It was an empty life, after the Apocalypse.
War was lost.
She roamed across battlefields, in trenches and down dark alleyways. She was free from her body, spreading around the world, creeping into minds as a tempting thought, a red rage. Anger spread like a fire, as she vaguely missed the flaming sword, still remembering the smell of charcoal, the warmth against her hands.
God, it had felt good. To be so alive, scarlet hair blowing in the wind, red lips chapped from the cold, holding the sword that was too hot and her anger that was even hotter.
Now, she was nothing but a breath of warm air, a shadow of darkness on the horizon. She was nothing but a bad temper, a shadow resigned to petty arguments. The war zones just weren't quite the same, without the strange woman with the red hair roaming across the trenches, heels sinking into the mud. Nobody knew who she was, and yet, they knew she should have been there.
She wasn't. She was somewhere else, waiting, watching, and waiting some more.
After a while, she managed to find a body, sick of floating as a red mist. The new one was merely a shadow, a meek, mousy-haired figure, with watery blue eyes like bullet holes. The sort of girl men wouldn't give a second glance, ignoring her with the swipe of a hand. War found that it was rather convenient, having them resign you from their thoughts with a disapproving glance. It made things so much easier for her.
She walked the battlefields in flat-heeled shoes, and then, with a wink made for a face far more attractive, disappeared.
She wasn't lost. No, she was looking.
He wandered across grimy streets, where the flies buzzed and last week's trash was smeared across the road. Picking through trash cans and sleeping among infestations of maggots that crawled into his form that was no longer viable as skin. He emitted the scent of drain water and burnt plastic, making the residents shut their windows and spray too much air freshener, attempting to drown the horrid stench that didn't ever go away.
"I'll pick it up later." He whispered into ears. "It's blown away, I can't get it now."
Every time, it always worked. He couldn't believe how lazy they all were, how ignorant.
It made his job all the more easier. So much, that actually, he craved some challenge. Not just petty trash, stink and flies. He wanted something real, something big.
But that could never happen, not unless he found the others. And God knows where they were. Probably off doing things more important, more big, while he was stuck with rustling plastic and insects. He was only Pollution, after all, and nobody ever realised quite how powerful he was until it was too late.
He though back to the Apocalypse, that glorious time. He remembered the feeling of the crown on his head, the shine fading in his touch. Ah, it was so beautiful. Too bad it was gone, just like everything he touched.
"I had a body once, you know." He said to a fly on what could vaguely represent a shoulder. "I rode a motorcycle. And I had a crown. It was real silver."
He stopped talking, and realised what he had to do. And he stood up, shape morphing into the one he had once owned, so long ago. A wry smile appeared on his face, and his yellow hair whitened, tarnished like the crown had.
He was Pollution, after all. And he wasn't going to let it be too late.
There was a new diet pill on the market. And it was huge. Nobody really knew who was selling it, but perhaps it were something that sounded a little like 'Stable', maybe. Or maybe not.
But hey, it worked. And in the world of faceless consumerism, the people didn't care who made it. As long as it worked, side effects were irrelevant.
Famine sat behind a desk, long fingers pressed together. Twirling a chalky pill in his hand, he looked out at everything he had created, the company that no one ever remembered.
He bit the white tablet as hard as he could, and it crumbled in his teeth, nothing but ash. It tasted like nothing, because that's what it was. And yet, millions were taking the tiny little taste of perish that he'd made, shrinking and shrinking until nothing was left.
"Silly, stupid humans." He purred, staring out at all the people shrinking in clothing size and brain function. "Don't ever even realise what they're doing, until it's too late."
And frankly, it was getting boring. What was the point of sitting around as all the people around turned into skeletons? What was the point of watching them boast to their friends, showing off ribcages and collarbones, crumbling like the pill in his hands? He wanted something more. He needed to find the others.
It was damn boring, after the Apocalypse, and he wanted it back.
He took the pill off the market, and bought four new motorcycles.
Death watched as they all prepared, each one thinking of the Apocalypse and missing what had been. When he saw them all yearning, praying, wishing, he granted their wishes, like the messed-up god he was.
And then he put on his best cloak, and prepared himself for the ride.
They all found themselves where it had all begun, the airport base which was engrained into all of their memories. War was the first, thin hair waving distantly in the breeze, as she filled with nostalgia.
Then it was Famine, and then Pollution, and finally, with the sweep of a dark cloak, Death.
"Alright." War grinned, bubbling with a strange excitement, a happiness she hadn't felt for too long.
"Nearly didn't recognise you, Red." Famine said, even though he had. There was something about the way her eyes spoke of danger, that he couldn't miss.
"Same to you." War replied, eyeing him. For though he looked the same, there was something in his gait, his manner, that had changed.
Pollution beamed at the group, sinking form straightening into the young man with the white hair, and he felt so alive.
"Good to see you." He said, to no one in particular. And Death straightened his robe, then waited for someone to say something.
"You know..." War began. "One thing I think we've forgotten is, we don't need an Apocalypse to still be us."
And the motorbikes that had suddenly appeared roared, agreeing as they rode off, to God knows where, to be seen again, sometime.
It was a full life, after the Apocalypse.