milliways_bar | (no subject)

There is a nod in return, and a slow exhalation of smoke.

"I am not very good at chess, but if you promise not to kill me too viciously, I may be persuaded to play."

There is also a smirk.

"Would you like to wager?" asked Death. He wasn't planning on killing anyone, but he might be persuaded to buy someone dinner.

"I am not much of a betting man either, as I have nothing to risk. However, I am not against a guarantee of a good conversation, if it so pleases you."

"Conversation is welcome," said Death, "What do I call you?"

He was intrigued that he didn't know this man's name, which confused him.

He gets up and approaches, his movements languid and wraith-like, his skin pale against the black of his leather coat. But he is only human.

"I am the Master of Ceremonies," he says with a small bow and smile, before settling into an armchair on the opposite side of the chess board. "But everyone calls me Emcee."

That is why it was so confusing, his name was a title.

"And why do they call you that?" asked Death.

"I oversee the revelries at a decadent little nightclub in Berlin. Introducing the musical acts, keeping the audience entertained -- ensuring that everyone is having a good time."

He smiles and tilts his head at the old man.

"And you are...?"

"Death," he said before munching a fry and taking a sip on his soda, "Tell me about your world."

Edited 2014-12-15 01:52 (UTC)

Emcee slowly raises a dark eyebrow.

"Death."

All right, then.

"Well, Herr Death, where would you like me to begin? That my world is Earth, the continent of Europe, the country of Germany? Or something a little closer to life?"

"The last one," he said.

He takes a slow drag off his cigarette.

"My world...is beautiful."

A slow exhale.

"I surround myself with beautiful boys and girls, beautiful music, beautiful dancing. I meet people from many countries; I talk with them, laugh with them, fuck them. I drink cheap gin and smoke American cigarettes. Every day I do this, and every day I think I would never trade this for any other life. I enjoy my world very, very much."

"And the world outside your bubble?" asked Death, "What is happening while you relax in luxury?"

"Things that I cannot change," he says evenly, bringing his cigarette to his red lips again.

"What kind of things?" he was curious about the time period this man was from.

A waitrat comes around with a glass ashtray, and after Emcee thanks the little creature, he leans forward and taps the ashes off his cigarette.

"My year is 1931," he says, lounging back in his seat.

"Sometimes when I mention this to people from future time periods in worlds similar to mine, they become gravely concerned about my welfare. Does it mean anything to you?"

Edited 2014-12-15 03:44 (UTC)

"In my world, the 1930's were difficult for a lot of the world," said Death, "World War II also started in 1939. There was also, a great economic depression that affected most countries."

He stopped another rat and ordered guacamole, chips, salsa, and beer.

He nods with a certain wry air.

"Thus, you understand the concern."

He orders a fresh glass of gin from the rat before it scuttles off.

"I do not know all the details, nor do I want to know. What people have already told me, and what I already see and experience firsthand what goes on outside my 'bubble,' is enough."

"Fair enough," said Death, "I happened to be in a box about 60 ft underground when all that was going on. I find it funny, that humans don't realize that this kind of thing has been happening since their species first figured out how to kill each other with sticks."

"Oh, I have no difficulty believing that."

A pause, a curious furrow of his brow.

"Why were you in a box underground?"

"Ask God," said Death with a shrug, "The last time I was brought up was during the great flood."

He munched on chips.

He snorts.

"Mm, it doesn't particularly interest me to have a direct line of communication with any deity. But how are you supposed to work if you are buried in a box? Or do you have...minions?"

"The last one," said Death, "I manage the reapers, now that I am out. Well, I would, if I weren't bound to serve Lucifer. That pompous little angel. You know, he is throwing a fit because he thinks God should never have created your species."

Ah, yes, reapers.

He rests his chin on his knuckles.

"One would assume that Lucifer would be grateful to have us as his little playthings. And in any case, I think you would serve a greater purpose if you were a free agent and not bound to anyone at all."

"No," said Death, "He is acting like a small child, who finds out the baby gets a lot of attention."

Death drank from his beer.

"I would agree. If I ever find out which angel let that spell slip..."

"It was a spell that bound you?" he asks with a delicate bird-like tilt of his head.