Bodies rushed to and fro across the artifitial whiteness of the walls and floor. Too-loud voices jabbered away at each other. High school girls giggiling insanely if a 'hott' male so much as walked within five feet of them. Men grudgingly trailed their wives through dozens of stores, steadily accumulating more and more heavy bags.

A young woman was sitting in the company of the noise and her comfort food. She sat in an uncomfortable bench comfortably sipping a chocolate shake. She reached into a bag at her side and pulled out an oversized cream-filled chocolate covered doughnut and lifted it to her lips. Just as a large bite was about to dissappear behind her awaiting teeth, she desided she really wasn't that hungry, and the calorie-thick snack was returned to her bag once more.

Besides eating, Marty was watching. She watched the shoppers, the stalkers, the trailers, and the penniless wishers. As she had just resently moved to this lovely little place, she knew no one, and had no friends. The bench in which she sat was opposite the video game store. She figured it would be the best way to find people with her own interests.

The hands that descend on the back of the bench could, for a moment, be mistaken for skeletal. They are long, painfully thin fingers, pale-white.

A young man is standing behind the bench, leaning forwards onto the back of it, facing the video store as well. His clothing consists of mainly variations on the theme of 'black and tight,' though his shirt has a white logo on the front-- a smilie face, like the emoticon : ) only right-side up. His hair is bleached white and gelled up loosely. His eyes are circled in black eyeliner, which only serves to show off their oddness-- a white iris, separated from the whites of his eye by a black ring.

The eyes slide down from looking at the videogame store to looking at Marty.

But he doesn't say anything-- only offers a bit of a grin in what he must imagine is a non-threatening way.

Marty was just finishing off her super-sweet, super-chocolatey shake, when the hand landed on her backrest. It made a small noise, close enough though, to distinguish it from the buzz of voices. She turned, slightly surprised, only to be more surprised at the sight of the hand. Marty blinked, as if trying to clear her vision, but no, the hand was still deathy pale. Her dark green eyes followed the line of his arm, then chest and neck, then rested on his face at about the same time his rested on hers. She scooted forward, so that her neck wasn't at such and awkward angle, and looked him over. Goth. And creepy at that.

"Hello...?" Her voice held the tone of What are you doing? Are you trying to scare me?

Her hand, still holding the styrofoam cup, raised it to her lips, before she remembered that it was gone, and lowered it again.

And then he speaks.

"Hello. Mind is I sit here?" One pale hand is liften to indicate the empty space on the bench beside her.

The voice is strange, though it's hard to pinpoint exactly how. It seems almost out of tune with the rest of the world.

A short pause takes place, while her mind tries to clear... or something. She was slightly taken aback at the voice.

Her eyes slide past him and land on another bench a few yards away. Empty. Apparently, this guy wasn't really looking to rest his legs. Fine with her.

"Uh... Sure." She shoves over a bit, dragging her various belonging with her, to give him more room. Not that he needs it, she noted, He'll blow away in the next light breeze.

The stranger scoots around the bench and takes a seat, crossing his legs and hooking an arm over the back of the bench-- on the side furthest from Marty, so as not to make her uncomfortable.

Various chains make noise as he moves.

"You look bored," he comments. Idly.

Did she? Interesting.

"Maybe I am. I was people watching. After awhile they all look the same." She blinked and wondered where that had come from. The crazy, insane, babbaling part of her mind, surely.

She turned back toward the video game store, and noticed a nameless someone watching them. Apparently she had become the subject while she was distracted. And what an amusing subject we must make too, she thought, glancing at the man next to her. So amusing, infact, that she smiled to herself. They were complete opposites. One wide, one thin. One red, one white. One short, one tall. One life, one death. She shook her head. That was rude. Sometimes her own thoughts surprised her.

After a while they all look the same.

This elicits a laugh from the tall stranger, but he muffles it and shakes his head.

"Seen anything good so far?" he asks.

She shrugged, glancing at him curiously. "A couple of guys shoplifting... couldn't see what it was though. Probably some anime thing with girls in skimpy skirts, and they were too embarrased to pay for it. They made terrible theives, too nervous."

She looked at him again. It was strange, the way his voice seemed to clash against the regular cacophany of shouting voices. She found herself wondering if his voice would carry over a large crowded room. She found herself wondering if her own voice was even carrying the short distance to his ears, because it was almost as if he was in some other world...

She shook herself mentally.

"True... a good thief needs nerves."

The stranger glances away from the girl, back to the shop.

"Did you know they had a robbery in there a month or two ago? Robbers aren't good thieves, either."

This semi caught her interest. "Wow, really? What did they steal?"

For a moment she was surprised that she could have a partly resonable conversation with this gothic freak, who looked like he'd come out of some low-budget movie, and who voice sounded like.... like... What was it? Kind of like when you have a migraine, and the slightest ticking of a clock rips through your brain like a knife. That was what his voice was like... only not bad. She shook her head, and the babbaling stopped once more.

"They tried to take all the money in the cash register plus a few," he coughs discreetly, "Hentai films."

Leaning his elbow on the back of the bench, he props his head up and puases thoughtfully.

"One clerk was shot. The two robbers were caught before they even got out of the mall."

Marty snorts. "No surprise. Did they really expect to get all the way through the mall without getting caught?"

She lifted her right hand slightly, and realized that it still held the empty cup. She blinked and tossed it in a nearby trashcan with some reluctance. Her mouth longed for more of the overly sweet shake.

"Three points," the as-yet nameless stranger says to her toss, before continuing with the story.

"Really, who knows what people expect. I'm sure the clerk didn't expect to be shot." You know, he really does sound sure.

She pauses. What an odd thing to say... I'm sure the clerk didn't expect to be shot... Marty wasn't sure how to respond to this... Of course he didn't... People don't expect deaths... Except perhaps Death himself...

With a lack of something more interesting to say, Marty makes a small noise of confermation in her throat, so that he knew she had heard him. Her fingers fiddled idly with a fraying seam on her bookbag, and her eyes watched them without seeing. An uncomfortable silence stretch between them, and as she shifted her slightly larger than normal weight, the bench creaked oddly in that silence.

(I just realized my posts keep switching from present to past tense. This one even switches right in the middle. Instead of going back and fixing them all, could you just tell me which you prefer, and I'll try to use that from now on.)

((Present. It's pretty standard. *Shrugs, smiles* Sometime switching is fine, depending on how you use it.))

"You know, we haven't been introduced." He lifts himself from his relaxed position and offers Marty a hand.

"Call me Az."

A friendly smile.

Az. An interesting name. Presumably a nickname of some sort. He hadn't offered a last name, so she wouldn't either. The girl hesitates only a short, almost unnoticable moment, before taking the extended hand. "Call me Marty."

An ice cold shiver ran up her arm to her dimpled elbow at his touch, but she didn't pull away as she longed to, for fear of being rude. She smiled in return, mostly to cover up the sudden stiffening of her arm.

'Az' shakes her hand. Perhaps he leaves his cold flesh against hers for a moment longer than necessary.

And then he pulls away. "Nice to meet you, Marty." A pause, and a grin. "Interesting name for a woman."

She resistes the urge to sit on her hand to help it regain it's warmth... or perhaps feeling, and grins.

"Yeah. It's better than my real name though." She doesn't offer him her real name, as she would really rather not talk about it.

"I've noticed that a lot of people dislike their given names," Az says, a veteran people-watcher to the core.

He runs his own hand up and through his hair. This serves to do absolutely nothing-- it's pretty much as messy and/or well-groomed as before.

Marty merely nods in response. She watches his skeletal hand glide though his hair, and is reminded of her own, once long hair. She was always playing with it. Twisting the tight red curls idly, that in turn twisted and clung to her dimpled fingers. She was glad she had cut it, because it made her face seem thinner, if slightly, but sometimes she missed the soft curls to play with.

Glancing at her companion, she wondered what his hair looked like, naturally. Not all gelled up and bleached out, but what it really looked like. And his eyes too, without the contacts. Those were some seriously creepy contacts. She tried to imagine what he would look like with brown eyes, but couldn't. It clashed to much with his stick-thin frame and milky white skin. Brown eyes had too much life in them. Once again, she mentally shook herself. What did she think he was, dead?

He glances at her but doesn't comment on the lack of reply. Instead, he offers a grin and jerks his thumb in the direction of the food court.

"I'm starving... how about you? Mind if I buy you a Cinnabon?" The cinnamon bun chain store is notorious for attracting mall-goers with the tantalizing smell of freshly baked cinnamon buns.

Marty would never, I repeat, never pass up the offer of free food. Not even from a freakish goth with ice-cold hands and no irises. She grins, a genuine grin this time.

"Deal." As she stands, she discreetly mades the small bag still containing the un-eaten doughnut dissappear into her bookbag. It would be pretty rude to let him know that she'd just accepted his offer of buying her food when she already had some on her. She'd save it for later.

With a small gesture of her hand, she said "Lead the way," and pulled the bookbag onto her shoulder.

Az stands, unfolding like a magician's trick wand. He really is tall, standing up. Tall and thin.

He starts off towards the food court, timing his movement to keep in step with Marty. With such a long stride, he can stroll casually quite fast.

"To Cinnabon, then," he says, with his customary grin.

Marty eyes followed as his slight weight was shifted to his legs, and as his knees and hips unbent, and as he reaches his full height. Dang, he was tall. The fact that he was rail-thin may have something to do with it, but dang, he was tall.

Her casual grin returned again, as she thought of the delectible, hot cinnamon buns. She could smell it from here, so strong she could almost taste it. Marty thought of those stupid cartoon she would accasionally watch as a kid, where someone would be wafted into the kitchen by the aroma of a freshly baked something-or-other, literally floating through the air in their ecstasy.

((I don't know if you've ever been in a mall with a Cinnabon, but...))

It is almost literally that good. No doubt the booth does heavy business each day. As the pair approaches, the staff pulls another pan of soft, sticky buns from the ovens and slathers them with icing, preparing them for sale. The icing is real, too-- none of this sugar-plastic crap you get on cheap cinnamon buns.

Az is already digging in his pocket for his change.

((Nope. Never had a cinnabon. Sounds good though. And I'm sure Marty has))

Marty's sparkeling eyes dance over the mounds of sweetness. Even her teeth long to rip into the soft dough. Her eyes for the moment leave the buns and turn to Az as her digs for spare change. She wonders if she should offer to pay for her own. Now that she was here, there was no way she was going without one, so it didn't matter whether he had the money or not. She was getting one. Her fingers fidgeted.

((Heehee! Marty getting excited over food. Life is good ^-^))

((If there is a heaven, it will serve Cinnabons.))

He pulls his hand from his pocket-- a few two-dollar coins glitter between his fingers. He walks up to the cashier and nods towards the fresh cinnamon buns, handing over four dollars and some change.

Two soft, doughy buns are scooped up and placed on plates, each dripping with icing and cinnamon goo. Az grabs a couple forks from the tray by the cash register and a few wet towlettes, as an afterthought.

The tray with the cinnamon buns on it it passed over the counter and Az turns to grin triumphantly at Marty.

((Wow. I'm gonna need to try these things. I also gotta go to bed soon so that I can go to church and get to that heaven when I die. ^-^ G'night!))

Marty wasn't looking at Az, her eyes were locked on the glistening artery-cloging goodness before her. She had to restrain herself from grabbing at them before they even had a chance to sit. She gestures, slightly urgently, toward a nearby table flanked by two chairs.

As she sat, her hands flew toward the nearest Cinnabon and, disregarding the fork, plunged a huge bite into her mouth. Lids closed over green eyes in ecstasy. She held it in her mouth a moment, letting the icing drip down about her teeth. Let it cause as many cavities as it liked, she really didn't care right now. Finally, she swallowed it down, and took this moment to grin happily at Az in thanks.

One small piece of Cinnabon hovers near Azrael's mouth on the white plastic fork he's using, with regards to not gluing his fingers together. He hasn't taken a bite yet.

He grins back. "I take it you like cinnamon buns."

She nods enthusiasticly and replies "Yeah, just a bit" before plunging into the bun again. It really was kind of disgusting to watch her eat. She didn't eat fast, but she took mammoth bites and then would hold the food in her mouth, enjoying the taste. Her grandfather would was know to say, "Do you eat to live, or live to eat?" For Marty, it was definately the latter.

((Really must go... ;_; *clings to computer* Nooooooooo..........))

Her companion doesn't seem particularly disgusted. He still hasn't taken a bite of his, but is watching Marty as she enjoys her food. The fork, dripping cinnamon, hangs somewhere near his mouth but never goes in.

"So Az..." She says, as his death-cold eyes begin to make her uncomfortable, "Any particular reason came to the mall?" She noticed that he hadn't any bags with him, and so assumed that he was simply seeing and being seen, as she was. In truth, though, Marty didn't really care. She just needed something to break the uncomfortable silence and intense stare that she was recieving.

"No, no particular reason," he replies with a twitch of a smile, his gaze not moving. Apparently no one had ever told him that it's rude to stare.

Come to think of it, he hasn't blinked in a while.

"Oh." Was all she could think to say.

Yet another uncomfortable silence stretched between them, and Marty applied her attention to the dripping Cinnabon in front of her. She didn't dare look up for fear of seeing those creepy eyes on her again, but she knew they still were. She could feel them against her skin like ice, and it made her shiver involuntarily.

The next time she looks up, the cinnamon bun will be gone and her arctic-white companion will be wiping his thin fingers with the wet-nap, almost daintily.

"What brings you to the mall today? A little late Christmas shopping?"

She almost sighs in relief at the sound of his eerie voice. It's better, at least, then silence.... right?

"No. Just people watching. I should be getting a job but... I'll do it later." Why did she tell him that? Marty furrowed her brow and swallowed down the last sweet bite of Cinnabon, and opened a wet-nap.

"A job for holidays, or a permanent job?" he asks. The tone isn't probing-- it's fairly obvious he's making conversation. Er, mostly obvious. Pretty much.

He folds the used wet nap and sets it on the tray.

Wiping her fingers off carefully, she replies. "Well, I need a permanent one, but it doesn't need to be found now."

She finishes wiping off her hands and mouth, rendering her as clean as she was before.

"Umm... Thanks for the Cinnabon..."

He performs a gracious little bow. Though seated, he's tall enough to make it work.

"You're most welcome. Thank you for your company."