Disclaimer: I do not own the Kamen Rider Kabuto TV show, or franchise, nor am I profiting from these materials in any way. This story was written solely for my own pleasure.
Chapter Notes: 3 years before canon.
The Butler and the Worm
By fieryrondo
4. Scorpion's Manservant
For the first time in his life, Scorpio Worm had no idea what to do with a dead man.
Nudging the body with one polished shoe, Scorpio Worm clucked its tongue as the body groaned. Scorpio Worm withdrew the shoe from the man and absentmindedly reminded himself that he would need to get the shoe polished, or even better, replaced.
Make that one almost dead man.
The man—Jiiya—his mind helpfully supplied—was, somehow, inexplicably alive. Unconscious, certainly—not many a man could survive a direct blow like his.
Of course, I am the one who stands even above the gods, Scorpio Worm gloated. However, his euphoria left as quickly as it came. It occurred to him that an unconscious and mortally wounded Jiiya wasn't nearly as entertaining as a healthy, conscious one.
After a leisurely pause, Scorpio Worm strolled into the kitchen and came back with a pitcher of lemon-infused water.
Jiiya must have prepared it for dinner. Scorpio Worm chuckled at the joke. Now that he thought about it some more, he was feeling a little peckish.
He dumped the contents onto the butler's prone figure.
With a gasp, the butler revived. His mouth opened and shut like a trap as he tried to breathe. When he wiped away some of the excess moisture clinging to his locks, his eyes widened as they took in the masquerading Worm that had assumed a courtly, albeit haughty air that was all too disturbingly reminiscent of his late master.
"What are you doing on the ground, Jiiya?" the monster said, mimicking every inflection of Kamishiro Tsurugi's voice perfectly. "It's past dinnertime and I'm hungry."
For a split second, the elderly butler was torn between letting out a sigh of exasperation—Bocchama is particular about having dinner exactly on time—and a bellow of fury at the Worm's impertinence.
What burst from his lips instead was a feeble gurgle and a discharge of bodily fluids.
Bocchama—the Worm—only tsked, as if it were chastising him. With a sharp flick of his hand, the Worm sent a fluffy down towel sailing through the air and into Jiiya's bruised arms.
Already, the oversaturated front of his shirt was tainting the pure white hue of the towel, droplets dying the soft fibers—nothing but the best for the Discabils—like little flowers.
"I suppose it is only proper that the master grants his faithful manservant a moment to collect himself." The Worm, Jiiya seethed, had the audacity to manipulate his Bocchama's features into a mocking semblance of self-reproach. "However, godly the lord may be, his manservant is merely mortal."
"Isn't that what you told me in yesterday's etiquette lesson, Jiiya?"
Next Time: Memory's Fragrance