The air tastes like how it looks: dark, murky and artificial. The smell of blood and concrete infiltrate the nose and a regular human would consider the particles that float about to be unhealthy. Luckily, they aren't. Together, they walk hand in hand through the wreckage of the city that once was in search of tonight's shelter, making sure the young girl in particular is away from anything hazardous. They come across and settle for an old diner, the 'Eat' sign of which still illuminates the darkness of the surrounding area with its orangey tint. The windows are broken, so clean respiration isn't on for tonight, but at least they have a stable roof over their heads for rest.
The older man sets his bags down in the middle of the checkered floor, pots and pans clinking against the tiles. The small, dark haired girl sets down the pile of dried twigs she carries beside his bag and he makes quick work of getting a fire started. Foraging was restricted today; another bomb had fallen just north of their current location so they were made to cut the trip short. Making most of what they've managed to collect for the night ahead, like a torn blanket and two green jars that are labeled 'sardines,' they make themselves comfortable. There's an odd vibe in the diner, but what isn't out of the ordinary for a soon-to-be post-apocalyptic city? A faint dripping noise and a low mechanical whirring can be heard from the back, presumably the kitchen behind the young girl, but she is unafraid, knowing her companions, the old man and stuffed red plush toy named Hambo, will keep her safe.
She patiently watches the motions of his grey beard against the light of the flames as he fiddles with the lid on one of the jars. With quick success, it pops open and a foul odor overrules the stench of the outside, but no complaints arise, for tonight they are able to dine.
She squeezes Hambo excitedly, watching the contents of the jar being dispensed into two small bowls. He rummages for a fork deep in one of the pockets of his bag and scoots closer to the young girl. He prods at one of the fish before lifting it out of the bowl and motioning her to open her mouth. The fish is salty and slimy, but she manages to bite it in half and chews it slowly.
"Mister Petrikov," the young girl speaks with her mouth full, the sound echoing in the darkness.
"Now Marceline," the girl is named, "Remember, when you're eating, speak only when your mouth isn't full. And I told you to call me Simon, sweetheart." His voice is gruff but soothing to her ears; she hasn't heard anyone else but herself since the beginning of the war. Sometimes, when he sings her lullabies, she forgets about the mushroom clouds and emergency alarms that resound throughout the now empty land.
She swallows the fish, its odd tanginess trailing down her throat. "Simon, do you want kids?"
The question causes a twinge deep in his chest but innocence in her voice softens the blow. He reluctantly answers her with a smile, "Well, I've already got one daughter, now don't I?" She smiles at his remark, bits of charred fish stuck between her teeth.
"What about boys, Simon? Do you want a son?" The man feeds her another bit of fish, but his thoughts are lost in himself.
He breathes in slowly, "I would love one, yes." He lifts his hand to pat her head lightly, remembering the day he found her as she called out for her father nowhere to be found. He didn't ask where her father was, afraid she would only cry more, but she seemed more than thrilled to accompany him rather than be alone. Her smile that day, he'll be sure to remember it.
"What would you name him?" She lifts the red bear with blue buttons for eyes up to his face, "Hambo? Because then I would have two brothers named Hambo." She wiggles the long arms, making the toy dance.
He watches her, reminiscing of a time when he and his Betty planned for a son, before the war, before the… crown. He pushes the negatives thoughts aside, not wanting Marceline to worry about his discontentment. He ponders though, knowing the answer to her question. It was Betty's suggestion, but he loved it all the same. He closes his eyes and gives the young girl a weak, quivering smile, letting but one small tear escape, hoping it goes unnoticed by Marceline. He sets the bowl down before gripping onto one of Hambo's thin limbs to stroke the soft fabric.
"Gunter," he whispers.