Chapter Text
Ethan shakes his head in frustration. Time is wasting away, and he is no closer to finding his daughter. The bronze plaque before him shines in the candlelight, taunting him with its ridiculous puzzle.
“Mask the angels’ blinded gaze, and only then will you be saved? What the hell? Why is it always psychos and stupid-ass riddles?”
He steps back as if the extra two feet might somehow reveal the secrets of the metal door in his way. Behind his right ear, a bluebottle buzzes incessantly, the sound making his headache even worse. He swipes half-heartedly at it, and the insect backs off for all of two seconds before it continues its irritating melody. Ethan tries again, swatting the thing away, only for it to move to the back of his other ear. A sibling joins it, then another, and another. Suddenly he is distracted by an orchestra of whirring glassy wings as the creatures swarm around him and a gloating voice sounds from behind.
“Looking for Rose?” He turns to face the new threat, only to see a thousand black and blue flies coagulating like blood clots. The forms were indistinct but humanoid. Nightmarish abominations made from thousands of tiny legs and biting proboscis.
“What the -?” And then they become something else entirely, three girls draped in black lacy mourning garb. Each of them has a pretty, intricate tattoo decorating their forehead, contrasting with the foul, flaking blood smeared across their chins. Their smiles are bright against it, and their laughter is cruel and taunting.
One of them, the one with dirty blonde hair, strides forward confidently as the others circle him like lionesses. Ethan takes a defensive step backwards, eyes on the curved blade in her hand as it glints dangerously in the light. With a dramatic flourish, she brings it back, ready to swing at him, but instead, she reaches forward with her leather-wrapped left hand and pushes him hard against his breastbone. He expected to be slashed with the scythe-like blade, so she manages to catch him by surprise, throwing his balance off and forcing him to fall hard onto the ground as the sisters prowl around him, grins icicle-sharp and manic.
He grunts with the impact, backbone protesting at the rough treatment, but the grunt dies in his throat, reborn as a shout at the new burning pain which erupts in his calf as that vicious hook is brought down hard into the tender meat of his leg. She hovers over him, and despite the agony fighting to take over his consciousness, Ethan’s higher brain makes out the unusual necklace she wears, fashioned with trinkets that looked like letter-openers; miniature blades a celebration of their twisted owner.
“Mmmm, man-blood.” She crouches over him and scents the air. Honestly, if it wasn’t for the debilitating ache from the blade wedged in his flesh, the whole thing would have been kind of hot. And damn if that wasn’t a cause for alarm. At some point, Ethan knew he was going to have to process all of this. Did he have a thing for dangerous women? He never used to, not really, but somehow his libido had gotten somewhat murky after the Dulvey incident, and he hadn’t had much chance to come to terms with it yet.
Back in college, he’d heard guys talking about dating ‘crazy bitches’ and loving the excitement of it, but that never appealed to the old Ethan. He’d always wanted nice, supportive girls who helped him get his life in order. He’d enjoyed little trips up to Canada with them, his ideal long weekend. Going skiing, drinking hot chocolate and cuddling in front of a roaring fire. Simple pleasures, uncomplicated girlfriends. That sort of thing.
He recalled Mia being like that once and tried to cling to the idea that she might be again someday. The Bakers had changed all that, though. Even after she’d been cured, Mia had become sharper, more distant and quick to anger. He, too, had changed, but that was harder to accept.
No, Ethan Winters had to at least admit that now there was a certain lure to the danger of having a partner who was unpredictable and deadly in their own right. After all, he had married the woman who’d stabbed him with a screwdriver and chopped his hand off with a chainsaw, for God’s sake, and he honestly didn’t think it was because of the person she used to be.
His thoughts had wandered for only a moment, but it was enough time for the women to encircle him fully, giggling at his yelp of pain as the blonde one tugs on the hook, dragging him along the marble floor. He tries to grasp at something, anything, to gain purchase and break free, but his bloodied hands scrape uselessly against the cool stone, and before he can grab onto a doorframe, one of the girls reforms at his side, swinging a second sickle into his right leg. His nerves are on fire, and his vision whites out for a moment. He can feel the thick syrupy blood oozing around the weapon, seemingly ten times hotter than the skin around it.
Between the white phosphorus flashing in his eyes and the enormous biting flies that swarm around his face, Ethan’s view of the twisting route they take is almost completely obstructed. His leg bones creak in protest at the rough treatment, blades almost expertly lodged in the gap between the tibia and fibula to inflict maximum pain whilst keeping a solid grip.
When they come to an abrupt stop, it is both a blessing and a curse. The weapons are no longer tugging at the ragged membranes of his legs, and the brief respite is welcome, up until he spots the reason for it. He immediately recognises the danger, now looking wide-eyed at a much more significant threat, and the emphasis really was on the word ‘bigger’.
The girls stand proudly in a semicircle around the man as he lies there, bleeding and exposed. They were very visibly glowing with pride at their catch, eyes sparkling with excitement as they present him to their leader like a fucking macaroni art project they’d been awarded a gold star for at school.
The room is uncomfortably warm. Ethan is already saturated with fear-sweat. The grime and sticky moisture sit disgusting on his skin, remnants of his physical exertion in the godawful trap he was thrown into by that guy with the hammer. Still, the heat of the fireplace makes new droplets bead on his forehead.
“Mother. I bring you fresh prey.” The blonde one gestures to him, and Ethan watches in a state of pained panic as he takes in the tall woman in the white dress. She had been at that dreadful meeting with the other freaks arguing over who would get to end his life.
“You are so kind to me, daughters.” Her voice is refined and rings like a delicate crystal. She rises gracefully from the plush chair, a queen departing her throne, hand clutched around a fancy wine glass and wide-brimmed hat tilted at an elegant angle.
“Now, let’s take a look at him.” Ethan can pinpoint the exact moment she recognises him, her eyebrows raised in surprise before she schools her features back into the sophisticated mask of an aristocrat.
“Well, well. Ethan Winters. You escaped my little brother’s idiot games, did you?” She struts forward, all curves and intimidation as she towers above him. Was she trying to flirt with him? Surely not, but there she went anyway, body angled to the side as she places her hands on her hips, tilting her substantial bosom forwards with the same confidence and command as a Victoria’s Secret model. There was nothing provocative about her gaze though, eyes staring him down as if he is an insect beneath her heel.
“Let's see how special you are." With another dramatic gesture, her daughters descend on him, grasping tightly as they force the man to his knees. He grunts as fresh agony sears through his wounds, torn muscles spasming around the blades still embedded in his calves. The blonde one pulls out another elaborate-looking knife. Where the hell did these twisted women keep getting these sharp objects?
His left arm is forced forwards, and he watches on helplessly as the metal opens a fresh gash on his wrist. The sting is almost cathartic compared to the gruelling ache of his legs, but he still yelps automatically as the skin parts beneath the dagger's edge.
The gigantic woman in white assesses him coolly for a moment before reaching down to grasp his arm in a rough grip. Her mouth descends on the bleeding incision in a way that could have been erotic if it wasn't for how she burrows her tongue into the wound, forcing the delicate membranes to part under the worming pressure.
It burns. God, it burns as no wound had ever burned before, and Ethan had sadly experienced his fair share of them. What the fuck was she doing to him? This was way beyond the discomfort expected from a psychopath mouthing at the torn flesh. Something in her saliva threads through his veins like needles, forcing its way through the narrow vessels. He pants hard at the feeling, heart shuddering in his chest. His vision tunnels and he grows light-headed, about to pass out from pain or blood loss, but at the last minute, she pulls away, tongue darting out to catch the last drops of blood pearling upon her lips like rubies.
"Hm. Starting to go a little stale." She tuts down at him, face twisted in disappointment as she backs off. The pain had lessened considerably, but Ethan could still feel something reacting in his blood, something that made him shiver as the veins and arteries of his left arm burned cold in his flesh.
One of the girls passes her 'mother' a napkin as she speaks, a voice brimming with excitement and an eagerness to please. "Then let us devour his man-flesh quickly, Mother!"
Man-flesh? Oh fuck that, he was not going to be lunch for these crazy bitches. He snarls at them, hackles raised in alarm, but they seem less than impressed.
"But I am the one who captured him!" The blonde leers at his little display as the others fuss amongst themselves eagerly, eyeing the man like he is the filet mignon dish at a Michelin-starred restaurant. The tall woman barely spares him a second glance as she wipes her mouth delicately, staining the white cloth with his wasted blood.
"Now, now, daughters. First, I must inform Mother Miranda. But later… Well, there will be enough for everyone." She towers over him again, and Ethan can't help the dry swallow that irritates his throat. She is highly intimidating, and not just because she stands at about 9ft. No, before him stands a woman used to wielding power and beyond comfortable with it. He wants to shout at her, to swear and spit and gnash his teeth in outrage, but her withering gaze pierces him more deeply than even the sickles still embedded in his calves.
"Put him up!" The three sisters rush forward to grab hold of him again as their 'mother' stares on in casual disinterest.
"Hey, hey, wait…." Ethan tries to meet her gaze with defiance, but it is torn away as his shoulders arch in pain. Both curved blades are yanked free of his legs, and he sucks in a breath of too-hot air at the shock. It leaves him almost as fast when those wicked hooks are instead latched into his hands. They wobble painfully in the fresh punctures as the sisters hook a chain into each end of the weapons, yanking harshly as he screams. He is dragged upwards, weight barely holding under the taxed muscles and ligaments of his hands.
He is sure that he had once been told that the wounds to the hands depicted in Jesus' crucifixion couldn't be accurate as the human body's weight would tear through. Doctors and specialists had claimed that nails would have needed to go into the wrists instead to support that amount of mass. Clearly, nobody had told his body though, as the skin outright refused to split on its own as he dangles there in front of four mad women intent on eating him alive.
"Hey. Let me… down!" Panicking, he practically pleads with them, but in return, all he receives is cruel laughter and a once-in-a-lifetime view down the tall woman's dress. In another situation, the red-blooded male in him would be delighted, but his body is screaming in protest, and her tits are the very last thing on his mind.
"Oh, careful what you wish for, Ethan Winters." They continue to laugh at his expense, even as they begin to leave the room in procession. The departure of the 'mother' could almost be called comical as she has to bend almost in half just to pass through the doorway, but Ethan is barely able to acknowledge it, focus consumed by his mutilated hands. They're just going to leave him here? What the hell?
"W-Wait! Wh-Wh-What are you doing?" They don't answer him. The blonde one merely pauses to collect the handkerchief covered in his blood. She looks up at Ethan, gaze almost sultry as she scents the stained cloth, before waving it over her head like a victory flag. With that, she departs as a revolting cloud of flies, the fancy embossed doors swinging shut behind her.
Well, this was fucking spectacular, wasn't it? How had he managed to get himself into another situation full of homicidal freaks that wanted to kill, maim or eat him? It was Louisiana all over again, except instead of being on the set of the redneck chainsaw massacre, he was in Dracula's goddamn castle.
After taking a few moments to have a miniature breakdown, he finally centres himself enough to take stock of the room, trying to figure out a way to escape. There is a gilded lever by the fireplace, but he couldn't use it whilst trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. The first order of this bloody business is to get himself down off the hooks, and by God, it is not going to be pretty. The only other option is to wait for those four merry murderesses to return, so not really an option at all.
He tries his right hand first, shifting slightly in an attempt to pull the hook free, but the pain of the movement has him panting and seeing black spots at the edges of his vision. Everything hurts, and the tide of adrenaline he had been riding is starting to seep away. He needs to do this now before it leaves him completely, or else he might not be able to keep going.
Squeezing his eyes shut and trying to picture Rose's face, Ethan takes a deep breath before wrenching his arm down with as much force as his weakened body can muster. For a moment, his whole existence dilates to unbearable agony. The tearing ache of his newly split right-hand twins with the sharp hurt in his left as the man's entire body weight ends up resting on just one damaged appendage. After a few seconds, the flesh there gives way too, and he comes crashing down on the ugly patterned rug.
He crouches on the floor like a wounded animal, hunched over and shaking as the ripped flesh throbs along with the residual pain in his wrist, calves and lower abdomen. The acid-like burning in his veins is still present, but now it barely registers in contrast with these fresher hurts. Ethan forces himself to take long, deep breaths, inhaling and exhaling until he can get the tremors down to a manageable level. It hurts like a bitch, but the pain is starting to give way to anger. Christ, he just wanted his little girl back. It was like he was starring in a real-life horror version of the Taken franchise, only without the charming Irish accent and one-liners Liam Neeson could pull off.
Forcing himself to stand and take better stock of the room, his eyes land on a single unobtrusive bottle, knocked over and lying pathetically on an antique set of drawers. Thank fuck for that. It was the first time luck had shone on him today, and he could have cried as he picks it up, finding it full of healing fluid.
His hands aren't functioning right, but he tries his best to manoeuvre the bottle into position so he can uncork the top and douse his wounds with it. The relief is instantaneous, cool fluid calming the scorching injuries to a bearable warmth. His veins still ache with whatever was in the tall woman's spit, but it is manageable, just.
Ethan gives himself a moment to just assess the damage. The fluid has done its magic, and he is now looking at two new ragged scars on his palms, as well as a cleaner white line on his left wrist. The bandaged stump of his two missing fingers on his left hand still smarts, but they are no longer bleeding through the gauze at least. Checking his calves, he sees that they too have healed, though the scarring there is pink and tender. He hasn't quite had enough of the chemical to fix them up entirely like the others, but he can walk on them, and more importantly, he can fight.
His mouth tastes of grit and blood, and Ethan licks his lips, trying to bring moisture back to parched and cracked skin. The movement causes a sharp twinge, making him wince. Bringing his tongue to prod at the gum line, four teeth in his upper jaw are wobbly, both canines and the incisors to the inside of them. They must have been knocked loose during the scrap with the hairy monsters from the village, perhaps even when that massive brute had glanced him with its beast of a hammer.
Well shit. Ethan isn't exactly obsessed with his looks, but he certainly isn't looking forward to being gap-toothed Larry. If he can get his hands on more of the healing fluid, maybe he can rub some on his gum line to fix the issue. He would just have to try to not be hit in the face again any time soon.
Elsewhere in the castle, he hears a door opening, the sound driving him to escape whilst he can as he consigns this new worry to the long list he has running in the back of his mind. Quietly stepping forward, he carefully pushes one of the gilded doors open, just a crack, to check that the coast is clear, before heading out once more to search for his lost daughter.
Ethan is so focused on his mission that he fails to realise that something very peculiar is taking place within his body. Well, more peculiar than usual, at least. Deep inside him, the mould that houses his consciousness is working hard to assimilate the sister infection which had entered Ethan's bloodstream. They had already fought off a similar attack from a lesser form of the parasite and had been waiting patiently for their host to rest so that they might regrow the digits lost in the fight.
This recent exposure is different though, more compatible but still ultimately flawed, and so the mould does not fight it off quite so aggressively, seeking to learn from it and evolve. They would need time to deconstruct the positive and negative traits, filtering them to be of the most significant benefit to their host.
Improving their regeneration ability was paramount, and this iteration was much more advanced than their current capability; however, the host would require sustenance to maintain it. Breaking down more of the intruding parasite is challenging but achievable and proves to be well worth the effort. The mould learns what it needs to; the perfect method to extract the nutrients necessary to support an advanced level of self-healing.
Deep within Ethan's upper jaw, replacement teeth begin to form inside the gums, already starting the process of forcing the dull human set out. It will be only a short matter of time before they are ready to help achieve the next step in his evolution.