homeless.

[tore]

It was swell of you to say hello. (This is novel, isn't it? Is this what it's like to feel young?)

I would like to move out, though. I'm a little peckish.

Regards,
Mr. —

Comments

HELLO, may I just say that is a very interesting character concept you've got there. :V

[fairytalenoir]

No, that's not what it's like to feel young.

thank you kindly!

[tore]

Ah! [ He doesn't seem particularly put out. ] Well, it was just speculation.

[fairytalenoir]

It's so kind of you to go that far. To speculate, I mean.

[tore]

Do you think so? I mean, it's not too far out of my way.

[fairytalenoir]

In a way. But I hardly think comprehension would benefit your kind.

[tore]

Oh!

[ Instantaneously, Mr. —'s customary polite smile breaks into something wider. Regarding the comment as to '[his] kind': ] Can you tell?

[fairytalenoir]

[The Boy remains stiffly formal. Apparently he is not so pleased.]

I see you.

Not all of you, but enough.

[tore]

[ All in all, Mr. —'s behavior doesn't change much. He still seems vaguely confused and pleased at the same time, as if he'd been dropped here by some unseen force but couldn't bring himself to be upset about it. ]

Interesting. Most can't, although I assume you know that already.

[hellodiane]

I don't think this is how it's supposed to go.

[tore]

Possibly not.

[ Briefly, Mr. —'s hand finds his eyebrow, fingers fluttering there for an instant as though adjusting an invisible pair of glasses. He seems curious more than he does surprised. ] I can't say I've had this happen to me before.

I know this is ages late, ignore if you don't want to continue

[hellodiane]

Neither have I.

[Cooper's head tilts at a curious angle, examining the other man, as if he can discern clues about his existence and identity from an identical face.]

Though I'd very much appreciate an explanation.

[starve]

[ Amused. ]

Peckish. Heh.

[tore]

[ Some other entities he recognizes and some he doesn't, but Mr. — isn't so stupid as not to recognize her. Almost instantly, a little of that polite facade fades away into something equally placid, but infinitely colder. (He doesn't dislike her, per se, but he is what he and she is what she is.)

He holds one hand up, pointer finger and thumb indicating an increment to accompany his next statement. ]

The tiniest bit.

[starve]

[ He is what he is and she is what she is and, to be fair, those things very much overlap. Mr. — is a creature of appetites, after all, and there is no greater hunger, no indelible craving, than having to walk by her side for a time. She's visited him many times over the years and sometimes it's just business and other times it's not. Given what she is, she's a surprisingly social creature.

Whether she's here to chat or to collect — it's not obvious or clear.

Famine holds up her fingers, mimicking his gesture, then pulls her fingers slowly apart. A hankering begins to rankle his insides but it's gone as soon as she drops her hand down again to her side. ]

Could help out with that, y'know.

[tore]

[ Those things overlap, but not in the way that Mr. — would like them to.

It's when he's hungry that he becomes his most dangerous. (It's an odd effect, in some ways. The hungrier he gets, the sweeter he becomes, mindful of his Ps and Qs and as polite as the devil himself. He has to be, to be invited in. He has to become impossible to deny.

On the other hand, when he's hungry, that's when his teeth get long, that's when the shadow of the demon becomes the clearest at his feet. Blood, it says. I need blood.)

Mildly: ] In which direction?

[starve]

[ It doesn't matter to Famine that the demon needs blood, only that he needs something and that's her domain. The hungrier Mr. — gets, the politer he becomes and the more he'll devour in the end, sending along recluses and couples and whole families alike into the pale rider's care.

In the end, that's what's important; because even though there's work and then there's work work, all roads eventually lead to death. The higher the body count, the quicker Famine makes quota and while she's not a completely paperpusher the way some of her siblings are, there's something to be said about doing good work and taking some sense of personal pride in that.

Famine shrugs. ] Haven't decided yet. Feel like makin' a pitch?

[tore]

[ To Mr. —'s credit, he sees her point. The hungrier he gets, the worse (well, better) the end result gets.

For a long moment, he remains silent, blinking at Famine with eyes that are too black. ]

I have to say I was happy enough with our previous arrangement.

[starve]

[ That gets her to smile, all proper like. She hops from her perch on a low-riding wall ringed round one of Mr. —'s future neighbors and trots on over to stand in front of him. (Well, not quite a trot.) Even when she's doing something as infantile and human as indulging a skip, there's something very old in the way she holds her shoulders, in the way she smiles. (She knows something you don't.)

Pushing herself up on tiptoe, she tries to look him eye-to-eye but still comes up short. ]

Good. [ Cheerfully. ] Me too. Why ruin a great thing, right?

[tore]

[ Unlike some of his colleagues, Mr. — knows exactly where he is on the food chain. He doesn't eat his own kind (or he tries not to) and he does his best to pretend that he is what he isn't: polished, refined, harmless, a gentleman. And as terrible as he is when the mask slips away and that gaping maw opens up, he is not the worst monster out there. So when she smiles, so does he. ]

I'm glad we agree on the point.

[starve]

[ A soft heh puffing from her lips, she moves to pat his cheek the way nans dote on very favorite granchildren. Famine's hand is cold and its palm is damp, like a slab of raw meat cooled from being sliced fresh from warm bone. ]

You're okay, you know that? Not a lot of your brothers and sisters are. [ Dropping back to flatfooted, she considers this a minute and then shrugs. ] But. You are what you are, I guess. Can't really blame you; everything's gotta eat.

[tore]

Not everyone, as I understand it, [ Mr. — says, although it isn't to dispute her so much as it is stating a simple fact. (He enjoys having her favor, when she chooses to bestow it. It's in his nature, he supposes. He needs to be liked to eat. Either way, he'd rather have her favor than not.) ]

But thank you. I appreciate the sentiment.

[ A beat, and then, in simple curiosity: ] Where are you headed next?

[starve]

[ She smiles again. He's right, of course. She doesn't it. And not because she can't, but more on principle. Better to understand the thing that you visit on others rather than glut herself and be a hypocrite. Granted, she doesn't suffer the way they do; if anything it's an intellectual exercise, though the stands. ]

You're way more polite than the rest of them, too, [ she notes and then backtracks to her perch on the wall, hoisting herself back up onto it with both hands. ] I've got a place to be in about a week. Figured I'd hang around here in the meantime. Take in the sights. Y'know— [ she gestures at the pristine suburban houses around her. ] —spread the love.

[tore]

There'll be a good show in about a week, [ Mr. — offers, as if he were simply talking about a circus rolling through town instead of the butchery of a family, and the whole neighborhood next. (So terrible, what happened to the Williamses. I don't know who could have done such a thing.) ]

Or there's a bowling alley down the way, if that's more your style.

[starve]

[ Famine pats the cold stone slab next to her, welcoming him to sit beside. ] Don't see why we can't do both. [ We, she says; like it's a foregone conclusion and he has no choice. (Though he does, at the end of the day; her ego doesn't bruise as readily as some of the others.) ]

A week, huh? [ Famine waggles her head while she considers moving her appointments around. She knows what'll happen in a week. ] Would hate to miss the show.

[tore]

[ He takes the seat just a few moments after it's proffered, ankles crossing neatly as he sits down. (Neat. Never when he's eating, but in every other moment, it's the best word to describe him. Nothing unnecessary, nothing out of place.) ]

Would hate for you to miss it, [ he says easily, the statement in itself an acceptance of that we, an okay. ] I won't keep you long.

[starve]

Nah, you won't, [ she says agreeably, her elbow giving the lightest of jostles against his side — a friendly, nudging motion. Famine's generally friendly, much moreso than any of her siblings, but she very rarely gets to have proper company, if only because so many creatures hate their hunger, rather than embrace it. Still, everybody needs a bad guy. She's come to terms with being it from time to time.

A beat then: ] Ever meet my sister?

[tore]

[ Mr. — nods once, glancing over and down at Famine. (He blinks at her a couple of times; his irises are completely black.) ]

A couple of times, I think, [ he allows, with a slight tilt of his head. (He can't really avoid her, not with what he does to survive.) ] But I've never really talked to her.

[starve]

[ Famine likes Death. She sort of has to in order to keep the family together; if she has any hopes of living for eternity with any semblance of peace, she has to accept that Death is the one they all submit to — even her and her siblings, when the time comes. It's true, she likes War better, but Death — Death is death.

(Needless to say it's complicated.)

Still: ] Would you like to? Could totally set that up, if you wanted.

[tore]

I'll live, [ Mr. — says, with the sort of smile that suggests that the pun is intentional. ] But thank you for the other.

[ He'll only die if he starves to death or someone really puts their mind to it, but otherwise, he'll just keep going, from host to host, that series of little-big crimes following him wherever he goes. ]

[starve]

Heh. [ Famine mulls over his little pun, her expression almost sheepish and vaguely human for a moment (that's Imogen showing through, not Famine, even though Imogen is Famine and Famine is Imogen; or rather Famine consumed Imogen and that's why she's here the way that she is). After a moment she seems to decide that it's okay to laugh again, so she does. ] Heh.

I like you. You're not so gloom and doom, like some of the others. Which I get, yeah, is part of the territory, but— [ Famine holds up her hands. What're you gonna do? ] I gotta ask, though. Do you always say thank you?

[tore]

[ Mr. — seems pleasantly surprised at being told he's likeable in the least (not because he tries not to be or anything of the sort, but because she's saying so while knowing exactly what he is). At the question, he nods and shrugs, as if this routine were perfectly natural. (Correction: it is. For him.) ]

Always, [ he says easily, glancing once at the houses that surround them. ] I think it's the polite thing to do. [ His inflection is careful, making the sentence almost a question. ]

[starve]

[ She watches him for a moment and then glances around herself, her eyes growing large as if in question as her gaze takes the same path that his did, noting this house then the next. Famine doesn't really enjoy fucking around for fucking's sake (for others it was cool, but for a harbinger it was just lame) but for Mr. — she decides to give a nudge here, a suggestion there. Pieces moving into place — curiosity, loneliness, the need for company. These are all hungers and so they are all hers and so she uses them to place her new-found friend at an advantage.

Doors will open more readily to him now. And when they do, he'll feed and feed well. ]

And you're big on polite, huh?