Resident Evil Oneshots

The chefs dance

In the heart of the village, where whispers of the mysterious and terrifying Mother Miranda carried on the wind, my role as her personal chef was an honour few could fathom. The villagers, with their wide eyes and trembling voices, would speak of her as a goddess—unapproachable, perfect, and, most of all, demanding. For them, it was a title that evoked both reverence and fear. For me, it was the daily reality I navigated with a blend of caution, precision, and unyielding creativity.

Being Mother Miranda's chef was no easy task. The woman was, quite simply, the most particular eater one could imagine. Her palate was sharp, discerning, and unforgiving. A single wrong flavour, an undercooked vegetable, or even an overly ripe piece of fruit could provoke her ire. Many had tried and failed to please her before me, and I had no intention of joining their ranks.

When I first took on the role, I thought I understood what it meant to be meticulous in the kitchen. I was wrong. Mother Miranda's expectations surpassed anything I had previously encountered. She didn't just demand perfection; she demanded transcendence. Every meal had to be a work of art, a creation that bordered on the divine—nothing less would suffice.

My daily routine began long before dawn. The kitchen, which lay in the shadow of the grand manor where Mother Miranda resided, was my sanctuary. The stone walls echoed with the soft crackle of the hearth as I prepared for the day ahead. I would start by selecting the freshest ingredients, often making the trek to the forest myself to forage for wild herbs, berries, and mushrooms. The village's market was rarely sufficient; Mother Miranda's taste required the most unique and rare flavours, those untouched by the hands of others.

Every meal I crafted had to tell a story, evoke an emotion, or conjure a memory. It wasn't enough to simply satisfy her hunger; I had to engage her on a level that went beyond the physical. I often found myself reflecting on the legends surrounding her, drawing inspiration from the tales of her immortality and her connection to the old gods. If I could create a dish that resonated with those ancient echoes, perhaps I could truly please her.

One of my earliest successes was a dish I called *The Forest's Whisper*. It was a delicate balance of textures and flavours, meant to evoke the serenity and danger of the woods that surrounded the village. The base was a velvety puree of wild mushrooms, simmered slowly in a broth infused with the essence of pine needles. I layered it with thin slices of venison, seared to a perfect medium-rare, and topped with a scattering of foraged berries, their tartness cutting through the richness of the meat. A drizzle of herb-infused oil finished the dish, adding a fragrant note that lingered long after the last bite.

When I presented it to Mother Miranda, my heart pounded in my chest. She regarded the plate with her usual inscrutable expression, her cold blue eyes scanning every detail. I stood there, hands clasped behind my back, waiting in tense silence as she took her first bite. Time seemed to stretch as she chewed, her gaze fixed on a distant point beyond me. Then, finally, she spoke.

"This,"

she said, her voice as soft and deadly as a serpent's hiss,

"Reminds me of a place I once knew. A place where the air was thick with the scent of pine and death."

It wasn't exactly praise, but it wasn't condemnation either. I exhaled a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. She finished the dish, and I knew I had at least earned another day in her service.

But the challenges only grew from there. For every success, there was a moment of doubt, a fear that I would fail to meet her impossibly high standards. I quickly learned that Mother Miranda's preferences were not just about taste—they were deeply tied to her mood, her memories, and her whims. Some days, she would crave the simplicity of a rustic bread, baked with wild grains and smeared with fresh butter, but on others, she would demand something far more complex—an intricate pastry filled with layers of exotic fruits and creams, each bite a symphony of flavours.