"The gods we prayed to when we were young used up their time long ago. They cannot answer anymore."
-- Sandman, Neil Gaiman
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"What are you doing, little girl?"
The young woman opens her eyes and takes in the man before her. He looks to be on the far side of seventy, with wrinkled skin and pure-white hair, but there is no weakness in his voice or his stance.
"Nothing," says the woman. 'I'm not a little girl,' her tone adds. She is seated on the cold stone floor, hands resting on her knees, to all appearances completely relaxed. Only the bruises marring the fair skin of her face and bare arms suggest that all is not right with her world.
"You were praying," says the man. It is neither a question nor an accusation, merely a statement of fact.
She looks at him with defiance in her eyes, but no denial. "What do you care?"
"Mere curiosity," he responds, a hint of a smile ghosting across his lips. "Do you believe your gods will save you?" he asks with the air of someone inquiring about the weather.
"I don't need saving," she tosses back.
He laughs then. The laughter is light and mocking but not cruel. He doesn't argue, simply asks, "Then what were you praying for?"
"Why should I tell you?" She is losing patience with this game, a hint of irritation creeping into her voice.
"What could be the harm?"
She considers for a moment while the man regards her coolly, as though he can wait forever for her response. Finally, she says, "The gods don't swoop down and rescue people." There is a touch of uncertainty in her expression, as though she fears his response.
"No, I would imagine they don't." He seems amused, his mouth settling into a faint smirk.
"It doesn't mean they don't exist," she continues. "That's just not how they work." He doesn't answer, just looks at her with the smirk growing on his face. "You don't believe in them," she says flatly. "I wouldn't expect you to understand."
"What would you think if I said I did believe in your gods?" he inquires, still in that same calm tone.
"I'd think you were lying," she returns just a little too quickly to maintain her disinterested front. "I know about you and your god."
"We're not all the same, girl," he says, "Any more than you are all the same. I was the first; I know your gods."
"I find that hard to believe," she says, sarcasm crawling over doubt in her voice.
"Oh, I remember them," he insists. "I don't doubt their existence. But their time is past, their power gone. Now is the time of my god—your god—everyone's god." Suddenly, all traces of warmth and humor are gone from his face and voice. The look he gives her is cold as steel. "Your gods cannot help you now."
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Note: Summary/title from "Dog Eat Dog" from the musical Les Miserables