To Serve Deer - SCP Foundation

All Life Hungers

⚠️ content warning

Anniversaries, you'd been taught, were days meant to celebrate milestones within a relationship, with couples often partaking in some sort of festivity in recognition of their love. While this wasn't anything particularly new to you, due to the nature of your respective… confinements, you and Hana were previously unable to celebrate such an event.

Until today.

A warm breeze drifts across the quad as you walk down the grand steps of the library, canvas tote softly tapping at your side as you descend. The sun weaves between white and grey clouds, providing just enough warmth and light to be comfortable, while being neither overbearing nor overwhelming. The concrete clicks and clacks as your hooves make contact. On a normal day, you would let the melody of your gait carry you back to your apartment, a gentle song to help ease you into your afternoon nap.

You feel your ear flick and turn, picking up the sound of someone or something trying to approach you both quickly and quietly. In the past, the sound of footsteps behind you would have caused you to flee and hide, but now you stay your course, albeit with a building sense of anxiousness in your chest. You're getting better, you think; not everything is out to harm you, and the days of being chased by your handlers are long past.

"Hey, stranger."

Hana Thompson, your knight, your love, joins you on the sidewalk, her footfalls adding a new rhythm to your melody.

"Hana! How are you doing today?"

"I'm doing good, but you could help make my day even better."

Hana wore a mischievous smile on her face, almost goading you to push further.

"Oh? How can I do that?"

She takes a few larger steps forward before turning and stopping in front of you on the path. She holds out her hands to you. You hesitate before reluctantly taking them.

"Since we haven't been able to celebrate our anniversary, I thought it would be nice to get dinner. A nice dinner. And you'll never guess where I got a reservation."

You think she lets the last sentence hang in the air, creating an almost dramatic atmosphere to the question before she provides an answer. Her eyes, however, tell a different story, scanning your face, waiting for a reply.

"So… are you going to guess?"

Your face burns with embarrassment.

"Oh! Apologies. I thought I could not— sorry. I am not sure."

"I got reservations to Chez Ambrose! The school paper wants us to write a review on it, and fancy dinners are better in pairs, so I thought I would ask you to tag along for a date." She pauses. "If you want, of course. No pressure."

You've never been to a "fancy" restaurant before, though you have indeed been to what you learned to be restaurants. With the modifier, you inferred that there would be a new set of expectations to fit into, a mold of behavior that would be considered acceptable. A feeling began to burn deep within you, shame, fear, but you felt as if there was no good reason to deny her. She was so excited, and you would feel even worse for letting her down.

"S-sure. I would love to."

Hana smiles, letting go of your hands.

"Perfect, it's a date then! I'll pick you up around… 5:30-6:00? Be sure to dress your best!"

She starts to head towards a collection of academic buildings, nearly skipping down the path. She's not 10 feet away from you when she stops and turns around to call out to you.

"And come hungry!"

All life hungers. From common cattle grazing at verdant pastures, to zephyr supping on the cool breeze of a brisk winter. Food has been a fundamental aspect of my life since the moment I was born, smelling the processed meals in the hospital room, thirsting for my mother's milk.

As a baby, I crawled the earth in search of summer truffles amongst the swine of my family's Languedoc-Roussillon estate. When I could walk, I chased Japanese quail along the frigid shores of Lake Baikal. As a trailblazing adolescent, I braved the Adriatic alone in hunt of Beluga caviar and Monk sea liver. Now, in my prime, I hold in my hands several realities worth of exotic ingredients; a paramount of the palette, a commodore of cuisine. And yet, I remain hungry for more.

I've dedicated my life, and considerable fortune, to satisfying this hunger, both in myself and the teeming masses.

As the martial artist spends years mastering their physical strength, it is I who has wrangled those same bulls, muscular and ferocious, that are ground into the beef that sustains them.

As the tortured artist brings to life their canvas with each bristled brush stroke, it is I who has seen the color fade from the squids and fish living in places named after death itself.

As the erotic poet indulges in the joys of the flesh, commenting on their "love", it is I who knows loves best. It is I who gasps in pleasure as they marinate in their own fluids, tasting every part of them, sucking the marrow until they are bone dry.

Hunger masters them, as it masters me.

So when presented with something new, a delicacy from beyond the known worlds, a true prospect to break the gustatory mold, who am I to deny my hunger?

Well to that I can only say je n'ai pas assez mangé.

As you step through the unassuming doorway at the center of town, the sound of cars and the smell of pollution immediately leaves you. Greenery surrounds you on all sides, trees and vines carrying fruit, content and well-cared for. The warm evening sun beams, crisp pristine air tickles your face, and the chirping of birds charms your ears, causing them to flick and follow as they fly through the air in pairs.

For a moment, you can only stand in awe. You have only been in a place like this once before, and you did not know it was possible to replicate nor re-enter such a space without great physical toll.

Your knight smiles at you, crinkling her nose the way only she does.

"Cool, huh? I thought you might like it."

As you continue to take it all in, Hana motions for your arm, and with a nod, gently grabs it, escorting you to the hostess stand.

"Reservation for Thompson, party of two?"

The hostess' eyes linger just a moment too long, curiously scanning you, causing you to cringe. You want to shrink away. She leads you to a table for two outdoors, a corner table near the railing over which you can gaze out onto the manifested expanse.

Your waiter soon arrives, greeting you with a smile. He returns with water in chilled glasses, adorned with mint leaves and small, viney flowers, menus with gold leaf text etched into stained oak, and sterile white paper with mechanical black text.

Hana raises an eyebrow as she takes the paper in her hand.

"Ambrose Restauranters is not responsible for any injuries accrued at Chez Ambrose, up to and including death?"

The waiter chuckles softly.

"With the unique degree of dining experienced at Ambrose Restaurants, there's always some risk associated. You can't very well know if you'll be allergic to our kaiju caviar without trying it, after all."

Hana glances at the paper with suspicion for a moment. You watch as she holds the document closer to her face.

"Weird, but alright. As long as you aren't planning on having us for dinner."

The waiter titters as Hana signs the paper. He turns his gaze over to you. It's hollow behind the exaggerated smile, like a hawk awaiting your next move.

You follow suit, noticing the bright red of the pen.

"Excellent!" The man says, snatching the papers from you with almost too much enthusiasm. "I'll allow you a moment to look through the menu before we start tonight's fare." The waiter hurriedly turns and walks towards the kitchen, the rehearsed click of his footfalls fading away into the distance. Across the table, you see Hana hard at work. Her menu sat next to her plate, and on the other side of the table, in a spot afforded to guests' wallets or purses, she wrote in a small, lined notebook. You can hear her mumble to herself as she writes.

"Food is served à la russe… a tasting menu of forbidden fruit is served alongside a fern flower salad, Crommyon onion soup is served before the appetizer of—" She pauses. "Meri, does your menu say anything about the entrée? Mine seems to be missing a description."

You look at your own menu, scouring through each option before arriving at what you think Hana is talking about. The only words there are "Chef's Surprise."

All of a sudden, a chill runs down your back, your hairs standing on end. You feel altogether exposed in an unusual way. This wind doesn't carry with it the usual laughter or echoes you're used to, however. No, this is something completely different. You cross your arms, holding yourself close.

"Cold?" Hana asks, her chair already slightly pulled out from the table.

"I s-suppose so, thank you."

She removes her baby blue jacket from the back of her chair and walks to your side of the table. In a careful motion, both avoiding your antlers and the slender glass she referred to earlier as a "flute," she wraps you in her jacket. It smells like her perfume, pomegranate. The new pressure around your shoulders brings you comfort. More importantly, you feel safe, protected.

Hana takes her seat, and you look back at your menu, trying to see what else the night would have in store. You idly tap your fingers on the table, your hand placed further out than you expected. Another's fingers lightly slide against yours, and your eyes meet Hana's. You nod, and she takes your fingers in hers. The birds are singing, the evening sun, hanging just on the horizon, shines on your face, you have butterflies in your heart as your girlfriend squeezes your hand. All is right in the world.

Yet with each click and whoosh from the kitchen, you can't help but feel eyes drilling into the back of your head, studying you and your every move.

There is no better way to show your appreciation to your ingredients than in your process of collecting them. What courtesy to the earth to deprive the vines of all their fruit? What courtesy to the ocean to pluck out lobsters bustling with eggs? What courtesy to the sky to stone two birds when one would suffice? I've shed countless tears collecting mushrooms off of fallen trees, lamenting the loss of nitrogen that would have been used to sustain the ecosystem.

But such is the nature of consumption; populations that overconsume eventually find themselves dying out. It is here where I find the justification of my work, a means to abate the suffering of an environment that already provides me with far more than I deserve.

No wonder, then, that I relish in the thrill of the hunt.

There's nothing more grounding to the cycle of life than holding the hand of Death, pointing at your prey, and begging nearly on your hands and knees to take its life like a child asking their parents for a sweet.

The act of stalking your prey across wide, winding plains, luring it closer with bait in form of meat or berry, coating yourself in its musk, you begin to learn about the life of your prey, as if they invited you into their home. As you watch it enter the clearing, standing mere feet in front of you, you are finally able to put a face to the name. The skin tells a cave wall story of it's triumphs, how it has dodged its pursuers until this very moment, how it would have continued living if you were not there to feast on it.

The emotion is intoxicating, and by the time you let loose the arrow (guns are far too loud, and it would be rude to disturb the other inhabitants of the space), it's as if you would be shooting a member of your family, your own blood!

Of course, I am no stranger to this; my father had me name all the animals under our care. I still remember the names of all the chickens who selflessly gave their feathers to me, (Charlie, Perrault, Augustine) and I keep them close to me in embroidered throw pillows. This is the feeling I strive to recreate across my dining experiences, something I want to instill in my guests with every cut of prime rib or collard green.

After all, if the tables were turned, I should think we would all hope to be treated with the same level of respect; I wish only for my name to be remembered by my consumer as I sustain them for as long as I may linger in their digestive tract. And I am sure I shall make a hearty meal indeed.

Part way through the second course, the waiter returns with an assortment of nuts. It sits on an ornate, rectangular plate, and it causes your somewhat full stomach to rumble.

"-Carnuti nut platter and a request, courtesy of Chef Ambrose."

Hana scratches down some notes in her notepad before turning to the waiter.

"A request? Did the newspaper put in any requests with our reservation?"

"Chef Ambrose would like to meetmeetmeetmeetmeetmeat you."

You're somewhat puzzled. In the restaurants you've been to before the chefs were either already visible (though too hard at work to pay you any mind), or only came out to address guests that were making a fuss about their food.

Is this a common thing in restaurants? Have we done something wrong? Have I done something wrong?

You look at Hana, lost in conversation with the waiter, nodding with a smile before he returns to the kitchen.

The chef might have heard she was doing a review and wanted to give her an interview to include. I hope I don't scare him away.

A door opens on the far side of the restaurant, and the waiter stands for a moment before talking to a man seemingly dressed for a time long gone. He looks like a mix between a hunter and a bard, covered in furs and fabrics that never even appeared in Rights' book of textiles. He's bug-eyed, short, and a pencil-thin mustache hugs the top of his lip, covered in beads of sweat like morning dew on grass. His eyes meet yours, and his lips curl into a smile. You freeze.

"H-hana. I think I am going to excuse myself to the restroom."

"No worries." She pauses. "Are you feeling alright? You look like you've seen a ghost." She leans forward, whispering to you. "Is It here?"

"No no, I think I just had something that upset my stomach. I will be back soon."

She leans back in her chair, a slight relic of worry lingering in her expression.

"Got it. Just let me know if you need anything, yeah?"

You nod and begin to head towards the restroom, taking several small steps across the hardwood floor. The other diners pay you no mind, but you try to speed by them regardless; you don't want them to stare, nor do you want to bring their attention to the pair of hooves partially hidden behind the white hem of your dress.

And still, someone stares. You feel your heart pound against your chest, and your breaths do little to cease the discordant melody, a feeling nostalgic in the worst of ways. You were long past your days of jumping at shadows, you'd made peace with the sickness that afflicted you, and the visitors, for the most part, let you be.

But here, now, in the halls of this faux oasis, you, Meri Clef, were being hunted.

Shank and tenderloin and shoulder. Hind and brisket and backstrap.

In my book On the Preparation of Extrareality Humanoids, ungulate humanoids are noted to retain the flavor and texture of their non-humanoid counterparts, with the added bonus of allowing for additional cuts for guests who are more partial to human flesh.

Breast and heart and liver. Palm and sole and kidney.

And here, right before my eyes, wandering right into my sights, the perfect specimen. Young, lean, and of a particularly picky diet. A crown of winding antlers to divvy into roasted bone marrow, soup from its hooves, its legs smoked and aged and served in paper-thin sheets.

I would relish the opportunity to put it under the knife, whispering calm and supportive words while it purges. And then, I would return it to nature, to feed the fields outside so that it may provide for others long after the meat was picked clean from its body and its fat completely rendered away.

Sitting next to Chef Chaz Ambrose, Hana Thompson is having the night of her life.

It was rare for restaurant reviews to go this well, especially when, in the past, she heard horror stories of experiences from her colleagues, leading to the entirety of the college being blacklisted from a place of dining over the tiniest perceived slight. And on the topic of her date, Hana was quite proud with what she was able to accomplish. Besides the chills, Meri felt oddly at peace, protected from the shadow that often plagued her in nature.

The day could not get any better.

"…So, Chef Ambrose, what would you say motivates you in your cooking?"

"Don't worry about the formalities, my dear, just call me Chaz! Oh, but that is a good question."

Chaz ponders a moment.

"Have you ever heard, Hana, of the Faisan Pathétique?"

Hana shakes her head.

"I should expect not, it's an exceptionally rare delicacy, sourced from one single farm in all the worlds. I first tasted the fowl when dining at the Dark Estate. I had a less refined pallet in those days, I'm ashamed to admit. upon consuming the meat of this glorious bird, I did not give it the reverence it deserved. I found it…. chewy, and a tad dry. I did not linger on the flavor long yet…, even then I sensed something. Some small, je ne sais quoi. Something in the texture, or the scent, or the atmosphere…. I knew not what it was."

"I learned later that the Faisant Pathétique, unique of all earthly phaesants, understands, and I mean truly understands its place in the world. The consequence of its death, the destiny of its entrails, what it was bred and raised and died for. In the moment of its death it sees the entirety of the food chain, and its place in it. And then it is butchered, cooked, and eaten."

"Wow, that's…. intense." Hana croaks, lost for words.

Chaz laughs.

"Indeed it is. And that intensity is exactly what I bring to my gastronomy. To make anything but the finest dish from these magnificent birds' sacrifice… To me, it is unimaginable. As a chef, I have a duty, not only to the gourmet, but to what lies on their plate. I've been to this farm, butchered these pheasants, heard their death cries, watched their eyes as the moment of realization came, and their life left them. I acknowledge their sacrifice, and use it for all its worth. To do otherwise would be a disservice."

"I never would have thought there was this much… depth when it came to cooking. It seems like you have it down to a science."

"Some may call it a science, others art, or even magic, but to me it is simply life. All things eat, after all, but one of the few things separating us from eating over being eaten is mastery and understanding of each and every ingredient."

Hana struggles to note down his response in a book already filled to the margins with stories and anecdotes about the chef's life. In the distance, she sees Meri returning from the restroom. She stops, seemingly frozen, at the door to the outside patio. Her pupils widen.

"Oh! Meri!" Hana waves, motioning for her partner to join them. She approaches slowly, keeping as close to the wall as she can before crossing the threshold to return to her chair. Her eyes don't leave Chef Ambrose.

"Meri, this is Che— Chaz Ambrose. He's the head chef. We're just finishing up the interview, if you had any questions you wanted to ask him."

Meri silently takes her seat, hands gripping the arms of her chair. She flinches when Chaz raises a hand to wave at her. A silence hangs over the trio.

"Actually, Ms. Thompson, if I may ask a question of my own?"

"Yes, of course. Please ask away."

"As you could probably tell, this restaurant is unlike any you have ever seen before. Indeed, it is the goal of every Ambrose restaurant to provide an experience unique to anywhere else across the realities." He motions to the room around him. "Tonight, we revel in the bounty of the forest, relishing as organisms big and small dance on our palettes before finally resting in our stomach to be digested. The entrée, as I'm sure you have noticed, has been hidden. It's suspenseful, it adds to the spectacle of the night, but only for a select few. Many of the diners here already know what the surprise is; the perfect picture of the forest's grace, the humble deer."

Hana puts down her pen and turns her head.

"Don't you think it's in poor taste to serve deer to someone that's, you know," Hana motions at Meri, "half-deer?"

Meri shrinks in her chair.

"I don't think the taste is poor at all, Ms. Thompson. Ungulate humanoids have been served as a delicacy for generations now. I don't see why tonight would be any different."

Hana looks into Chaz's beady, bug-like eyes and begins laughing, almost hysterically. The rest of the dining room is silent beside her, as if time completely stopped and everyone, everything, even the still living critters that squirmed across some of the plates, ceased entirely. She looks to the other two people at her table. Meri sits, frozen, her ears out at attention. Chaz leans forward in his chair, chuckling but to a completely different thought.

"That was an interesting joke, chef. I almost thought you were being serious there."

"I am."

Chaz goes stone-faced, serious. Hana looks into his eyes and sees nothing human there.

"Sorry, are you saying you want to eat my girlfriend?"

Chaz gets up from his chair before kneeling in front of Hana, taking hold of both of her hands.

"Ms. Thompson, I'm saying it would be an honor to eat your girlfriend."

Hana shoots up from the table, nearly knocking over her scarlet-filled glass. She positions herself between Chaz and Meri, still frozen in her seat.

"You're a monster. How can you sit there and think of eating a living breathing person? The people that pay your rent no less."

Chaz laughs, looking up at Hana with a toothy smirk.

"My menus are made weeks in advance, Ms. Thompson. Sourcing ingredients is a careful endeavor that, besides the other required resources, takes time. It is no accident that you and your partner are here tonight. And with this," a waiter rushes over, holding a pair of white papers. "With this you have already given yourselves up to be part of the menu."

He stands up, smoothing out his outfit. From a scabbard resting lazily on his hip, he produces the long steel blade of a Bowie knife.

"As I am a gracious host, I will be allowing you a head start. You would be surprised how much flavor fear adds to the meat."

Hana collects her notebook and nearly lifts Meri from the chair before dragging her deeper into the restaurant. A discordant choir, counting down from '30' rings through the hollow walls, as Chaz Ambrose's hunt begins.

I was 20 when I hunted my first man. I'd slaughtered and prepared humanoids before, of course; prepared turtle soup in the skull of a kappa, deep fried angel wings in boiling oil. But this was different.

My earliest encounter with my prey was during a jaunt in the park. I was in a slump, seeking serenity in nature, before I was interrupted with the polite but commanding sound of "on your left," and the crescendo of footfalls next to me. He was breathing heavily, muscles rippling, sweat glistening on his bearded lips. He was gorgeous, almost the perfect specimen. I was left stunned, drooling at the sight. I just had to have him.

And from that day on, my hunt began. I examined his routine, the route of his daily run, his place of work. I stalked his, his friend's, and his family's social circles, shadowed his walk home. I tirelessly experimented to find the cologne he wore, the food he ate, and made his smell my own.

Slowly, inexorably, I integrated myself into his ecosystem, became a fixture in his habitat. A smile, a wave, a laugh, a chat, a loving embrace. I wore the camouflage and cried the siren call of an unremarkable human.

And then, one day, in the park where we first met, we sat on a bench. The sun rose, and we gazed deeply into each others eyes, until finally, we kissed. All the tension I was holding back, all the tension that made my very heart feel like the string of a bow was finally released. Our mouths were as one for what seemed like hours, grunting and panting like animals, hot breath intermingling, the taste of his tongue on mine and mine on his. Finally, it reached a crescendo. With one last inhale, I separated from him, our faces red from exertion and loving frustration, and he barred his neck, complete trust on his expression.

I lunged, alabaster teeth ripping into his throat, giving to him a final act of love. A kiss of death.

Hot, salted blood filed my mouth as I tore through the rippling musculature of my still-living meal, a look of betrayal and confusion on his face as life slowly faded from his eyes. Even in death he was perfect; no noise, little mess. Then, I got to work: hanging him, skinning him, cutting him from neck to groin. Severing the tendons, deboning the meat, chopping him into little pieces and throwing him in a pot to broil. When finally I had butchered him completely, his tears gave his eyeballs the perfect salinity.

There have been many others since then. I've ran with lycanthropic packs deep within fabled woods, and dined with the Habsburgs, ogresque monarchs who sought other pleasures than those afforded by wealth. (I've even opened a rather successful vampire establishment, if I do say so myself). But even with that, I often think fondly of my first time, of that man in the park. I don't think I'll ever forget him.

Your shoulder burns with pain as Hana drags you along the winding, vineyard halls of the shifting restaurant. You pass over knotted wood and brick and stone, hooves scraping across the different surfaces. Through the cacophony, Hana curses to herself softly in front of you before looking back momentarily.

"Fuck. I'm— I'm so sorry, Meri. I didn't know— didn't know he was fucking insane. I would've never brought you tonight if—."

You open your mouth to respond but she turns away, tugging you into an adjacent hallway. She leans over, placing her hands on her knees as she attempts to catch her breath. In the distance you can hear echoing voices call out to you, a starving parish singing songs of your demise. The noise overwhelms you, each consonant and howling vowel bounces around your head, forcing you to kneel down with your hands on your ears.

Then, a different noise.

On a nearby display, a polished suit of armor stands. Its surface reflects back you for a moment, before your frightened grin twists into a smile.

"Oh how lovely it is, the thrill of the hunt. The rush of blood in the heart, the pumping of adrenaline through the body, the salivating hunger of release. You know that feeling intimately, don't you, child?

You shake your head, your vision becoming clouded with tears.

Not here. Not now. Please, no, this cannot be happening.

"Your knight looks to defend you, princess. But what is a knight without its sword? Chivalry will not be the air your lungs need to outrun them, loyalty will not save you as they splay you on a table and tear you apart. She led you here, she will be the cause of your fall."

"No. No she did not know. She would never hurt me. She promised to protect me."

You look up from the floor momentarily as Hana frantically moves through the space around you. She attempts to pry loose a heavy sword from a nearby display, but the weapon is stuck.

"Did you think you would both leave as you arrived? Even if you escape, she will take your place."

You watch your shadow dissipate from the armor, reappearing before you from a newly rotted patch in the floor. It sloughs off loose branches and mushrooms as it kneels before you, lifting your face to meet its eyes with one of its clawed fingers.

"But you can save her, Meri. Only you can save her now. You know what you need to do."

You shake your head.

"No there has to be another way, there has to."

The shadow laughs as it slowly sinks into the floor before you, the wood rotting away into clumps of soil. Bile rises in your throat, and you struggle to hold it in. In the distance, you hear the screeching voice of the Chef, getting louder and louder until—

A hand on your shoulder. Hana's hand on your shoulder.

"We need to keep moving, Meri. There has to be an exit somewhere. Do pocket realities have fire exits? Whatever."

She helps you up and once again begins dragging you down the winding hallway. In a split second, you believe you see what looks like a large stained glass window, a chance to leave.

"Hana! Left!"

Hana turns her head before swinging the two of you around the corner. For a moment the fear disappears. You would beat this, you would escape and be safe, you would be able to face your fear.

"Now!"

You and Hana narrowly roll aside as a chandelier shatters on the wooden floor below, a million shards of glass rain around you. The biting pain of hundreds of cuts stings your legs and you can't help but yell out. A crowd grows in front of you, forming a semicircle around the corner you now find your back to. The Hunter strides forward, slowly clapping.

"It is with utmost sincerity that I thank you for the show you put on tonight, for my patrons and I. You have given us quite a run for our money, but alas, all shows must come to an end."

Hana stumbles off the ground in front of you, gripping a fire poker shakily with two hands. A thin stream of blood runs down the side of her face.

"I-I won't let you hurt her, you snob. You'll have to kill me."

She turns just slightly to glance at you with one eye. Her glare is fierce, determined. The blue streak of her parted hair sticks with sweat to her forehead.

Hana please you can not die. Not for me.

Chaz takes a handkerchief out from his vest pocket and wipes his eyes.

"Oh how romantic. I have to say, this is the first time I've been brought to tears during a hunt." He shifts his gaze to Hana. "I will make the killing blow swift, knight. There will be no need to make her suffer."

Hana plants her feet, tightening her grip on the fire poker. Chaz sighs and once more brandishes his knife. He holds it out in front of him.

You can do naught but watch through teary eyes as Chaz makes short work of your beloved knight. Through choked sobs you stare, horrified, as with a flick of his wrist, tempered steel scrapes against rod iron, catching the hook of the poker. In a woosh the crude weapon arcs through the air. A shift of his legs, swift sliding of a foot, and Hana's legs are sent skyward, as she falls with a sickening thump. A pair of waiters rush over to pin her down. Somewhere the wind laughs.

"And then, there was one. You won't fault me for enjoying this a little, will you? It is only natural-" A burning feeling builds within you, as if a pot filled with fear, guilt and regret threatens to boil over. The bottom of your vision begins to turn a deep crimson.

"I'm the hunter and you are the prey. The only difference is that we can reason with each other on a deeper level. I am reasonable, though." You watch as he walks over to Hana, the cold metal of the knife touching the side of her neck. "Most guests are used to substitutions as needed. I will let you choose: your life or hers." Hana yells out, but is gagged by one of the waiters.

I am not going to let him hurt you, Hana. I am not going to let anyone hurt you.

"So what will it be? Will you take your place in the cycle, or will you let your knight die?"

The ground around you begins to fester and the distinct smell of rot and ammonia slowly seeps in. Tendrils of mycellium begin to wrap around your arms and legs as small toadstools sprout from your antlers. Your nails grow out into grotesque claws. You see only red now, and something deep within you draws your frown into a smile.

"I am no prey." You laugh. "I am nature in its purest form, and I have come to remove you from this cycle."

Chaz grins, readying himself.

"Very well. Your skull will make for a wonderful trophy."

It's an odd experience to be a passenger in your own body. You make sounds, movements, say words that you're not even sure you know the meaning of, but you yourself are not in control. All you can do is watch in the theatre of your mind.

Meri Clef was no longer in control. Instead, something else entirely.

But here, floating in this space, all you can do is cry. You feel as if you ruined everything tonight, all because you could not fit your role. Because you choose to be different.

You thought you were special.

And now, you lost the chance to make things right. There's a monster out there, it's you. You're something that deserves to be hunted, something that deserves to be torn apart and feasted on. People don't forgive monsters, they seldom forget them either. If only you had just done what was rig—

You open your eyes to drink in the space around you. You're underwater but you can breath fine. Your arms and legs, your whole body is much heavier than you're used to, but it's you, Meri Clef. Unremarkable you. The visions outside pass as a blur, too fast to recognize faces, too loud to hear voices. You think you'll rest here just a little bit longer. There's nothing waiting out there for you anymore besides eyes of pity and fear. Even Hana, your knight, won't look at you the same.

It took you so long to tell her you loved her, a concept so foreign to you but so familiar to the characters of the stories you read. And even still, you flinch when she tries to hold your hand or hug you. She loves you, but you can't accept it. You fear the hurt of attachment.

No matter you think. Everything will end after tonight, when she sees me for what I truly am.

You close your eyes.

Maybe it would be fine to stay here for a while. It is safe here, I feel no—

There's a sharp pain in your side, and your vision begins to go fuzzy. You watch as the image of the outside world gets pulled into view.

You are Meri Clef once again.

You howl as the knife plunges into your side, burning like a hot iron that cools only as your blood begins to seep out. An inhuman sound, crossed between gurgling and howling leaves you as you begin to tear at Chaz's torso. Your nails dig into leather and linen and metallic buttons, breaking against his skin. It feels warm, wet, and you watch as the hunter's face grows paler and paler. The two of you were locked in a spiral of death and destruction, tearing at the seams of each other and the room around you. Ornate display cases and manicured plants laid broken and bent in impossible ways, while the two of you are stained red with blood; both your own and the other's.

When you're finally able to knock him to the ground, pinned hard to the stone beneath you, you grin in victory. Your mind runs wild with the thought of tearing the man apart, leaving him bloody and broken in front of the testament to his life's work.

Your body aches with soreness, your slashes slowing until you're practically batting at his chest with the bottom of your fists. There is little triumph in your victory. Your white dress is stained nearly entirely red, a deeper crimson building where he was able to nick or slash you, ever-dampening with the beat of your heart. You're cold, so very cold. Blood pools out from your mouth and nose while tears, ones you could barely feel above the adrenaline, cut clean lines through your grime-covered face. You're almost ready to deliver the final blow when the blade enters your side, and you respond likewise. It's over for you now. Soon she will return to be punished by the mess you've created.

"I will kill you! I will scatter you across— across uh."

A blade is stuck in your side like the thorny reminder of a rose. You look down at the man below you, your hand wrapped around his throat. He looks tired, bewildered, nearly out of breath himself. In his eyes you come to and understanding; the hunt is over. You've won.

You fall to the ground next to you, breathing slow. Your vision pulses white with pain, but yet no tears come to you. Through a hole in the ceiling, one you assume was made by your hand, you see stars. You know the names of each of them, their stories too. Maybe you'll be joining them soon.

You begin to close your eyes as the world goes quiet. Someone holds you, calls out to you, but you're too tired to answer.

Maybe I will just rest for a while you think.

You smile as the world slowly fades to black…

You slowly wake up in Hana's arms. The two of you sit on the floor, steeped in a deep pool of blood. She has a bandage on her head and her eyes are puffy and red. You attempt to lift your head to look around but only a crowd remains around you. A silver blade lays on the ground next to you, covered nearly to the hilt with a dark crimson.

A sudden, sharp ache burns where he inserted the blade, and you scream.

"Shhhh it's alright, Meri. It's okay. You're going to be fine."

Hana looks down at you. She holds a heavy cloth to your side, as if she's the only thing stopping your insides from flowing out.

"Hana…" You groan. "I love you."

She smiles and turns away, wiping her eyes with her free hand. She takes your hand. You don't flinch. There's another question you want to ask, one that lurks deep down in the deepest depths of your core, one that you're afraid to hear the answer to. She whispers to you for what feels like hours as you pass in and out of consciousness. She talks about memories of your travels, of vibrant butterflies, of small dorm room meals. You can hear choked back tears in her words, hiding a feeling you know too well: fear.

After some time you're able to sit up against a wall. Hana half-frantically buzzes around you, checking your bandages and whispering affirmations that carry with them a much deeper sadness.

The crowd has begun to trickle away before finally only Chaz and a collection of waiters remains. He looks nearly untouched outside of a few out of place strands of hair. His wounds have all disappeared, and he is cloaked in the crisp white of a chef's coat. He cautiously walks over, his eyes locked with Hana's.

"As per the waiver you signed, you are free to leave, with one caveat."

You watch as Hana begins to reach for the fire poker. Chaz holds up a hand and shakes his head.

"No, there will be no more harm done to either of you here." He signals one of the waiters forward, and he places before you two intricately decorated plates. "Our specialty ambrosia, on the house."

Hana stares at the plate, looks at you, and then looks at Chaz.

"Is this some sort of joke? You trap us here, stab my girlfriend, and you think that can be made better with free dessert? How do we know you didn't poison this?"

Chaz scoffs, holding a hand to his chest, offended.

"How dare you accuse me of poison? If I wanted to poison you, do you not think I would have done so earlier? Where is the honor in that? Poison does nothing but spoil the meat." Chaz takes a deep breath. "No, I do not use poison. This final course is meant to rejuvenate you, to purge yourself of any toxins and heal any ailments you may have entered the restaurant with."

There's a pause. You watch as Hana slowly lifts one of the plates off the floor and prods the ambrosia with her fork. She takes a small slice from the corner and cautiously places it in her mouth.

"Woah. This is amazing."

"I appreciate your compliment to my food." Chaz bows. "Ms. Thompson. Ms. Clef. Thank you for dining at Chez Ambrose." He begins to walk away, but stops and looks at you one last time. "Deer pupils are a delicacy in some places, Ms. Clef. I was looking forward to preparing them tonight. Should we ever meet again, I'll be ready." Before you or Hana can respond, he disappears down the hallway, heading back towards the kitchen.

You attempt to will your body to grab the plate, but you're unable to. You're exhausted, your chest and arms and legs a hundred times heavier than normal. Hana, noticing this, picks up your plate and cuts you a sizeable piece. It smells of sweet sugar and berries and your stomach growls at the sight. You weakly open your mouth, the ambrosia melts on your tongue.

It's the most delicious thing you've ever eaten.

Serena Verdae Herald

Truth Across Realities

PROVIDENCE, RI
03/13/2020
FREE

A Reminder of Acceptable Behavior

By Serena Verdae College Residence Life

Recently, there has been an uptick in the amount of Resident Assistant calls to the student dorm buildings for rule violations. Please note that while student dorms are catered to the needs of the individual student, there are strict rules for the following:

Using a homunculus or familiar to steal food from other students;

Smoking;

Using College property as offerings of worship or as part of a pact;

We encourage all students to refresh themselves on the rules so we can all have a healthy, productive semester.

Update: Investigation Into Extrareality Incursion

By: Serena Verdae Department of Public Safety

There have been new developments last semester's extrareality incursion event that caused the death of one student and injured two others during Serena Verdae's fall theatre production. A collection of documentation and belongings were found, believed to be under the ownership of Professor…

Read More on Page 6

A Review of Chez Ambrose: A Meal to Die For?

By Hana Thompson

Recently, I had the honor to dine at Chez Ambrose, an Ambrose location local to the Providence area. Presenting itself as a vineyard with a hunting manor, the "visionary" Chaz Ambrose catered the night's dishes to "Bounty of the Forest," with the entrée being my girlfriend, Meri Clef. Although being hunted put a damper on our experience to the night, after defeating Chef Ambrose in a one-on-one duel, my girlfriend and I were given a free dessert.

Ratings:

Ambiance: 5/5

Food: 5/5

Drink: 5/5

Customer Service: 1/5

Final Thoughts: Chez Ambrose offers a dining experience that can't be found anywhere else in the Providence Area. As long as you read the waiver carefully (yes you have to sign a waiver to dine there) and manage to keep yourself off the menu, you'll have a wonderful night.