(Smoker x Rochelle? :D)

Chapter 1: Damn brat!

Smoker hiccoughed. The smoke was getting to his lungs again, tearing at his throat and making him feel worse. If that was possible.

"Pounce!" Hunter yelled, and jumped on his friend. Smoker turned round and pushed Hunter off.

"Dude," Hunter whined. "You're meant to play along. It's time to be a Survivor!"

Smoker sighed wearily. The game he played with the young Hunter was where he pretended they were a Survivor, and the little Hunter tried to attack him. Although it always ended with a pouting Hunter hanging upside down in the air, suspended from Smoker's tongue while he was scolded.

"Hah! Disembowel," Hunter cried, clawing at one of the many sensitive tumours on Smoker's face; a tongue whipped out and grasped the kid.

"Not the face!" Smoker said angrily, while the little Hunter glared sulkily. Yes, it always ended like that. Smoker sighed, bored.

Being in his late thirties, he was much more mature than the seven year old Hunter. Which was good, because - being an annoying kid: naïve, impatient, rude and always sticking his nose into things - Hunter was constantly saved by his elder.

"Come on, Hunter. Don't be an imaimashii gaki!" Smoker complained.

"What does that mean?" the little Hunter blurted out.

"Damn brat," Smoker snapped shortly. "Any more contributions?" Hunter remained silent, pout growing more petulant.

"Look, kiddo." Smoker placed Hunter gently on the ground, and faced him, kneeling so he was opposite the little boy.

"I'm sorry," Hunter snapped, trying to squirm free of the arm grasping his wrist. "Can I go now, I found a really cool-"

"No! Bedtime," Smoker said fiercely, seeing the sun rising. "The Survivors wake up and go about around now. You will not get in their way."

"Again."

"Proving my point! In the warehouse, now. You're grounded 'til tomorrow. And I will be watching," Smoker added warningly. Hunter stuck his tongue out, and stomped into the warehouse. Smoker checked and saw Hunter was tucked up under his ragged blanket, staring at the ridged ceiling grumpily.

Groaning, Smoker slowly sat down. The smoke was getting to his bones ... Even though he was only thirty-eight, his joints creaked with exertion when he sat or stood. Maybe it was the strain of the smoke ripping him up inside.

Smoker fished about in his grubby, green, short-sleeved jacket pocket, and found what he was looking for. A cigarette and lighter.

"Hah," Smoker muttered gruffly, clamping the cigarette between his teeth and lighting it. "Even if I wanted to stop I couldn't."

"Stop what?" Smoker jumped as he saw the little Hunter squatting by him. A huge puff of smoke exhaled from Smoker's nose as he registered the Hunter.

"You're meant to be in bed!" he said, but only halfheartedly. Hunter stuck his tongue out again, before staring at the cigarette.

Then he picked up a stick and stuck it in his mouth; next Hunter did a 'derp' face and covered up one eye.

"I'm Smoker," he cried in a ridiculous voice, and scowled when a tongue slapped his cheek in anger. Smoker shushed him anxiously.

"Survivors!" he growled.

Brow furrowed, he listened intently. He could hear boot steps, the clanks of guns, the smell of pills, and the stench of blood. The Survivors.