Famine stood outside his dorm, smoking alone. His sockets stared upward at the ceiling, where a chandelier glistened—one that hadn't been there before. The smoke curled up like thin threads of ghosts.
Footsteps approached. Lichness shuffled beside him.
"Can I smoke with you?" the necromancer asked, his tone somber, mellow.
"Sure, kid…" Famine handed him the packet. Lichness plucked one out, sat down, and waited. Famine passed him the lighter.
The lich inhaled. The smoke hung in the air like a curtain.
"You do drugs, right?" he asked.
Famine paused, then nodded. "Don't screw your life up over it. Jonah wouldn't want that."
Lichness laughed, his jaw clattering faintly. "You knew him for, what, a day? Why are you so upset?"
Famine took another drag, exhaled slow. "I don't know. In my profession, friends die all the time. Maybe he wasn't even a friend—I barely knew him. But he was young. Too young. And that, I couldn't stomach."
The lich patted his shoulder. "Funny. I should be the one breaking down. Let me tell you a story about Jonah. You'll laugh."
The story
"I was born in Invalia. Everyone who wasn't human or Medean lived there—fantastical races from those old-world books. Like me. Liches were demonized back then, but I wasn't a bad kid. Anyway, Jonah Sala was a dumbass. Stupid as hell.
"We were childhood friends, but our first meeting was him shooting an arrow at me. He yelled in this ridiculous bravado: 'Get away, monster, from the promised land!' The 'promised land' he meant? A park. Not even a big one—just a slide and a swing.
"I was sitting there, swinging, parents at work. His too, probably. Nobody was around to knock sense into him. I summoned baby skeletons to tackle him, and you know what? He didn't scream. Didn't cry. He laughed. Giggling while a horde of skeletons swarmed him. I couldn't help laughing too."
"Why?" Famine asked.
"Because he was a fucking psychopath. Any normal kid would've bolted. Not Jonah. He laughed and kicked his feet like it was a game. That's how we met. He didn't even say Jonah. He said 'Mr. Sala.' Six years old, going by mister. What an idiot. That was a decade ago.
"Wait," Famine interrupted. "The Invalian genocide was in 20AD. How were you born there?"
"The people were wiped, cities destroyed, continent gone. If you could call it one continent—it swallowed half the old world. Stories say it was bubbling with life before an Angel on a power trip erased it. Sealing him away was probably the only good thing Thidos ever did."
Famine looked down at the ember in his hand. "I don't know my past. I just woke up, already conscious. Starving. I lived in a hardware store for decades. Then I wanted thrill, so I dealt. Then I ruled."
"Thrilling," Lichness said with a weak laugh. "Me and Jonah should've tried."
"No. Kids shouldn't chase thrills like that. Especially not ones that kill."
"You know," the lich smirked, "you and the Imp both have a soft spot for children."
"Didn't they kill one? Some teenager named James. Speared through the head, no hiding it."
"Is it they? Apparently the Imp has voices in their head, so people call them that. Still looks like a guy though. Pronouns are hard, man."
They smoked in silence for a moment.
"This Reprisal's full of faces," Famine muttered. "A rich brat in a supersuit…"
"Felix Nightingale," Lichness supplied. "Nightingale Corporation. War machines. Cliché."
"He owns it, though. I respect that. He doesn't lie—can't imagine Felix lying."
"Then there's the delinquent squad."
"A fuck-ton of douchebags. Decay boy. Rage boy."
"And the speedster. I thought she'd be more powerful. Physics here is looser though, kills her advantage."
"Blessing in disguise. Then the adaptable girl."
"Anyone else?"
"Probably not important."
Famine smirked. "We were supposed to be talking about Jonah."
"Jonah would've gotten sidetracked too. Dumbass didn't even know his left from right. Half his arrows flopped sideways. We laughed every time."
They both chuckled, smoke escaping between broken teeth and bone.
"You know," Lichness said, "Jonah really did die to the strongest there. Fair enough. At least it wasn't some weakling."
"Why didn't my imagination work?" Famine muttered.
"Godly power doesn't bend to imagination. That chick—Melissa, Eliza, Samiel, whatever—she turned the whole field into spirals. You can't bend that. It bends you."
"Spirals mean a lot. Ezekiel's insignia was a spiral. People say insanity. Others say hope."
"I didn't feel hope," Lichness whispered. "I saw a demon wearing God's face. Evil."
"It's late," Famine said, standing.
But Lichness grabbed his arm. His hollow sockets flickered. "Jonah's gone. Permanently. I don't know why you cared so much. Maybe because he was young. Maybe because of how. But here's the thing—Jonah wouldn't want us sulking. Actually, he would, but I'll be happy just to spite him.
"He died smiling. That wasn't fear. That was thrill. That was Jonah. Remember what we said, man?"
Famine tilted his head. "What?"
"We don't care if we die. We're here for the thrill. I'm jealous he went out like that. Dopamine overdose. What a way to go."
Lichness laughed, jaw clattering again. And this time, Famine laughed with him. The sound was ugly, bone-deep—but for a heartbeat it mirrored Jonah's childish giggle, years ago, when skeletons tickled him on the playground.
Famine stayed behind as the lich returned to his dorm. He stood in silence, smoke fading.
"…The fuck, man. Maybe you're right."
He manifested a noir homburg hat, pressed it onto his skull, and walked to his door. The plaque read in gleaming italics:
Famine.