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So it’s come to this, thought Spy, eyeing the still-twitching rodent. Had he killed it intentionally? Had he hunted it down to the dark, damp corners of the cell, or had it spooked him and failed to react fast enough to his years of trained instinct? Either way it’d been dashed against the wall, one hard blow enough to incapacitate it while Spy caught his breath.
The cell he was in was small and uncared for, but still a great deal nicer than what he’d encountered in the prime of his career. He supposed his employers were uninterested in seriously capturing prisoners when they had the bases built, preferring instead to slaughter the enemy and reap the rewards later. Spy had been kept in the small, windowless room for four days on his count, and he spent his time plotting and pacing on how he’d slip out of this one.
All the while hunger gnawed at him. His captors were perhaps too stupid to remember that he had to be fed; at times it was obvious that they didn’t even know what they wanted from him. The intel his team was after was likely already in his Engineer’s hands, and he had no information they wanted. He could only guess that they wanted to ransom him off.
As if our pockets are not full enough, he thought bitterly.
His lament was interrupted by a particularly strong pang from his stomach. The pain was incessant, but he’d braved it as best as he could.
He’d gone longer without food in worse conditions, but that had been years ago, and he had become quite accustomed to easier times during his work as a mercenary. By all standards, this job had been one of the easiest in his life so far.
That only made it all the more frustrating that he was struggling now. And having to deal with vermin on top of that! He glared at the creature he’d struck with a hatred so intensified by his poor condition that it dizzied him.
Randomly, he recalled the words of his co-worker, the Sniper, as he poked at some poor woodland creature roasting on a spit over a campfire—bigger than a mouse, but similar enough in nature that Spy could recognize the feelings inside of him now.
“I’ve heard of eating the little buggers raw,” the bushman’d said while he tended the meat. He was unbothered by Spy’s exclamation of disgust, only shrugging and adding, “Not so bad once you get past the fur and bony bits, they say. Desperate times make blokes do wild things.” A grin had tugged at his mouth, revealing canines that looked sharper than normal in the firelight. “Wild, ugly animal things.”
His eyes fell once more to the dead mouse, only in his muddled state, it was starting to seem more fresh than dead.
Spy crept forward to examine it closer, foggily telling himself that it was only so he could understand the Australian assassin better.
Its whole body, surprisingly odorless and still pink at the extremities, spanned his palm when he hovered over it. Since he’d been captured for a few days and this was only the first mouse he’d seen, Spy ruled out the possibility of it being born in a crowded, dirty place, trading diseases with other mice. It looked healthy when he dared to turn it over. It had been drawn in from the wild by a forgotten food source somewhere in the base, surely.
His tongue darted out and wet his lips.
His hands had seized the mouse before his mind caught up. It was still warm, but cooling fast.
Spy ran his fingers over the tiny swatch of fur, looking for any parasites to indicate it died sick. He peered into the little mouth and ears, opened its eyelids, and as he noticed the fullness of the mouse’s middle and felt its weight in his hand, he made up his mind.
Removing the head was a relatively easy affair; a firm grip and a twist was all he needed to eliminate any deleterious outcomes that came from eating brain. In a series of jerks he’d freed the paws of their joints, and another firm yank separated its tail from its body.
A spray of blood accompanied this last step, and before he could stop himself, Spy sucked the stain off his palm. He crouched there in disbelief for a moment, sighed, and continued field dressing his prize, shaking slightly, forcing himself to go slow. The Sniper’s words haunted him: wild, ugly animal things.
Well, Spy could be a wild man, tucked in the bowels of enemy territory where there was no one to witness how low he’d been forced to stoop to survive. In fact, if anyone could make eating a rodent glamorous, it was him. Already he was imagining what he’d say if word ever got out.
I am not surprised you imbeciles have never heard of mouse as a delicacy. Besides, a man does what he can to survive; did you expect me to shy away from an opportunity to keep my strength up? Non! I took every chance I had to overthrow my captors. I am a survivor.
Soothed by the hypothetical, Spy worked through the rest of the gralloching with a smidge less misery than before, totally disregarding the ugly and animal bits.
Soon there were complications. All he had in the realm of sharp tools were his short, blunt nails. Spy considered using his teeth, but he was unwilling to put them to the rodent’s body any sooner than he had to.
After deliberating for a minute or two, he found that tearing the mouse’s limbs off had left a ragged edge of skin to tug loose from the muscle. In tiny increments, he peeled the pelt off, wincing at the wet stripping noise. He swallowed his repulsion in favor of focusing on the challenge of taking it all off in one piece. It took a long time between preventing any tears and having to scrape at the strange, sinewy membrane that kept the mouse together with just his fingers, but he was rewarded with the slack of pulling it away.
“A-ha!” he allowed himself, dropping the pelt to the floor. A strange playfulness overtook him. “I will be taking your coat, petit monsieur...”
He didn’t let himself linger on the absurdity of the bit, opting instead to dig his thumbs into the mouse’s abdomen to reveal the slick organs inside.
No sooner than he was able to celebrate his victory did he realize another problem. Besides the intestines, he had trouble discerning what parts were safe to eat. In the end he used his fingertips and gingerly removed all he saw inside the cavern of the mouse’s abdomen, mourning the tiny pieces of meat he was discarding but playing it safe all the same. In no time at all he'd extracted everything he didn't recognize and wiped at the remnants of his endeavor.
At least the final product looked a little more like food. If he let his eyes unfocus, Spy could imagine that he was indulging in a strangely-shaped piece of tartare or sushi.
He considered it delicately between his fingertips like a chicken wing, his mind working through the best way to go about the task of consuming it with his dignity intact.
I suppose I could simply start from the middle, he mused, turning it slightly. He could hold it in his fist and eat it from top to bottom, like a sausage, but that felt somehow more barbaric.
Many methods ran through his mind as he put off the gruesome ordeal as much as he could, pretending to no one that this was possible with any modicum of grace. He turned it again and again in his hands until the sight of it began to nauseate him.
He realized that as loath as he was to start, he was running out of time; soon the rodent’s body would stiffen into a rancid, stringy texture and the task would become insurmountable. He began to regret getting such a good look at it.
His mind steeled for the mission ahead, Spy brought the mouse to his lips and, after a moment’s hesitation, sank his teeth into it.
It was not the worst thing he’d tasted, nor the worst thing he’d done in a dire situation. He kept these thoughts at the forefront of his psyche as he worked through the first bite of murine flesh, keeping as little of his tongue involved as possible as he chewed. The coppery tang of raw meat was accompanied by the mouse’s naturally earthy undertone, as well as the usual gamey flavor of an undomesticated animal. In a different setting he might have liked it, but as it was, he was crouched on a dirty floor, blood dripping down his chin, half-delirious with starvation.
The nadir of the whole affair turned out to be swallowing. Miniscule pricks of pain alerted him to the fact that in neglecting to employ his tongue, he’d missed many of the fine bones embedded in the flesh. The feeling of the lump going down nearly made him gag it all back up, but he forced his lips shut until it had gone down. He took a moment to spit out the bones his teeth caught, wiped his mouth with the bottom of his shirt, and soldiered on.
Sequential bites became easier as Spy’s hunger disallowed him the feeling of disgust. He couldn’t cotton onto the texture, but he found himself picking off bits of meat that clung to the bones with his teeth, even going as far as to suck the cracked ends of the femurs to make sure he’d eaten all he could. He was able to appreciate a slight nutty taste that lingered after he’d finished the scraps and licked his fingers clean.
The portion, as meager as it was, took the worst of the edge off his hunger. Already he felt invigorated—and, unfortunately, clear headed enough for the weight of what he’d just done to hit him square in the pride.
“Mon Dieu,” he whispered. The small, gleaming pile of offal meat taunted him from the floor. His earlier satisfaction curdled in an instant.
Before he could delve too deeply into his thoughts, a squeak came from somewhere within the dark confines of his cell. His stomach gave a rumble in reply, growling like an eager predator.
Resigned, Spy raised his shoe.
“How was it?” asked Medic, his arm easily holding up the Spy as they trekked their way to his infirmary. “Besides the torture, I mean. It can’t have been pleasant, but I assume you’re used to this sort of thing, being a spy and all.”
Spy took a long, slow drag of his cigarette. “Nothing special.” The smoke curled out of his nostrils. “However, I think I will require a thorough examination. No telling what diseases those horrid men on the other team are carrying.”
Medic chuckled. “That’s a good point," he said, a little more seriously. "I have heard that they have a rat problem.”