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

[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?