0031 — The Desperate Kitchen
2044 Words
Hunger wasn't a feeling anymore. It was a noise.
It started as a dull hum in the back of Victor’s skull, like a refrigerator running in an empty room. Then it grew into a scratching sound, as if mice were chewing on his ribs. By the time he fully regained consciousness, the noise had become a siren.
Beeeeeeep.
No. That was the System.
The blue box hovered in his vision, the text scrolling with a cheerful nonchalance that made his eye twitch. Glucose levels critical. Brain function at 40%. Recommend eating something before you start hallucinating again.
Victor groaned, expecting to feel the cold hardness of the floor. Instead, his fingers brushed against velvet.
He opened his eyes. He was lying on the chaise lounge in the parlor, covered by a heavy silk blanket that smelled faintly of lavender and old blood. His clothes were clean—suspiciously clean. Someone had scrubbed the soot and grime off his face, bandaged his hand with professional precision, and seemingly combed his hair while he was unconscious.
"Carmilla," he muttered, rubbing his temples. Only a vampire with obsessive-compulsive disorder would clean a fainting victim before checking their pulse.
He sat up, the room spinning. The heavy curtains were drawn tight, blocking out the midday sun. The house was silent.
"Iron-Jaw?" Victor called out, his voice cracking.
No answer.
He forced himself to stand. His legs felt like jelly, but he stumbled toward the hallway. He found the massive flesh-golem standing in front of the basement door—the door to the Vault.
Iron-Jaw stood like a statue, his stitched-together muscles tense, his singular eye fixed on the darkness. He held his massive cleaver in a white-knuckled grip.
"Hey," Victor wheezed, leaning against the wall for support. "Big guy. I need... food. Go buy... burgers."
Iron-Jaw shifted his weight. He didn't look like a mindless construct; he looked like a bouncer denying entry to a drunk. He spat on the floor—a habit from his former life as a g**g leader—and shook his scarred head.
"Nah, Boss," Iron-Jaw grunted, his voice sounding like gravel in a blender. "Can't do it."
"Can't?" Victor blinked. "I'm not asking you to solve a calculus problem. I'm asking you to go to Burger King."
Iron-Jaw tapped the flat side of his massive cleaver against his palm. "Streets is watching, Boss. We got fifty bands in the basement. Fifty large. You don't leave the stash unguarded. That's Rule Number One."
Victor stared at him. The necromancy hadn't erased Iron-Jaw’s personality; it had just locked it into a loop. He was no longer just a golem; he was the ultimate paranoid gangster. He wasn't guarding the gold because the System told him to. He was guarding it because he knew exactly what he would have done if he knew a house was holding that much cash.
"I am the owner of the gold," Victor argued, his patience fraying. "And I am ordering you to leave the stash and get me a sandwich."
"Too risky," Iron-Jaw insisted, crossing his massive arms. "Rats everywhere. I step out? Bam. Someone kicks the door. We lose the loot. I ain't letting you go broke, Boss. I'm protecting the equity."
"I hate you," Victor whispered. "I hate your street smarts."
He looked toward the stairs leading to the attic. Carmilla would be in her coffin, dead to the world until sunset. Waking her up was suicidal, and even if he did, she’d probably just offer him a glass of warm Type O negative.
So, he was a millionaire. A genuine, cash-flush tycoon with enough gold to buy a small island. And he was going to starve to death in his own living room because his butler was a house, his maid was a corpse, and his bodyguard was a miser.
"Delivery," Victor mumbled, patting his pockets for his scroll. "I'll order delivery."
He pulled out the communication crystal. Dead.
Of course. Since he had activated the Sanctuary protocol to keep the ghosts in and the debt collectors out, the property line had become a magical Faraday cage. It blocked everything. The only reason that stupid streamer team had managed to broadcast from here was because the house had wanted to be seen back then. It had been fishing for victims. Now? It was digesting.
The last time a delivery drone had tried to cross the property line, the front porch had eaten it. The reviews on UberEats for this address were... discouraging.
"Fine," Victor snarled, pushing himself off the wall. "I'll do it myself."
He shambled toward the kitchen. The Stomach.
The Alchemical Kitchen was vast, dark, and smelled of ozone. The ceiling was a mess of brass pipes and veins that pulsed rhythmically. Every few seconds, a pipe would jerk and emit a wet glug sound. The house was digesting something. Probably the mana it had absorbed from Valeska’s audit.
"Must be nice," Victor croaked. "To eat magic."
He made it to the pantry. He yanked the door open, praying for a forgotten box of crackers, a tin of beans, anything that didn't require a degree in occultism to prepare.
Dust. Cobwebs. And a single jar of something glowing green.
He picked it up. The label, written in sharp, spidery ink, read: Pickled Beholder Eyes. Vintage 1642.
Inside the brine, three large eyeballs floated. They didn't move. They just stared. The pupils were dilated, fixed in an expression of eternal shock. Victor felt a wave of nausea. He wasn't sure if they were dead or just holding their breath.
"Not today," he muttered, shoving the jar back.
He checked the vegetable bin.
A few potatoes lay in the bottom, sprouted and wrinkled. They looked normal. But when Victor reached for one, he hesitated. The shadows in the bin seemed to writhe. The potato felt warm, almost feverish to the touch. It didn't speak—thank god, he wasn't that crazy yet—but it pulsed. A faint, rhythmic throb against his palm.
Bad mana, he realized. The residue from the audit corrupted the organic matter.
If he ate this, he wouldn't get calories. He'd get a curse. Maybe he'd grow roots in his lungs. Maybe his skin would turn into eyes.
He dropped the potato. It hit the bottom of the bin with a wet thud that sounded too much like flesh hitting flesh.
"Flour," Victor said, turning to the dry goods shelf. "Flour is safe. Flour is dead."
He found a sack of Stardust Flour. It was gray and smelled like old pennies. He dragged it to the counter, his hands shaking. He found a bowl, added water, and started to mix.
Just make a flatbread. Cook it on the stove. Eat it. Survive.
The mixture turned into a thick, gray sludge. Victor stuck his hand in to knead it.
The dough twitched.
Victor froze. "No."
The dough twitched again. It wasn't the yeast rising. It was a muscular contraction. The gray sludge wrapped around his fingers, squeezing tight. It felt warm. Wet.
Living.
Victor yanked his hand back, panic spiking in his chest. The dough didn't let go. It clung to him, stretching like gum, pulling itself out of the bowl.
"Get off!" Victor yelled, flailing his hand.
He slammed his hand against the counter. The dough didn't break. Instead, it hissed. A sound like steam escaping a valve. The blob on the counter began to bubble, forming shapes. A mouth? A limb?
It was an Homunculus. An accidental artificial lifeform created by mixing highly magical reagents with a desperate, mana-charged chef.
The dough-creature detached from his hand and plopped onto the wood. It had no eyes, but it had a mouth—a jagged slit that opened to reveal tiny, sharp teeth made of crystallized sugar.
Hsssss.
It lunged.
Victor grabbed the nearest weapon—a rolling pin—and swung.
Splat.
The creature flattened, but immediately began to reform, pulling itself back together like the T-1000, only made of gluten. It let out a high-pitched shriek that vibrated in Victor's teeth.
"I am not fighting my lunch!" Victor roared.
He grabbed the entire bowl and hurled it toward the open window. The bowl shattered against the frame, and the dough-creature went sailing out into the abyss of the courtyard, screeching all the way down.
Victor slumped against the counter, breathing hard. His heart was hammering against his ribs.
"Defenestration," he muttered, sliding down to the floor. "I just got outsmarted by a baguette."
A notification popped up, mocking him. Target escaped. Predator Status: Incompetent.
"Shut up," Victor told the empty air.
He looked around the kitchen. Fenrir was curled up on the rug by the stove. The massive wolf was still recovering from the battle, his fur matted, his breathing shallow.
The System flickered again. Suggestion: Nearby protein source detected. Target: Fenrir's Tail. Texture: Chewy.
Victor froze.
He looked at Fenrir. The wolf’s tail was thick, fluffy... meaty.
Just a bite, a voice in his head whispered. It sounded like his voice, but colder. He won't miss it. He has regeneration. It's basically a renewable resource.
Victor shook his head violently, slapping his own cheek hard enough to leave a mark. "No. Bad brain. We do not eat the dog."
He needed sugar. He needed alcohol. He needed anything to stop the shaking.
He crawled toward the wine rack. Château de Sang, 1899. Carmilla’s stash.
He popped the cork. The smell hit him instantly—metallic, sweet, heavy. It smelled like a butcher shop mixed with a candy store. It smelled like life.
He poured a glass. His reflection stared back at him from the dark red liquid.
His eyes were wide, sunken, rimmed with dark circles. But the pupils... the pupils were wrong. They were dilating, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. For a second, they looked like vertical slits.
Like a predator's.
Drink it. Let the Crimson Court flow through you.
Victor threw the glass against the wall. Crash.
The red stain bloomed on the plaster like a gunshot wound.
"I am a human," Victor gasped, backing away until his spine hit the refrigerator. "I have fifty thousand gold coins. I am the Lord of this Manor. I am not a ghoul."
He stood up. The anger gave him a sudden surge of adrenaline. It wasn't the energy of health; it was the energy of pure, unadulterated spite.
He wasn't going to die here. He wasn't going to let his own house starve him out.
"Fenrir," Victor said. His voice was steady now. The steadiness of a man who had decided to declare war on a concept.
The wolf opened one eye.
"Get up," Victor commanded. "Iron-Jaw is useless. Carmilla is dead. It's just you and me."
Fenrir whined, but he stood up, shaking his massive frame.
Victor grabbed his coat. It was torn, stained, and smelled of smoke. He put it on anyway. He checked his pockets. The heavy pouch of gold coins was still there, weighing him down like an anchor.
"We're going to District 13," Victor said, marching toward the heavy oak door.
The System flashed a warning. Leaving Sanctuary. Magic efficiency dropping. Bounties active. Threat Level: High.
"I don't care," Victor said, grabbing the latch. "I'm going to buy a cheeseburger. And if anyone tries to stop me, I'm going to buy them, too."
He threw the door open.
The wind from the abyss howled, carrying the scent of rain, ozone, and the distant, greasy perfume of cheap frying oil.
Below the manor, far below the shifting fog and the twisting roots of Yggdrasil, the neon lights of the Lower City burned through the gloom. Pink, blue, toxic green. They stabbed the fog, illuminating the colossal metal structures of District 13.
He could see the holograms dancing in the rain—giant geishas advertising noodle bars, spinning coins promoting loan sharks, and the endless stream of flying cars navigating the canyons of steel.
It was a world of noise, filth, and technology. A place where demons wore business suits and humans wore cybernetic limbs.
And, more importantly, a place that accepted cash.
Victor stepped out into the rain, his eyes fixed on the golden arches of a distant noodle shop hologram.
"Let's go shopping, boy."
- Writer
