Chapter Text
Fifteen minutes have passed since the doors to the auditorium closed.
Two hours since Scaramouche left his apartment on the third floor of an old building complex in the center of the city.
Fourteen days since he last ate.
Seven months since he took up this position as TA of a computer engineering professor.
Ten years since he took on this current identity.
Five hundred years, eight months and twenty-seven days have passed since Scaramouche last saw his creator.
The auditorium hums with the soft murmur of the students and the focused clicking of laptop keyboards. Scaramouche, sitting at the side of the room, watches the professor in the front give his lecture through stylish sunglasses. The noises do not drown out the steady sound of pulses, the pumping of blood through veins and arteries, the scent of their life force tempting, yet he resists. Scaramouche’s patience is as enduring as his curse.
A smirk takes over his fair face at this thought. What if he gave up the tight vice grip-like control over his ever-persistent hunger, tore one of the students off their seat, and devoured them like the beast he knows he is? He imagines the panicked cries breaking out in a wave pattern through the room as they all realize what had happened, and how they would scramble out the door. Maybe one would try and play the hero, maybe throw a chair at him as he lunged to kill someone else, maybe someone would try to kill him in turn. Alas, it would be of no use, the chair he could shatter with no effort, and his skin would get maybe a scratch at most. He bites down the grin that threatens to take over his face at the mental image of the hero’s face falling pale. The taste of raw flesh is in his mouth, he is salivating.
But no, Scaramouche resists. He dismisses the tantalizing fantasies that dance through his mind, knowing the consequences would be far from amusing. It would render his centuries of effort at staying hidden, living in obscurity and hunting in peace completely futile. He turns his shaded gaze back to the front towards the middle-aged professor.
Five centuries (pending), and Scaramouche has become adept at blending in, a master of concealment. The unassuming TA guise he wears is merely another layer to his ever-growing collection of identities.
Today will not be the day his true nature will be revealed.
He straightens his posture, adjusting the collar of his gray dress shirt, a tiny ember of frustration at the bottom of his stomach at the ridiculous business casual dress code of this unimportant, tiny and poor college. Their effort to seem significant and serious makes him yawn from how unimpressive they actually are. The lecture drones on, the professor's voice a distant echo amidst the cacophony of thoughts swirling within Scaramouche's mind. His gaze drifts to the students, scanning their faces with an odd mix of detachment and curiosity.
One young man, in the third row, absentmindedly taps his fingers against the desk in a rhythmic pattern, looking at him. Scaramouche shifts his crossed legs, changing the sides, a small feeling of unease tingling at the back of his neck.
This guy has been staring at him since he entered the room and it makes him somewhat uncomfortable. The rhythmic tapping continues, a persistent cadence that begins to crawl beneath Scaramouche's skin. He raises an eyebrow at the audacity of this mortal, this brief flicker in the grand tapestry of existence, daring to capture his attention so boldly. The young man's gaze doesn't waver; it's as if he can see beyond the layers of disguise, straight into the immortal core of Scaramouche.
The student doesn’t smile, not a muscle twitches in his face as he holds Scaramouche’s gaze and Scaramouche has to turn away, unable to do anything about the staring man.
⚱⚯⚱
“I’ll see you next Tuesday”, the professor says with a polite smile and nod to Scaramouche as he makes his way to leave the empty auditorium. Scaramouche returns the gesture in his general direction, gathering the loose notebook papers some of the students have left at their seats. He has given up his facade of the pleasant young man that landed him the job at first and the professor has backed off of his case fairly quickly in turn, seeing that the TA was uninterested in any friendly relationship.
As he straightens the disheveled pages, his peripheral vision catches a glimpse of movement as the professor opens the doors to the auditorium. “Oh, Mr Kaedehara,” the professor says in surprise as he comes face to face with a student who clearly intended to enter the room just then, “Did you forget something in the room or did you have a question?”
Scaramouche can’t help but turn to look at the situation, somewhat curious, and there he sees the same student from the third row with his hand lowering awkwardly after his attempt at knocking was interrupted. “Oh no, Dr. Shima,” the student, Kaedehara , says with a pleasant and polite tone, bowing his head quickly in an apology for having interrupted the older man, “I actually intended to ask the TA a question. I apologize for being in the way.”
He sidesteps so the professor can leave the auditorium and nods at him, wishing him a great weekend.
Scaramouche stares at the young man through his shades.
The professor leaves, and the auditorium falls into a silence that seems to amplify the distant hum of the city beyond the walls. Scaramouche shifts his weight, a subtle tension in his muscles, ready for whatever this encounter may bring.
"Mr. Kaedehara, is it?" Scaramouche finally breaks the silence, his voice smooth, hiding the wariness that simmers beneath the surface. "What question do you have that couldn't wait until the next class?"
Kaedehara offers a small, awkward smile, the kind that is supposed to soften a harsh conversational partner. "It's not about the class," he says, his tone measured but polite, "It's about you."
Scaramouche's eyebrows arch in a feigned surprise, if he had a heart it would pick up its pace in anticipation as adrenaline pumps through his artificial veins, "Oh? And what could you possibly want to know about me?"
Kaedehara's gaze never falters. "I've seen you before," he confesses, the confession hanging in the air like a phantom, his pale forehead wrinkles as he studies Scaramouche’s face in the same way he had earlier during class.
“Well yes, I’ve been working here since last semester,” Scaramouche says with an amused, played up awkward laugh, “And you have been in this class for a whole month now.”
Kaedehara shakes his head, dismissing the notion. "No, not here. Before this. In a photograph.”
Scaramouche scours his memory for when he was last photographed but he can’t recall. He has no friends, just colleagues and no one is close enough to him to have posted him anywhere in the near past. “In a picture? Well, that’s interesting” Scaramouche chuckles, keeping up his facade. Kazuha’s smile falters as a moment of unsureness passes through his interesting crimson eyes, “Yes, in a picture but-”
“I assume I caught your attention then, Mr Kaedehara” Scaramouche lets an air of flirtiness slip into his tone, trying to fluster the student into leaving him alone. The young man doesn’t seem confident enough to keep this up if his TA suddenly thought he was into him.
Kaedehara's cheeks flush slightly, and he stammers for a moment before regaining his composure. "N-no, it's not like that. It's a really old photograph, from centuries ago. You looked exactly the same, like you haven't aged a day."
Scaramouche raises an eyebrow, his interest piqued despite his efforts to maintain his nonchalant demeanor. "Centuries ago, you say?" He pauses for a moment, playing along with the absurdity of the claim.
“Yes!” Kazuha insists, “Here I’ll show you!”
Suddenly the young man reaches into his bag and pulls out an insanely old book, cautiously going through the fragile pages before he turns the book towards Scaramouche.
Scaramouche lowers his eyes to the page, trying to look nonchalant, like he is just entertaining a silly student.
Before him is a grainy, black-and-white, sepia-discolored picture of two men in traditional kimonos posing with a katana. His own likeness smiles back at him bashfully, next to a taller young man with a remarkable resemblance to Kaedehara himself. “This is my great-great grandfather,” the student supplies, pointing at the taller man, and there was no doubt that he had caught how Scaramouche’s face fell for a moment, “This picture was taken at least 120 years ago.”
Scaramouche's eyes narrow ever so slightly as he studies the aged photograph. A surge of emotions, long suppressed and buried beneath layers of deception, momentarily flickers across his face. The younger version of himself stares back, frozen in time, a ghost of centuries past.
"Well, I'll be damned," Scaramouche mutters, his cool demeanor faltering for just a moment before he catches himself. "Quite the resemblance, I must say. Lucky coincidence, I suppose."
Kaedehara's gaze is intense, unwavering. "It's no coincidence, and you know it."
Scaramouche leans back in his chair, crossing his arms as he reasserts control over his emotions. "Look, kid, I don't know what fantasy world you're living in, but people don't live for centuries. It's just not possible."
“Yes it is!” the young man insists with a slight tremble in his voice, “That’s you in the picture, I know it is! I’ve been looking into this ever since I saw you in class for the first time, you keep popping up in so many pictures over multiple generations!”
Scaramouche leans forward, locking eyes with Kaedehara. The room feels like it's closing in, the air thick with tension. "Let's entertain this little fantasy of yours," he says, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "Suppose, just for a moment, that I am the person in that photograph. What does that mean to you?"
Kaedehara hesitates, as if choosing his words carefully. "It means you're not just some TA in a college. It means you're something more. Something that defies the natural order of life and death."
Scaramouche sighs, getting frustrated with not being able to stop this questioning. "And why would that matter to you, Mr. Kaedehara?”
Kaedehara takes a shaky breath, attempting to calm himself, “I-It has to be true. No, I need it to be true.”
The determination in Kaedehara's eyes is unsettling. Scaramouche has encountered curious mortals before, but this is different. The fervor in the young man's voice speaks volumes of something deeper than mere curiosity.
"You need it to be true?" Scaramouche repeats, masking his intrigue with a facade of disinterest. "And why is that, pray tell?"
Kaedehara's fingers tremble as he clutches the aged book, his gaze fixed on Scaramouche. "Because if it's true... Y-You might be able to help me.”
Scaramouche finally takes his shades off, raising an eyebrow at Kaedehara, “Help you?”
The young student nods, “There is… something wrong with me. I don’t know when and how this happened but… I don’t think I can die. I-In fact I can’t be permanently damaged at all.”
Scaramouche fixes his gaze on Kaedehara, a mix of disbelief and curiosity in his eyes. The air in the room seems to hang heavy with the weight of the revelation. "Can’t die?" Scaramouche asks, almost a whisper, as if testing the word on his own tongue, yet skeptical.
Kaedehara nods, his expression a blend of desperation and uncertainty. "It started a few months ago. I got into a car accident, and I should have died. But I didn't. A metal pole went through my chest and I just pulled it out and my wound closed. My legs were shattered one moment and then they just… healed.”
“Cool story,” Scaramouche scoffs, “Why should I believe that? So a metal pole just skewered you and you came out without a scratch?”
The student nods, looking at him with pleading eyes, “I-I know it sounds insane but I’m telling the truth!”
Scaramouche leans back in his chair, a skeptical smirk playing on his lips. "Well, Mr. Kaedehara, forgive me if I find your tale a bit hard to swallow. Immortality and invulnerability? Sounds like the plot of a cheesy fantasy novel."
Kaedehara's eyes narrow with determination, his grip tightening on the old book.
“Fine.” his face hardens with nervous determination, “I hoped it wouldn’t come to this. I-I’ll prove it to you.”
The young man sets his book down on a nearby desk and takes a deep breath. He reaches into his bag and pulls out a kitchen knife of medium size. Scaramouche’s smile falters, “What are you-”
Kaedehara puts his hand down on a desk and before Scaramouche can lunge to stop him he has already severed the middle and ring finger of his left hand with a pitiful whimper.
Blood gushes from the stumps as the student tries to still his breathing, stopping himself from crying out in pain. “Why did you do that, Kaedehara!” Scaramouche yells as he grips the young man's wrist in panic, looking around for something to stifle the bleeding with.
“Look at it!” Kazuha chokes out between labored breaths and Scaramouche is about to snap at him for his delusions when-
Scaramouche freezes, his eyes widening in shock. From the open wounds, bones begin to emerge, slowly elongating and sculpting themselves into shape. His lungs still, an impossible sight unfolding before him. The severed fingers start to reform, skin knitting together, tendons and muscles weaving back into existence.
Scaramouche releases Kaedehara's wrist, stumbling backward, his mind reeling. He watches in stunned silence as the fingers regrow before his eyes, the flesh closing seamlessly over the bones, restoring the hand to its previous state.
Kaedehara pants, his face pale from the shock and pain, but a triumphant glint flickers in his eyes. He holds up his hand, fingers fully restored, and his gaze meets Scaramouche's, silently challenging him to deny what he just witnessed.
Scaramouche stands there, a cocktail of emotions swirling within him—shock, disbelief, and a hint of something akin to dread. The reality of what he just witnessed shatters his carefully crafted walls. He looks at the blood-covered desk and- yes, the two severed digits still laid there, unmoving and bloody, and yet Kazuha’s hand, although also bloody, was whole.
"I've been looking for answers," Kaedehara continues, desperation etched across his features. "I thought maybe you could help. You've been around for a long time. Maybe you know something, or maybe you've encountered something like this before."
Scaramouche's mind races, struggling to process the surreal scene unfolding before him. The weight of centuries presses down on his shoulders, and for the first time in a long while, he feels a flicker of genuine concern.
"Immortality and regeneration," he mutters to himself, his eyes fixed on Kaedehara's miraculously healed hand. The implications of such abilities ripple through the fabric of his existence. "This is beyond anything I've encountered before."
Kaedehara's eyes plead for understanding. "You must know something. Anything that could explain what's happening to me."
Scaramouche clenches his jaw, torn between the urge to dismiss the whole ordeal as madness and the unsettling reality that stares him in the face. "I've lived for centuries, but this... it's unprecedented. I'm as much in the dark as you are."
The young man slumps into a nearby chair, exhaustion and pain etched across his face. "There has to be a reason. A curse, a blessing, something. I need to know."
Scaramouche sighs, his mind grappling with the unfolding mystery. "I've encountered many things in my time, but this is beyond my expertise. It's as if you've stumbled upon some cosmic anomaly."
Kaedehara looks up, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. "An anomaly? Can you help me find answers? I'll do whatever it takes."
“Why would I help you?” Scaramouche asks, dismissive, “There’s nothing I’d gain from this.”
Kaedehara's gaze hardens, determination replacing desperation. "Because if I am truly immortal, and you have lived for centuries, then we share something that goes beyond the ordinary. We're connected by the inexplicable. Maybe, just maybe, together we can unravel the mysteries that bind us."
Scaramouche groans, pulling at his hair. This is horrific! Not only has he been found out, after centuries of his existence, but now this kid was practically begging him to do something he wasn’t sure he could even start to unravel.
“Please!” Kaedehara pleads, bowing deep in respect, “Please help me, sir!”
“Stop begging!” Scaramouche snaps, “Go clean up and scram! I won’t be caught with a kid covered in blood!”
Kazuha looks up immediately with wide, desperate eyes, “No- No no please! You have to-”
“I said no! Scram!”
Kazuha scrambles suddenly pulling out a scrap of paper and a pen, scrawling down something with trembling hands and thrusts it towards Scaramouche, “Please, at least consider it and-”
“Go!” Scaramouche groans, ”Literally, fuck off, Kaedehara!”
The student clamps his mouth finally shut, despite looking devastated, taking his precious family registry book and drags himself out of the auditorium, leaving Scaramouche alone in the silence.
Scaramouche looks down at the puddle of drying blood on the desk with the young man’s, cold, severed digits staring back at him.
He stares back.
Scaramouche sighs deeply, running a hand through his black hair. The facade of normalcy he carefully built over the centuries feels like it's crumbling, exposing the immortal reality he desperately tried to conceal.
He picks up the scrap of paper Kaedehara left behind, unfolding it to reveal a hastily scrawled phone number. Scaramouche stares at it for a moment before crumpling it up and shoving it into his pants pocket. Hesitating for a moment, he eventually takes the plastic bag from his sandwich he never ended up eating and puts the fingers inside, hiding it in his backpack.
He sets out to get a bucket of water and a rag.
⚱⚯⚱
Scaramouche’s apartment is half-dark at any time of the day. It’s a cheap one-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment in an unpopular part of Inazuma City. It’s uninsulated, unrenovated and about as old as the Industrial Revolution. It’s perfect for his uses, even if he has to combat mold every few months.
At night Scaramouche flips on a weak overhead light in the kitchen and only that one, leaving the rest of the apartment in this dim lighting. By the way he does this, one could think he is a vampire, or at least a creature sensitive to light.
That he is not.
Scaramouche stands in his kitchen, the dim light casting shadows across the worn linoleum floor. The plastic bag containing Kaedehara's severed fingers sits on the table, a grim reminder of the inexplicable events that transpired earlier. He glances at the crumpled piece of paper with the phone number, debating whether to throw it away or keep it.
His mind races with conflicting thoughts.
Kaedehara has so much dirt on him. While it is improbable that anyone would take the young man seriously if he were to tell anyone about the TA being some immortal, it would only take one unhinged person with a penchant for conspiracy theories to fully believe him, leading him to look into him. From there on there was a chance for that person to stumble onto decades, no centuries of missing persons and murder cases vaguely connected to his myriad of identities, at least fifty of them could be leading back to his current persona. If the authorities found him, somehow, someway, he wasn’t sure if he could skip town, maybe even the country fast enough. He shudders at the thought of being sentenced to lifelong in prison, for murdering and eating so many people. Eventually, they would figure out that he doesn’t age. He doesn’t want to imagine what they would do to him then.
On the other hand, Kaedehara is the only other potential immortal he has met in his long, painful existence. The young man is desperate, he wants to find out what is happening to him. He wants to find a way this can be stopped. A tiny thought in the back of Scaramouche’s head whispers that he might find a way to stop someone else from having his cruel fate of eternal existence.
Scaramouche paces in his dimly lit kitchen, fidgeting with nervousness. He contemplates the risks and benefits, the fragile balance between secrecy and curiosity.
No, this is too dangerous! In fact, he should be skipping town right away. He could blend in with the wave of missing people he left behind himself so far.
Scaramouche snatches the plastic bag with Kaedehara’s fingers from the table and rips his cabinet open, looking for the vat of acid he normally uses to dissolve leftover bones from his meals.
He unscrews the lid of the vat, the corrosive scent burns his nose. He only needs to dump the digits in and skip town and Kaedehara and him would be history.
He pulls out one of the fingers but then pauses as the scent of human flesh overrides the acid and he has to brace himself on the counter.
Gods, this smell was his only weakness.
Scaramouche’s eyes are hyper focused on the pale, well-manicured digit now outside of the bag and on his cheap linoleum-covered counter, fighting his base urge.
He takes a deep breath, fighting the instinctual hunger that threatens to take over. The scent of blood and flesh tantalizes him, invoking a primal desire that has been ingrained in his very being for centuries. His fingers twitch, almost involuntarily reaching for the finger, but he catches himself just in time.
He yells out in frustration, burying his fingers in his dark hair, and tugging at the strands. What did he ever do to deserve this torment?
He slams his head against the fridge, trying to force clarity into his lizard brain.
Scaramouche fails and in a matter of moments Kaedehara’s finger is in his mouth and his teeth break through the bone like it’s a carrot.
The taste floods his senses, a mixture of metallic tang and the rich, savory flavor of human flesh. It’s not fresh anymore, nothing like eating right off the cooling body of a victim, yet it’s heavenly. He wonders what it would taste like freshly ripped out of Kaedehara. Scaramouche's eyes roll back slightly in ecstasy, the restraint he held earlier in the day snapping like a fragile twig. The room spins as he succumbs to the primal urges that have haunted him for so long.
Reality crashes back in, harsh and unforgiving. Scaramouche recoils, disappointment hitting him at his failure to control himself.
He quickly closes the bag with the remaining finger and throws it into the depths of his empty freezer (a reminder that he would have to hunt and resupply soon, adding risk to his existence should Kaedehara squeal).
He sits down at the kitchen table, his head in his hands.
The taste of forbidden indulgence lingers in his mouth, a bitter reminder of his inability to escape the curse that binds him. Scaramouche grumbles to himself, berating his lack of self-control. The dim light in the kitchen casts long shadows around him, emphasizing the internal struggle that rages within.
As the minutes tick by, Scaramouche contemplates the consequences of his impulsive actions. The risk of exposure looms larger now, and the delicate balance he maintained between the mortal world and his immortal existence seems to teeter on the edge of collapse. He wonders if he can ever escape the shackles of his insatiable hunger.
The sound of his own frustrated sigh echoes in the silent apartment.
Then it dawns on him and he glances at the now closed, no longer empty freezer, the new resting place of Kaedehara’s remaining finger. The finger the young man effortlessly regrew within seconds.
“Why would I help you?” Scaramouche asks, dismissive, “There’s nothing I’d gain from this.”
Of course he has something to gain from this.
Kaedehara wants him to find a way to reverse his perceived immortality. He has to find a way Kaedehara could potentially die.
Scaramouche leans back in his chair, a wicked grin slowly spreading across his face. The revelation fuels a newfound sense of purpose, a twisted motivation that intertwines with his insatiable hunger. By finding a way to end Kaedehara’s immortal existence, by entertaining the student’s request, he could get rid of the biggest threat to his existence.
Plus, he said he would do anything .
Scaramouche chuckles to himself, the sinister realization giving birth to a plan that aligns with his own survival. He retrieves the crumpled piece of paper with Kaedehara's phone number from his pocket and smooths it out on the table.
As he dials the number, a sense of satisfaction washes over him. The phone rings on the other end, and Kaedehara's voice answers with a mix of surprise and hope. Scaramouche leans back in his chair, his voice dripping with a newfound confidence.
"Mr. Kaedehara, it seems you've piqued my interest. I'll help you find the answers you seek. But remember, everything has a price, and you've just made a deal with the devil."
⚱⚯⚱
Across Scaramouche at a table in an unpopular cafe sits Kaedehara- Well, Kazuha.
Kazuha nervously stirs his coffee, his crimson eyes reflecting a mix of anticipation and anxiety. Scaramouche, sitting across from him, leans back in his chair, the mischievous glint still present in his gaze. The cafe is a nondescript place, perfect for secretive conversations.
Now, as he finds himself with an interest in the young man across from him, Scaramouche looks a bit more closely. Kaedehara Kazuha’s most unique trait is his apparent albinism. His skin is pale, almost translucent, and Scaramouche could probably count the spiderweb veins in the young man’s face if he cared enough to do so. Some albinos had blue, purplish eyes. Kazuha’s eyes show no coloration apart from the red of his blood vessels. His hair is white, only a slight shade darker than his skin. A red-dyed streak is visible in the light hair on his left side.
Scaramouche takes note that despite his near instantaneous self-repair, his body does not affect genetic conditions.
"Thank you for meeting me, sir," Kazuha says, a hint of a tremble in his voice. "I didn't expect you to agree so quickly."
“Please, if I’m going to call you Kazuha, then you should call me Scaramouche. Being referred to as ‘sir’ gives me shivers.”
“Alright then, Scaramouche ”, Kazuha tests the name on his tongue, as if he’s unsure if he likes the taste just yet. Scaramouche smirks, pleased with the informal address. "Now, let's cut to the chase. You want answers, and I'm willing to help. But don't think for a second that this comes without a cost."
Kazuha nods earnestly, "I understand. I'm willing to do whatever it takes to find out what's happening to me."
Scaramouche leans forward, his eyes locking onto Kazuha's. "Good. First things first, you need to be more discreet. No more reckless displays of your... unique abilities. You attract too much attention."
Kazuha nods again, a determined look in his eyes. "I'll be careful, Scaramouche. I don't want to cause any more trouble."
Scaramouche smirks, satisfied with Kazuha's compliance. "Now, here's the deal. I'll help you find the answers you seek, but in return, you assist me with something that benefits both of us."
Kazuha looks intrigued but cautious. "What do you need from me?"
Scaramouche leans back in his chair, his grin widening. "I want you to help me satisfy my hunger.”
For a moment there is silence between them as Kazuha processes the conditions of this deal. “... Your hunger…?”, he asks hesitantly.
Scaramouche nods.
“Am I understanding this right…? You want to feed on me? In what sense?” Kazuha blinks in confusion.
“Blood, flesh… The whole shebang.” Scaramouche clarifies, gesturing nonchalantly.
Kazuha's eyes widen with a mixture of shock and disbelief. "You want to... feed on me? Like some kind of vampire?"
Scaramouche scoffs at the comparison to a fictional bloodsucker. "Not exactly a vampire, but close enough. Let's call it a mutually beneficial arrangement. You get my expertise and assistance, and I get to curb my insatiable appetite without causing a city-wide panic."
Kazuha hesitates, his mind clearly grappling with the gravity of the proposal. "I... I don't know if I can agree to that. It sounds dangerous."
Scaramouche leans forward, his tone turning persuasive. "Think about it, Kazuha. You want answers, and I can provide them. In return, you offer me sustenance to satisfy my cravings. It's a simple exchange. Besides, you'll heal anyway. What's a little blood between partners ?"
Kazuha fidgets in his seat, torn between the desperation for answers and the unease of Scaramouche's request. "I... I need time to think about it. This is a lot to take in."
Scaramouche smirks, sensing the internal struggle within Kazuha.
“What are you anyway?” Kazuha asks, “If you’re not a vampire?”
Scaramouche thinks. What is he? “Nothing traditional you would know,” he replies, “I was never human though, nor was I turned into what I am. I’m barely organic, everything except my digestive tract and hair is artificial. I have no heart.”
Kazuha processes the information, his gaze lingering on Scaramouche with a mix of curiosity and wariness. "So, you're not alive in the way humans are. What are you, then?"
Scaramouche leans back, his smirk never fading. "Let's just say I'm a product of ancient experimentation, a result of a mad scientist's whims. I don't fit neatly into any category. I'm neither alive nor dead, cursed to roam this world for eternity."
Kazuha's eyes narrow in contemplation. "Experimentation? Mad scientist? How long have you been like this?"
Scaramouche chuckles, a dark amusement in his eyes. "Five hundred years and counting. The details are a bit fuzzy; I've had many identities and worn countless faces over the centuries. It's been a lonely, eventful existence, to say the least."
Kazuha looks both fascinated and disturbed by the revelation. "And your hunger... it's never-ending?"
Scaramouche nods, his expression turning serious. "Indeed. The hunger is a constant, gnawing presence. I go mad if I don’t feed at least once every month and a half. It's the price I pay for whatever semblance of life I have. But with your cooperation, maybe we can find a way to manage it, at least temporarily."
“And you’ve been getting by for so long… how?” Kazuha asks, trying to appear unaffected, but his fidgeting hands give him away.
“Murder.” Scaramouche gives him a full-toothed grin, showing him his unusually sharp teeth and long canines.
Kazuha visibly shudders at the revelation, the weight of the truth sinking in. "You've been... killing people?"
Scaramouche leans back, his expression nonchalant. "It's survival, Kazuha. It's the only way I've managed to keep going all these years. The alternative is letting the hunger consume me completely."
Kazuha seems torn between empathy and fear. "And now you want to feed on me instead?"
Scaramouche nods, his eyes locking onto Kazuha's. "Only if you agree to the deal. It's a partnership, a symbiotic relationship. I help you, you help me. Simple as that."
The young man takes a moment to process the information, the weight of the decision pressing upon him. "I need time to think about it, Scaramouche. This is a lot to process, and I can't make such a decision lightly."
Scaramouche leans back, a sly grin on his face. "Take your time, Kazuha. But remember, the longer you take, the closer I get to that monthly deadline. Tick-tock, my friend."
Kazuha looks torn, staring down at his latte and cake. He has lost his appetite for sure.
“I… I don’t want to be immortal” he eventually says, “I really don’t want to live forever.”
“Understandable” Scaramouche agrees, looking down at his bitter black coffee.
“And… You’d stop killing people?”
“Of course, with a sure supply of sustenance, there would be no reason to go out hunting.”
“Just to be sure, the deal is: You help me find out what is wrong with me and how to stop it, and I provide you with… food?” Kazuha asks cautiously.
“Correct” Scaramouche replies with a nod.
The two sit in a tense silence, the weight of their conversation lingering in the air. Kazuha contemplates the implications of the deal, torn between the desperation for answers about his condition and the unease of Scaramouche's request. Scaramouche, on the other hand, exudes an air of confidence, seemingly unfazed by the gravity of their discussion. Kazuha no doubt realizes that this will not be easy or anything pleasant. He is smart enough to fully weigh his options.
“... What exactly do you require? Is, well, meat necessary?” Kazuha struggles to even say the word meat, disturbed at the idea.
Scaramouche sighs, the student is more intelligent than he hoped he was. “Technically, no” he admits, he figures being truthful in this situation would make the other trust him easier, “Blood alone can keep me sane well enough. A real feeding does work miles better.”
“So technically, it would suffice if I let you drink from me at least once a month” Kazuha clarifies.
Scaramouche is nowhere near pleased with the implications of this conclusion, his smirk twitches with slight annoyance.
He narrows his eyes slightly but maintains his composed demeanor. "Yes, technically. Blood alone would stave off the madness for a while, but a proper meal would indeed be more satisfying. The choice is yours, Kazuha. Just know that the more you provide, the better I can assist you in your quest for answers."
Kazuha looks down, his hands fidgeting nervously. The weight of the decision hangs heavily on his shoulders. "I never expected my search for answers to lead me to something like this..."
Scaramouche leans back, swirling the remnants of his bitter black coffee in his cup. "Life has a way of surprising you, doesn't it? Sometimes, you have to make unconventional choices to unravel the mysteries that surround you."
The young albino glances up, his crimson eyes meeting Scaramouche's gaze.
“Okay… Deal.”