((Wrong assumption Haas. Ramiah's lab tech mandated 48 hours as a human, remember?))
She screamed. The sort of ear piercing shriek only young girls are capable of, and he immediately released her, clapping his hands to his ears. It hurt. He wanted to kill her. She shifted and his hands were heft holding woven leaves. That most certainly was shifting, and he had most certainly told her not to do that, and now he most certainly would have to chase her and throttle her and teach her, in most certain terms, not to annoy him. He'd run after her, unhappy about needing human speed to do so. His snake didn't move fast unless to strike because it didn't need to waste energy that way. Hunting was easy when his quarry had a little venom in them. He didn't have to run, then. He could take his time -take hours- and find supper waiting for him, dying and unable to resist. His mouse was very lucky she had gotten away unscathed, that he hadn't broken her skin in his surprise.
Being throttled by a leopard didn't factor into his plans. He ignored the Damen's shouts. She was young, and didn't seem to mind eating Damen herself, if her fish breath was anything to go by. It was her claws that finally distracted him and he lost sight of his little mouse.
The big cat's claws had slashed across his arm and chest, the jagged tears readily becoming red and inflamed. He'd never been able to bargain for first aid supplies or medical care, as the scientists kept expecting him to heal himself. There had to be incentive to learn, or so their logic dictated. As far as he was aware, he couldn't heal himself. At all. It had taken months of experimentation for both the scientists and himself to draw the same conclusion, but they continued to ignore the outstanding evidence because of the venom incident. He was hesitant to wash off the blood, knowing the water the fish were in wasn't sanitary. But it was staining his vest, which irked. The clothes had been nice. More than nice. The things he had done to obtain them, well, none of it was something you'd speak of. A lot of pride had been set aside for this small bit of vanity. If he believed in souls, he probably had traded his. His fingers traced the rips in the fabric before he abruptly dropped his hand, worried about fraying the material. He needed to get the blood out before it stained. There was another outfit, almost as nicely tailored, but he wasn't going to retrieve it. The intruding "roommates" would probably wreck that one as well. They were a destructive lot. This was his garden, and they were trampling all over it. No respect for its oldest tenant.
His attention was drawn to the bush his mouse had been eating from. As a snake, he sometimes slept in that bush. Most live mice loved it, could find it as easily as if it was lit up in grand neon lights, and that had generally been reason enough to spend hours there. He needed to get his mouse back. After he cleaned up. But very soon, before someone ate her. He didn't want to find her in an owl pellet, for example. Finding her there would severely dampen any pleasure he'd felt at getting such a big prize for so little work. Plus, he'd have to figure out how to kill an owl. Avians were a challenge, even for an arboreal snake. He'd leave off contemplating his vengeance on the leopard for another day, when he didn't have to conserve his venom.
But first things first.
Ramiah unbuttoned and shucked off the vest and peeled the shirt underneath away from where it stuck to his blood. Damage was worse than he'd thought. They needed to be treated and dry cleaned. And then thrown away. The shirt sleeve needed to be replaced, and it would take some clever redesigning to disguise the damage around the breastpocket. It would be cheaper to replace them. Only he wasn't sure he could. The scientists were like dealing with a bad sexual partner. Once you'd said yes, they didn't think you had the right to say no. The professionalism of bargaining had provided a measure of protection, since his willing cooperation had a price attached. And after obtaining this outfit, he'd said no a lot, trying -unsuccessfully- to give himself time to recover from their most unsavory experiments. Doing it again had a high potential for cheapening his value. It wasn't worth risking becoming their whore. Or at least not their unpaid one.
So he sighed at the loss and made his nimble way back up into the hanging lianas, determined to spot treat the bloody items in a bromeliad pool, where he was sure bacteria wouldn't fester his inflamed injuries if he washed off the blood.
He was wholly unaware of the scientists' game and the rat seeking him out. It was a game they seemed to like to play with him. A few months back, it had been a mongoose, not a rat. He should have suspected it, but he thought he was already playing with the mouse, uncomprehending the game had grown more complex.