Disclaimer: I do not own the Kamen Rider Kabuto TV show or franchise, nor am I profiting from these materials in any way. This fic was written solely for pleasure.

Chapter Notes: 3 years before canon.

The Butler and the Worm

By fieryrondo

7. Worm's Battle

Scorpio Worm was afraid.

The idea of this was so ridiculous Scorpio Worm had passed it off as a lingering remnant of one of his devoured victims. It wasn't unusual for his mind, especially when it was quiet, to be an echo chamber of the thoughts and emotions of the people he copied. They were harmless and usually faded quickly into oblivion with time.

He's waiting for me

Please, don't leave me

This time, this time for sure

Why? I don't understand

Ghosts of desires and thoughts, they were the bits of personalities Scorpio Worm had consumed and used like masks for his hunts. He did not think of them too deeply—human personalities were too complicated for his taste. All that mattered to him was surviving.

And of course, the pleasure of enjoying his next meal.

Contrary to some of his brethren, Scorpio Worm did not exclusively consume human flesh. He wasn't sure how exactly he felt about his ability to access human taste buds but he did admit it was rather convenient to go to a store, exchange metal bits and pulped tree fibers for food, rather than having to kill off a human every time his stomach growled. Scorpio Worm couldn't imagine the inconvenience of having to constantly move around after each kill, to make sure the annoying ZECT troops didn't come knocking on his door. (Not that he couldn't handle them, it was just troublesome. And completely beneath his station.)

Of course, with Jiiya around, access to delicious food just became easier. It was really fortunate the butler was such an excellent cook. Never had Scorpio Worm eaten such fine dishes. To think that mere herbs and grasses could give meats such a flavor!

Yet even the savoriest morsel could not take away the fear that began to plague Scorpio Worm nights ago.

Worms do not dream, should not dream, cannot dream.

Yet Scorpio Worm dreamed.

Some of the dreams were very pleasant, though quite unsettling at the same time. It was a rather odd feeling, a sensation of seeming wakefulness. There was serenity unnatural in the dream, where sensations amplified beyond physical boundaries. The gentleness of a hand (Nee-chan), the sweet ripeness of summer fruit (strawberries and cream), the soft, mellow notes of a half-remembered melody (violin lessons). Scorpio Worm couldn't say that he entirely disliked them, but they made him feel (remember) things he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to feel.

And then there were the nightmares. Disjointed, dark, and explosive with unadulterated fear. Worms were hardly immortal, but fear of death was not a normal Worm fear. Unless the Worm was weak.

Scorpio Worm was not weak.

Yet the fear of death latched onto him now like a parasite.

Smears of red on white became grotesque. Scorpio Worm's stomach churned at the memory of long dark hair (Nee-chan's), the coldness of frozen fingers (Nee-chan's), the sharp taste of peppermint candy (her favorite).

He also detested the very sight of roses. (Happy birthday, Nee-chan!)

And the pain, a phantom of that fateful stroke, persisted, festering in his beating heart—do scorpions have them?—like a taiko drum.

It was as if by killing him, Scorpio Worm had inherited the pain of the late Kamishiro Tsurugi himself.

And who should help the troubled lord but the lord's very own servant?

Scorpio Worm had intended to keep the man alive on an act that was part cruel whim, part practical sense. Regardless of Kamishiro Tsurugi's obvious wealth, he was still but a minor and needed a guardian. With the sister dead and properly buried (for some reason, it felt wrong to just dump the carcass off somewhere), that left only the butler. Who had a remarkable constitution for a man his age. Scorpio Worm chastised himself for his reckless actions toward the man—had the butler not sought medical attention, Scorpio Worm was fairly confident that Jiiya would have died, which would have been a shame since Scorpio Worm was already starting to like the man.

Unfortunately, the same couldn't be said for Jiiya himself.

Worms have little concept of family. Not that Scorpio Worm remembered his parents. Vaguely, he remembered pushing out of his egg, back when he was a larva. His stomach clenched at the thought of how frightful he had looked then. He remembered being ravenous and scrounging for his first prey—some half-naked furball with an ill-favored look in its eyes.

I love cats, Tsu-chan. Aren't they adorable?

Scorpio Worm, on some level, was able to understand the man's grief. But he didn't think his actions warranted the pure hatred that gleamed in the man's eyes as he served dinner (Jiiya's always polite, even more so when he's mad.)

Scorpio Worm was surprised that the butler had returned at all. The man could have fled. And yet the man returned the very next day, still obviously injured but his condition much more stable. The butler treated him with cold courtesy, like a barely tolerated guest.

Jiiya was awfully cruel, wasn't he? It wasn't his fault that Nee-chan died. Or perhaps it was. He could have stopped it—himself.

"Stop doing that."

Jiiya paused in the pouring of the wine. Despite his brother's words, the Worm proved to be unexpectedly resilient to poison. He had tried almost every poison (or in certain dishes, poison combinations) he could possibly think of, to little avail. The Worm remained as hale and hearty as ever, and even had the audacity to enjoy the meals Jiiya had so carefully prepared.

Out of habit, Jiiya looked up to look at the Worm.

Only to find his bocchama looking up at him. Jiiya blinked.

Now that the Worm had taken to human hygiene habits (using up all of the hot water, lathering itself in soap—oddly enough, it was careful to avoid any of Mika-sama's hair products), its resemblance to his late bocchama was uncanny. Not only did it look like him, it dressed like him, walked like him, even talked like him. If it were not for the pain in his chest, a steady reminder of the tragedy and of the Worm's cruelty, Jiiya could almost pretend that his bocchama was alive and well.

Almost.

"You will have to elaborate on your meaning, Worm."

The Worm—Kamishiro Tsurugi—made a face.

"Don't call me that. I have a name, you know."

"It is not your name," Jiiya said, feeling his voice grow thick with anger. "It was never yours, so don't steal it."

To Jiiya's surprise, the Worm flinched. When it spoke, its voice became small and childishly timid, without its usual bluster.

"I wish you wouldn't hate me so much."

The sheer vulnerability tugged at Jiiya's heartstrings, before cool logic was able to still them once more. Clearing his throat, Jiiya glared at the Worm.

"Does it bother you to be hated so much, Worm?"

"Only because it's you," the Worm replied, before immediately clapping a hand to its mouth, eyes widening. It apparently had said something it didn't mean to say.

Or rather shouldn't be able to say.

"Don't tell me you've decided to keep me alive because you've grown fond of me," Jiiya continued, eyes merciless. "I will never forgive you—you have taken everything from me. You are beyond redemption. A monster like you is unworthy of this lowly butler's gratitude."

This time, Jiiya managed to get a rise out of the Worm. With predatory grace, Scorpio Worm slammed Jiiya down on the dinner table, just enough to knock the wind out of the man without breaking any bones. It breathed heavily, fingers clasped tightly around the butler's collar. Its face—still Tsurugi's—twisted in astonishingly human agony.

"Do you know what it's like, to live like this, like a monster?" the Worm screamed. "Do you think I enjoy this? You humans feel so much, it hurts. You can't imagine it, Jiiya. You really can't."

Scorpio Worm, overwrought with emotions he cannot control, only feel and drown and choke, releases Jiiya, excusing himself before fleeing the table to retreat to his room.

Looking down, the elderly butler found the front of his shirt was damp.

Apparently, Worms could cry.

But who was it that shed those tears, the monster or the human trapped inside?

"Pancakes, Jiiya, my favorite!"

To say that the butler had a minor heart attack when the Worm, sleepy-eyed, padded into the kitchen in silk pajamas and fluffy slippers.

"Bo—you're up early."

"I could smell the pancakes from my room," the Worm said, with a yawn. Jiiya noticed the dark rings (Bocchama's skin was always too pale) under the eyes.

"Didn't sleep well, did you. The bed not comfortable enough?"

The Worm, strangely enough, did not pick up on the butler's sarcasm. It seemed distracted by something by the window.

"You wouldn't choose a bed that wasn't suitable for me, Jiiya," the Worm said. "I haven't been sleeping well. Bad dreams."

Jiiya didn't know quite what to say to that.

"Jiiya." The butler started at the touch. The Worm's hand exactly like Bocchama's: soft and warm, the fingers softly callused from violin playing. "Don't forget the syrup."

For the first time, the butler hesitated to tip the contents of a newly acquired toxin into the food.

"When you get around to it, make sure the windows are cleaned. I noticed fresh cobwebs. I can't stand a messy house."

With a troubled heart, Jiiya poured the bottle's contents into the syrup pitcher.

Next Time: Spider's Web