s AU isn’t identical to the game, and there isn’t really a concrete plot—nothing wrong with that—but I’m trying to draw inspiration from game elements for the story. To clarify, this snippet takes place after the previous one. It’s loosely based on how Ethan Winters was captured by Heisenberg shortly after entering the village.)

(Trigger Warnings: descriptions of body horror, implied gore, violence, implied experimentation, mentions of blades and syringes, blood, surgery/dismemberment, arachnophobia, mentions of death/dying, eating/drinking, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

It took Ethan a few seconds to stop panicking. Not that he could be blamed, seeing as he’d just been attacked by what had to have been multiple swarms of spiders. (To be fair, Ethan had found this place via a tunnel in the cave system he’d just wandered through, so it wasn’t like he’d expected a plate of waffles. But still, how the hell had those spiders managed to cause this level of infestation?)

Even so, he eventually noticed that the stinging bites had ceased, that he could no longer feel tiny legs skittering on his skin. Ethan slowly halted entirely, staring at the floor to watch the horde retreat across the floor and walls, returning to their webs in no time at all. Ethan stomped on the ones still within reach.

He was as confused as he was relieved. The spiders hadn’t had an actual reason to leave him alone, so why had they anyway? It just didn’t seem like natural behavior for insects.

Not being one to turn down a lucky break, Ethan brushed himself off and resumed his exploration. He rotated his wrist in order to have his flashlight shine on everything around him. The silk of the webs glistened against the light, which would have looked oddly pretty if not for what Ethan had just experienced.

Despite all the spiderwebs, this place—a cellar, Ethan guessed—looked remarkably clean. The wooden shelves lining the walls seemed to have been dusted fairly recently. Each shelf housed a collection of either books (which were alphabetized) or bottles (which were categorized by age and ingredients).

Ethan’s flashlight caught something metallic, which he paused to inspect. It was a glossy bronze frame, which housed a photograph of a child. They appeared to be about thirteen years old and were very nicely dressed. Their warm brown eyes matched the short, neatly-kempt hair atop their head almost perfectly, and the smile on their face was a natural one. The bottom frame was adorned by a small plaque, which read: Matthew Loxosceles — 1937.

The portrait made Ethan think of his niece, and he immediately had to blink back tears.

Out of nowhere, the unmistakable sound of a door creaking open echoed through the cellar.

Thankfully, Ethan’s instincts were on-point, as he turned his flashlight off at the exact same time. Regardless, he felt his heart stutter. Under normal circumstances, he would’ve whipped around, but quick movements would give away his position. He slowly maneuvered himself in a small circle, shifting his weight with each step as he scanned the environment. He silently shoved his flashlight into his pocket and exchanged it for his tactical knife. He gripped the handle tightly in an attempt to calm his shaking.

Ethan strained his ears, trying to catch some footsteps or breathing nearby.

Ssskrrpp.

There.

Ssckkr–ssrrtch.

Something lightly scraping against stone.

T-ttp, t-ttp, t-ttp, t-ttp.

A rapid, padding, tapping rhythm. Oddly similar to that of a person drumming their fingernails.

Ethan wasn’t sure how he could tell, but whatever the source of the noise was, it almost seemed to be stirring the air with its cadence.

Ethan took a deep, slow breath through his nose. He bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep his mouth shut. He knew something was down here with him, but he could barely pinpoint the noises. And that wasn’t just due to his pulse hammering in his ears—he was positive he’d never heard anything like what he was hearing now. Something in his gut insisted that it wasn’t normal.

“I hope you don’t plan on leaving.”

Ethan startled badly at the unfamiliar voice. He backed away a few paces as quietly as he could. By now, his eyes had somewhat adjusted to the darkness; with how close the voice sounded, he should have seen some kind of silhouette among the shadows by now. But he couldn’t, and that was very, very bad. Before he could start questioning his sanity, however, foreign weight materialized around on his shoulders, forcefully turning him around, and then his neck, squeezing viciously.

Ethan immediately choked as his knife fell from his grip, and just barely had time to register the fact that he was being lifted off the floor.

He found himself mere inches away from the face of his attacker. Four eyes, each the color of blood and bulging in their sockets, drilled into his own. Beneath them, a mouth full of razor-sharp fangs was set in a snarl, accentuated by some kind of inhuman hissing noise.

Although it was very difficult to make out his appearance—considering how Ethan was thrashing for purchase and how his attacker was somehow upside-down—there was no doubt he’d made a horrible mistake coming here.

“Because I’m sure as hell not going to let you!” The monstrous stranger drew back and decked Ethan across the face.

The pressure around Ethan’s throat finally loosened, but precious air was still barred from his lungs as he hit the floor with a dull thud. He floundered there, gasping and coughing as he tried to get to his feet. His knife lay just a few feet in front of him, but before he could reach for it, the full weight of his attacker dropped down on top of him.

A guttural scream was forced out of Ethan’s mouth. “Stop! STOP—!”

“NO!” His attacker exclaimed. He then grabbed a fistful of Ethan’s hair, and proceeded to punctuate his words via pulling Ethan’s head up and slamming Ethan’s face onto cold stone over and over again. “You do NOT! Have ANY! RIGHT! TO ASK ME THAT!”

The metallic flavor of blood suddenly coated Ethan’s tongue, and more was starting to drip from his forehead. He felt a hand grab at his jacket, pulling it and his shirt collar back. Then came the explicit feeling of a pair of jaws latching onto his shoulder, of two rows of teeth digging into his flesh.

And even as Ethan fought and howled, he was acutely aware that his skin was being pierced by something else.

Something that felt similar to a medical needle—quick, sharp, profound.

In that moment, adrenaline finally took full control. Ethan grit his teeth before bracing one arm against the floor, using the other snatch up his knife, and blindly stabbing in the direction his attacker had to be in.

Ethan felt the blade connect to something soft. His attacker stopped biting in favor of letting out a startled shriek. The death-grip suddenly disappeared from his scalp, and Ethan saw his chance. He crawled forward, picked himself up, and ran.

“Oh, go right ahead!” His attacker shouted. “You won’t get far—I’ll find you no matter where the hell you go! That’s a damn promise!”

Ethan couldn’t go back the way he came—that would’ve just made him even more of a target. Even if the cave system hadn’t been like a maze, he’d still lose his footing for sure.

Fortunately, as Ethan sprinted, he realized he was growing closer and closer to a stone staircase that led up, up, up to a heavy wooden door. Ethan may not have known what was beyond the threshold of said door, but he couldn’t afford to care right now. It meant he’d have more of a chance to hide.

So, he ascended the stairs, threw open the door, slammed it shut behind him. He was greeted by a room full of glossy cabinets and countertops. A large mahogany table took up space in the center, and it would have complimented its surroundings if it wasn’t covered in grooves, scratches, and old bloodstains. A practical canopy of spiderwebs clung to the ceiling, glancing off the walls. Ethan could very clearly see a generous amount of spiders crawling within the silk, but unlike the ones from the cellar, they didn’t try to come after him.

Ethan spotted another door across the room and rushed towards it. His attacker couldn’t be far behind; he couldn’t waste any time. He twisted the knob, pushed the door open.

And the stench just rolled out over him.

Ethan clamped a hand over his mouth to stop himself from vomiting. As someone who had studied the stages of decay in the past, Ethan had come across the odd article or two claiming that rotting flesh gave off a sweet odor, of all things. He’d never really believed those articles. But now, with this sickening aroma filtering through the air around him. . .how did that old saying go? Fact can be stranger than fiction?

Considering what he’d just witnessed in the cellar, Ethan kind of felt like an idiot for ever doubting that in the first place.

This new room wasn’t filled with webs like he’d learned to expect by now. That didn’t make it any better; in fact, it was much, much worse. The majority of space inside was taken up by silky cocoons. They’d been attached to the walls and floor, coming in various sizes, and though the silk had been woven in layers, Ethan could clearly see the human corpses it was encasing.

Ethan wanted to run, to scream. But he needed to hide. And he was confident that, seeing how horrific this little room was, his attacker would never look for him in here.

With that in mind, he trudged inside, quietly closing the door behind him. He pushed his way past the cocoons, retching whenever the silk brushed against his jacket. Eventually, he found the very back of the room and pushed himself into a corner.

Now that he was finally standing still, it was much easier to focus on his injuries. He’d already been in pain, of course, but now. . .now a new pain made itself known. It didn’t sting or ache like his fresh cuts and bruises. It was burning, blistering, and getting worse by the second.

Ethan suddenly remembered what that freak had done to him, remembered the needle-esque sensation, and swallowed the bile in his throat as he craned his neck to glance down at his shoulder.

A bloody, symmetric pattern of teeth marks marred his skin, which was to be expected. What Ethan hadn’t expected, however, was a perfectly round puncture wound on either side of the teeth marks. The pale skin around those wounds was slowly but surely turning a sickly gray color, as though a stain was spreading right under his epidermis.

Ethan let out a gasp and began rummaging through his jacket pockets, searching for the vials of serum he’d brought along. That stuff had never failed to help him recover before, so—

Shffshffshff.

Ethan’s head shot up. What the fuck was that?!

Shffshffshff.

He found himself staring at the cocoons. Several pairs of glowing eyes stared back through the veils of silk. The cocoons began twitching as the corpses inside them spasmed. A bout of muffled, raspy wailing found its way into Ethan’s ears.

Ethan backed away, shaking violently. More choked cries began echoing around the closet. More eyes blinked into view. More dead people began writing in their silky shrouds.

Ethan grasped at the wall behind him, only to recoil. It was pulsing.

The cocoon closest to Ethan bulged forward. The silk stretched and split like frayed seams, then finally gave way as the cocoon burst open like a rotting melon. A mummified arm reached out. It was followed by another. . .and another. . .and another until there was a veritable mass of limbs all clawing at Ethan.

Ethan couldn’t help it. Survival instinct be damned, he just couldn’t fucking take it anymore.

“NO!” Ethan screamed. He curled into the fetal position, no longer caring how the floor seemed to be melting underneath him. “Nononononononono—!”

He screwed his eyes shut and continued gibbering. It didn’t matter how pathetic and helpless he looked right now. He was going to die here, and his niece would never see her family again.

Ethan couldn’t hear his own voice, couldn’t hear the door opening, couldn’t hear the footsteps that were now approaching him.

“I told you you wouldn’t get far.” It was the same voice he’d heard only a few moments ago. It sounded deafening.

Ethan could just barely feel his wrists being brought together in a vice-like grip, as well as his lower body being dragged across the ground. But by then, his vision was blurring around the edges.

___

Matthew’s family—when they’d still been alive—hadn’t been a very large one, and they’d only ever employed a small number of servants. Therefore, one couldn’t be blamed for raising an eyebrow at the number of rooms House Loxosceles had to offer. Each of those rooms came with individual purpose in the past and, technically, they still did. Matthew just so happened to use them for his ordered experiments.

Matthew propped Earwig against the wall of one of them. (Shortly after his transformation, Matthew had gotten into the habit of nicknaming his “guests” after various insects. For one thing, it just made sense; he was part spider now, wasn’t he? And for another thing, it had helped him adjust to his instincts. Ever since he was a teenager, Matthew had always experienced strange cravings. He’d appreciated meat from livestock, sure, but he’d also been curious about what certain. . .other food sources would taste like. Deep down, he’d always known that the answer was delicious. It seemed appropriate to compare the intruder to an earwig. Both were annoying as hell and both had no qualms with invading places they had no business being in.)

Matthew’s four insectoid legs reached around his torso, their joints popping and cracking. The upper legs (the ones extending from his shoulder blades) hovered over Earwig’s left arm, while the lower legs (the ones extending from his lumbar) moved towards Earwig’s right arm.

Matthew felt a slight prickling sensation as the spigots on the ends of those legs each projected small strands of silk. Matthew moved them all in a way akin to knitting needles, quickly weaving sheets around Earwig’s wrists, and then attaching those sheets to the wall before he stepped back to review his work.

Silk produced by most normal spiders was at least five times stronger than steel cables. And Matthew was nowhere near a normal spider, so Earwig wouldn’t be going anywhere.

Not that he was in any condition to try and escape. He was still murmuring to himself, his watery eyes glazed over and twitching. Matthew was surprised by this: he’d given the intruder a generous dosage of venom, and while it wasn’t actually fatal, a few of Matthew’s past meals had ended up succumbing to cardiac arrest thanks to the hallucinations.

Yet this one was still kicking? How?

Matthew walked over to a desk in the corner of the room. He opened its drawers and fished out the proper equipment. After that, he got to business. He moved Earwig’s jacket and shirt, exposing a patch of skin on his forearm. He filled up a syringe with some of Earwig’s blood, and then used a scalpel to cut off a long strip of flesh.

Satisfied, Matthew took both samples and sat down at the desk. He let a few drops of blood smear on a glass slide before loading it into his microscope. A moment after focusing the lens, he felt his mouth drop open in surprise.

Earwig’s blood was completely abnormal. Matthew was no stranger to this sort of thing—not just because of the Cadou experiments. He performed tests like this on all of his meals for the sake of efficiency. He knew exactly what to look for in healthy and unhealthy blood alike.

But this?

He’d never seen anything like this before. He adjusted the lens and light, but nothing about the sample changed. The cells all came in different shapes and sizes, all tinged with black, all basically appearing to be eating one another.

Matthew paused, then sliced a piece off of the skin sample and put it on another slide. The skin cells looked just as odd as the blood cells. The same black material was there, branching through them like roots. Matthew got up and stood before Earwig. He peered at him more carefully than before, but failed to find a single aspect that made this person look anything less or more than human.

There was one more way to know for sure.

Matthew snatched the skin strip from the desk and popped it into his mouth. No two humans were exactly the same, but Matthew had learned that they typically tasted rich and gamey, like a combination of prosciutto and something that he couldn’t quite place. He didn’t find any of that in Earwig’s skin. Instead, he found a flavor that could only be described as rancid.

Matthew spat the skin sample out onto the floor, shaking his head in disgust. He hadn’t tasted any of that when he’d first bitten Earwig! (Then again, he’d been very angry at the time, so he probably hadn’t been paying the flavor much attention.)

Matthew scowled at Earwig, marching over and giving him a solid kick in the chest. Earwig failed to regain consciousness. It may have been a childish gesture, but Matthew didn’t care. This wasn’t fair at all!

This lowlife had broken into his house and killed several of his darling pets. If he’d been that set on painting a target on his back, then he could have at least been edible, damn it!

A frustrated sigh made its way through Matthew’s gritted teeth. As much as he wanted to kill Earwig, he couldn’t. Earwig was a defcato anomaly—that wasn’t something he could just waste. Just because he didn’t have a use for him didn’t mean Mother Miranda might not. . .

But that could wait. For now, Matthew had an appetite to take care of.

Matthew stormed out of the room, locking the door with the skeleton key he always kept in his vest. He glanced down the hall and immediately caught a pair of gray eyes peering through a crack in a door just ten feet away. The owner of those eyes (a wiry human with tawny hair) froze, knowing they’d been seen. Matthew’s stress quickly melted into snide relief.

The person staring at him was the latest delivery from the village. Mother Miranda sent at least one villager to House Loxosceles every couple weeks; some were meant for experimentation, others were meant for nourishment.

Collins—Matthew personally called them Cricket, because they didn’t make much noise unless they had to—was the latter.

“Cricket,” Matthew called, his calm tone meeting neither his eyes nor his smile.

Cricket flinched, dipping their head as a sign of cautious respect.

“Lord Loxosceles?” They asked nervously.

“Could you meet me downstairs in a few minutes, please?”

“Um. . .yes, Sir. I can do that.”

“Good. Thank you,” Matthew replied. He deliberately waited until he’d walked past them to look over his shoulder and add, “I’ll be in the kitchen.”

Even in the dim lighting, you could see the color instantly drain from Cricket’s face. They merely nodded and ducked back inside the guest room. Matthew chuckled at this as he descended the staircase. His diet may have called for humans, but that didn’t mean he ate them as they were. Much more often than not, they needed to be fed and cleaned before anything else.

(Although, Matthew definitely wasn’t above tormenting his meals if they put up a fight. It may have been taxing, but he wasn’t one to turn down entertainment.)

Like those before them, Cricket had been somewhat treated like an actual guest. They’d been provided with a place to sleep, as well as water and any food Matthew didn’t eat himself. They’d been allowed to wander certain areas of the mansion if they chose—it wasn’t like they could’ve escaped, thanks to Matthew’s little ones watching from every square inch of the place.

Of course, ever since their arrival, Cricket had clearly never felt safe here. Rightly so; Matthew hadn’t exactly been subtle about his plans for them. Despite this, they’d been surprisingly mature about their circumstances. They’d shown some undeniable bravery, whether they knew it or not. They’d managed to be both amusing and interesting to taunt.

Matthew soon found himself in his kitchen (the very same kitchen where Earwig tried to hide. So perfect and convenient AND YET—). He locked the cellar door, then went through the drawers to lay a disturbing mix of medical tools and butcher knives onto the countertop. Finally, he opened up the liquor cabinet and surveyed what it had to offer. After a few seconds of browsing, he took a bottle of Chianti from the top shelf. His parents had been far more engrossed with alcohol than he was, but this stuff paired so well with human remains.

As he filled a glass, he heard the kitchen door open with a squeak. He returned the bottle to its place before tilting his head at Cricket, who forcefully closed the door behind them, visibly shaking. They held their arms to their chest—if it wasn’t for the woolen sweater they were wearing, they would have been digging their nails into their skin by now.

Matthew casually took a carving knife into his hands before moving to stand between Cricket and the kitchen door. They backed away until they bumped into the table.

“Sir. . .” They began. “I know what’s about to happen, but could we please have a talk?”

Matthew hummed, taking one step closer. “We’re talking now.”

“N-no, I meant—I just need one minute—”

Matthew cut them off by surging towards them. In one fluid movement, he grabbed ahold of their collar and dragged them onto the tabletop. Cricket’s hands instinctively flew up to clutch at the arm pinning them down. They winced in pain, breath coming out in rapid, hitching gasps.

“I’m listening,” Matthew jeered as he loomed over them. “If you have something to say, then say it.”

“Lord Ophio sends birds to the village,” Cricket stammered. “I’ve seen them myself—their eyes glow exactly like his do! He uses them to spy on us.” They grit their teeth in an attempt to stop the tremble in their voice. “Lord Isurus does the same thing. While I was there, I always saw strange creatures swimming in the river, and there’s no way they couldn’t have come from the waters around his castle.”

Matthew raised an eyebrow. “And you’re telling me things I already know because. . ?”

“You’ve said that you can see things through the spiders around here. But you can’t send them outside because of the cold, r-right?”

Matthew nodded. “Yes, that’s right. Still not a very compelling argument for me to stall dinner, though.” He sent the signal to one of his extra legs, having it reach towards the spot where Cricket’s jaw met their throat.

Cricket shut their eyes tightly before nearly shouting, “What if I was a spy for you? In the village?”

Matthew paused. He genuinely hadn’t expected something like that. Many of his past meals had offered to abduct another villager to take their place. Matthew had ignored all of those pleas, not only because of his stomach, but because they hadn’t impressed him at all. But Cricket. . .Cricket was literally inches from death, and they were still trying to rely on themself for a way out.

Cricket took his silence as an opportunity to keep going.

“I-I could report back to you if something noteworthy happened. Wouldn’t that be useful for your work? For the plans you need to make?”

“Mother Miranda tells me the things I need to know,” Matthew answered flatly. “And, call it a hunch, but I think the information she gives is a bit more pertinent than what you could offer.”

“She doesn’t tell us everything,” Cricket argued. “I know she’s been keeping certain things from us. So what’s to say she isn’t doing that to you?”

Matthew narrowed his eyes. Cricket was smarter than he’d given them credit for, which was frustrating, since he particularly enjoyed killing ignorant people.

“The other Lords have already been doing it. So why can’t you?” They asked, then quickly corrected, “Why shouldn’t you?”

Matthew straightened his shoulders, glancing around the kitchen as he thought. He wouldn’t say it out loud, but Cricket had pinpointed his primary jealousy of Nathan and Mark. He could’ve brought his little ones to other indoor places and let them take care of the rest—in fact, he’d done that exact thing before. But that had still led to the poor things dying from more forces than just the weather.

And he hated that. He hated watching them suffer from their very perspective, just as anyone with a pet would.

“You do make a valid point, I’ll give you that,” Matthew finally admitted. A tiny spark of hope flickered in Cricket’s eyes.

“However,” Matthew stated, to which that spark disappeared. “I need to eat. You can’t deny that, can you?”

Cricket slowly shook their head, swallowing the bile that was no doubt rising in their throat.

Matthew smirked. “That’s what I thought. I’ve already had to wait a few days for some food; I’m not waiting any longer.”

“What if you just took. . .” Cricket hesitated, looking nauseous, “. . .one piece to eat? Something that I wouldn’t need to survive? Then we would both get what we want. Wouldn’t that make this more civil?”

Matthew started laughing in spite of himself. “Good grief, you’re tenacious! I guess that’s one reason you’ve lasted so long around here.”

He weighed his options. On the one hand, Matthew was going to satisfy his appetite. There was no question about that. He couldn’t feed on Earwig, and Cricket was right here. . .

But on the other hand, he knew that he had a right to use his power however he wanted. Nathan and Mark had done a few things Miranda definitely wouldn’t have approved of, but they’d managed to keep her from suspecting defiance. If his adopted brothers were able to act that way, then what was stopping Matthew? He was more than capable of keeping some things under wraps.

Matthew’s laughter died down to snickering before he let out a sigh.

“You really want to make a trade? Alright, then; we’ll make a trade.”

Matthew then took a couple moments to look Cricket up and down. They were an adult, but they seemed a bit skinnier than they probably should have been. Matthew chalked it up to either malnourishment or constant activity. Probably both, considering the manual work villagers had to do so often.

“One of your legs,” Matthew eventually pronounced.

Cricket blinked. Their mouth opened and closed a few times with no words coming out until they managed, “Wh-what?”

“Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you’re suddenly going to let your one bargaining chip fall off the table,” Matthew scoffed. “If you want to leave House Loxosceles alive, then the price is one of your legs. Simple as that.”

Cricket continued to stare at him, their expression less horrified than before, but still extremely distressed.

“Your legs aren’t technically vital to your survival. Plenty of animals chew off their own limbs and go on just fine,” Matthew explained. “And don’t say you’ll be helpless without one. I know there’s a metal-worker in the village, and I know they can craft some kind of crutch or prosthetic for you.”

Cricket remained silent. They were tense, shifting in place. They started craning their neck to try and look away, but one of Matthew’s extra legs slammed down against the table, just a few inches away from their head.

“I could be a lot more unreasonable about this, y’know,” Matthew reminded them, his voice set in a low, dangerous tone. “I could take one of your arms instead. Or maybe your eyes. Or one of your lungs, or half of your liver, or whatever the hell I want. But I’m willing to settle, just this once, because you might make it worth my while.”

Cricket’s eyes glistened with tears, which they were obviously making an effort not to let fall. Matthew wasn’t sure why. He was being exceptionally fair and patient right now, which he wouldn’t be able to do for much longer. He had a foul-tasting trespasser taking up space in one of his rooms, he still needed to tend to his little ones, and he’d just settled for a smaller meal than he’d been looking forward to despite being goddamn FAMISHED!

“Well? You’re the one who decided to try negotiating.”

Matthew drew ever-so-slightly closer to them, making sure that their eyes were firmly locked onto his. “Do we have a deal?” He asked, intentionally wording the question to sound much more like a statement.

After what felt like approximately three hours, Cricket nodded. “Yes, Sir,” they whispered, their tone of voice an odd combination of exhaustion, defeat, and relief.

Matthew nodded. “Good choice.” With that, he snatched one of their wrists and brought it up to his face. He opened his mouth wide, allowing his chelicerae to unfold.

Cricket let out a shocked yell. “W-wait, WAIT! You said—!”

Matthew rolled all four of his eyes and reached down to flick them hard on the forehead. “Anesthetics weren’t included with the equipment I was given, so a small dose of venom will have to do. Unless, of course, you want to be completely conscious during the amputation. . .”

Cricket, despite their newfound panic, was quick to shake their head. They reluctantly went still, closing their eyes and gritting their teeth as they braced themself.

Matthew hummed before sinking his chelicerae into Cricket’s forearm. He gave them just enough for the hallucinations to be present, but not enough for those hallucinations to kill them (he’d already had plenty of time to experiment with differing amounts of his gift).

The gray spots appeared under Cricket’s skin after a moment. It didn’t take much longer for them to start twitching in place, their pupils sporadically dilating and constricting. Matthew moved their arms close to their sides, then spun a small web around them and the table. The hallucinations would be enough to distract them from the amputation, but that didn’t guarantee they’d be perfectly still.

The process took less time than expected. Matthew made a small incision a little ways above Cricket’s right knee, then used that incision as a marker to follow. He used a scalpel and dissection scissors to clear a few layers of flesh away from the area.

Cricket’s breathing came out slow and ragged. They convulsed and sobbed, but they weren’t screaming. Matthew wondered what they were seeing, now that they were under the influence of his venom. Every one of his victims seemed to take to it differently.

Once Cricket’s femur had been partially uncovered, Matthew took a large bone saw to it. His wrist ached like hell by the end of the procedure, but Cricket’s right leg was well and truly severed, which definitely made up for that. Matthew wove a generous amount of silk, which he wrapped in tight layers around Cricket’s new stump until the bleeding stopped. With that, he carried Cricket back upstairs to the same room they’d been staying in.

By now, his stomach was gnawing at itself. Painfully so. Unfortunately, he couldn’t start dinner just yet.

Matthew quietly unlocked the door to the room Earwig was being held in. He crept inside and had another look at his captive. Earwig was very still, but he was also breathing heavily. His now bloodshot eyes were fluttering open and closed.

It took Matthew a few seconds to realize that the cut on his arm where he’d taken that test sample. . .was gone.

As was the bloody scrape that had been on his forehead. . .

In both places was new, unharmed skin. Matthew’s bite mark hadn’t completely faded away, but the puncture wounds from his chelicerae looked significantly smaller than they had before.

Matthew gawked, rubbing at his eyes just to be sure they weren’t playing tricks on him. They weren’t, which was extremely disconcerting. Matthew understood basic biology. Of course he knew human skin was capable of repairing itself. But that healing process usually moved slowly; it had to take at least a day or two before an open wound even scabbed over.

And yet this person’s body had been able to mend itself in just a few hours?

Matthew hissed with ire. He held Earwig’s head out of the way as he delivered another bite to his shoulder. He had to remind himself that it was a precautionary measure as he gagged at the taste.

Matthew re-locked the room and made his way to the parlor downstairs, where an antique rotary phone waited for him alongside a collection of plush furniture. He dialed a certain number, then fidgeted with the phone’s cord as he waited. The phone on the other end rang, droning on for a few long moments.

“If he’s still sweet-talking that sculpture, I swear to God. . .” Matthew muttered impatiently.

His eyes lingered around the room before landing on a mirror that was positioned next to the fireplace. As Matthew studied his reflection, he discovered that fresh bloodstains actually seemed to compliment the monochrome colors of his vest and button-down. This would’ve made him feel a bit more positive, but then he found a small cut along his jaw—where Earwig had tried to stab him in the cellar—and his stress grew just a little bit worse.

Finally, a deep, familiar voice piped up on the other line. “What? What is it?”

Lord Isurus sounded agitated, as though he’d been caught completely off-guard. This more or less confirmed Matthew’s suspicions.

“Hello to you, too, Mark.” Matthew cleared his throat. “I need a favor.”

“Let me guess: your current ‘visitor’ escaped?” Mark inquired. “If that’s the case, I’ll be taking them for myself if they end up on my property.”

“Oh, please. Just because I’m more responsible with my food than you are doesn’t make me less competent.”

“Really? Well, then why are you calling?”

“Someone broke into the mansion earlier today. He looks human, but I’m not so sure he is. As of now, he’s been neutralized.”

“A non-human entity? In this region?” Mark gasped, voice dripping with over-exaggerated sarcasm. “Who could’ve foreseen it?!”

Matthew felt a flare of temper. “I ran a few basic tests on him. The yielded results aren’t like anything I’ve ever seen—not even with my worst test subjects.”

“And what do you mean by ‘neutralized?’ Is he still alive?”

“Yes, he is,” Matthew answered, exasperated. “And yes, my venom is in his system. He should be under control for a good while.”

“He’s also right in the palm of your hand. So just butcher him and feel lucky that you got some surprise extra rations.” Mark started snickering. “And you always say I’m the wasteful one.”

“He isn’t fit for consumption—whatever he’s been contaminated by, it’s completely awful,” Matthew deadpanned.

“Something tells me you’re just being a food-snob.” Mark hummed. “Why not just see how he takes to Cadou?”

“And get punished if he somehow ends up ruining the experiment and wasting materials? Not a chance.” Mathew sighed, massaging his temples. “Look, I’ll be calling a meeting with Miranda tomorrow morning. And if one of us has to talk to her, then we all have to talk to her. So I expect to see you at the ceremony site once you’re summoned. Alright?”

“Fine, fine,” Mark relented. “I’ll pass the word over to Nate. We’ll be ready.” He paused, then added, “Even if the only thing to come out of this is the fact that you’re just being paranoid.”

Matthew slammed the phone down onto the receiver, fuming as he made his way to the kitchen.

The act of tearing flesh between his teeth was gratifying on its own, and as his hunger steadily faded away, his nerves grew calmer. A voice in his head nagged at him, complaining about how he’d have to act very carefully tomorrow if he wanted to smuggle Cricket back into the village without Miranda knowing.

Matthew pushed the voice aside; Miranda may have been calculating, but she also tended to have a one-track mind. If she was given something peculiar, she’d disappear into her laboratory for days to study it. She’d be far too interested in whatever made Earwig so defective to bother with the villagers.

Right now, the only thing that mattered was Matthew’s long, long-awaited dinner.

@that-bat

#my writing #resident evil au #re8 au #ethan nestor #crankgameplays #mathew patrick #matpat #game theory #mark fischbach #markiplier

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