tragic_mask | (no subject)

"There really aren't any tough-guy pop songs," he muses. "Not anymore. And possibly never."

"Can't imagine what that would sound like," she says, with a shudder. "Did you leave anything in the room, or should we go straight for the car?"

"I think I'd like to go up and check, just to make sure," he says. "Do you need to go too, or do you want to take the car keys?"

She shrugs. "Don't think I left anything valuable. I can start the car."

"As you like," he says, offering her the car keys. "I'll only be a minute."

She takes them, and walks out to the car. She soon has the motor running, and her feet up on the dashboard.

He returns a few minutes later, fastening his backpack as he walks over to the car.

"I left the housekeeping staff a tip," he says, climbing in. "Brighten their day a little."

"Sweet of you," she says. "I guess they'll be forced to believe that you can take it with you. Unless it's ghost money."

"...no, but the hotel manager will be getting the ghost money," he says cheerily. "Unless he has already run the card through."

"I see," she says mildly, pulling down the passenger-side seatbelt and buckling it over herself, conscientiously.

(Once burned, twice shy.)

He tosses his backpack into the back seat and fastens his seatbelt as well.

"Keep people on their toes," he says, and starts out of the parking lot.

"You always make it a balancing act," she murmurs, watching as the hotel rapidly grows smaller in the rear view window.

"Balance is important," he answers. "It may be the most important thing in my world. Is it in yours?"

She tilts her head, thinking. "Doesn't seem to be. I think most people prefer careening through life without knowing where they're going, or why. Lack of balance is celebrated."

"Of course," he says. "Most people don't believe in balance, or just can't bring themselves to try it. But it's at the heart of everything, it keeps life going. Master it, and you can do anything, at least in my world."

"That explains a lot about you," she says, pensively.

"Knowing the way a person's world works tends to explain a lot about them," he says. "It's like a code, and that is the key."

"Yes. Knowing that I come from a world that enjoys being dizzy, all the time, and whose gods are worse sinners than its humans, might explain something about me. For instance."

"I think you've survived it very well," he says, glancing over at her. "Are there any gods--besides the cold, false god of Abraham--who aren't worse than their humans, at least in some ways?"

She returns his gaze, amused.

"I suppose not. They can't be having deities with a superiority complex."

"We make them, not the other way around," he says. "So I believe, anyway. And that's all that matters."

"True," she says, and then settles back into her seat.

"And yet... we still need them."

He lights a cigarette, and settles into driving.

"I guess we do, at that. After all, who would I inspire otherwise?"

"And who would I make things for?" he agrees. "Besides gods, but with no mortals around, whom would they need tools to oppress?"