Day 4

Groceries. Though Marceline didn't share many of the same needs as the various denizens of the Candy Kingdom, there were still a number of things she required to continue living a relatively convenient and calm life. In addition to the basic household amenities, she had gathered a rather impressive arrangement of red things: several cartons of strawberries, a couple of rather plump tomatoes, a can of cranberry sauce, the severed rinds of various exotic cheeses; bountiful grapefruits, red peppers and onions—apples and plenty of raw meat, as well as red frostings, fillings and icing, and even a small bottle of red food coloring, as shameful as it was.

As an undead being, she didn't exactly need to eat, but if she didn't have any red pigment for a while, she would start to feel weaker, irritable—more so than usual—and dizzy, which was accompanied by some sharp, decidedly unpleasant fluctuating pain in her stomach. She would survive, but the experience was often unbearable.

It was difficult not to notice the hordes of children running around, with an equivalent amount of parents chasing them down, yelling at them in atomic fits of rage, or simply just ignoring them. There were people shouting or laughing into their phones, people rummaging through shelves and refrigerators; there were people who were not so subtly shoplifting, and employees who moved back and forth between aisles, restocking snack bags that had just been lifted. It even appeared that there was a homeless man sleeping in one of the far corners of the room. At least, Marceline hoped he was asleep.

There were just so many people. She would've expected such a voluminous population in a larger establishment, but the store's one cashier, one register and five aisles of foodstuffs simply couldn't contain it. The anarchic throng of voices coalesced to form one horrible mass—a steady, monotonous drone that beat relentlessly against her eardrums and worked its way into her skull. Had the ceiling always been that low?

Her thoughts were interrupted by a small girl running into her leg and taking off. Marceline shifted awkwardly in response, offering an uncertain, half-hearted apology that went unheard. She would easily outlive the child, not to mention any kids of her own she might have. She sighed and got into the mercifully short line for checkout. Not so merciful however, was the conflict going on at the register. One just like every other contrived convenience store conflict that inevitably solved nothing and only made the process exponentially more excruciating for everyone involved.

"…I figured I could leave my wallet here for five minutes and you would at least watch it for me, seeing how little else you do." The aging woman moved in slow, visibly painful intervals, but with violent, passionate intent.

"We're sorry, ma'am, but store policy states that all customers' personal belongings are their own responsibility. If you had asked me to watch it, I gladly would've, but I just don't remember you stopping by."

And of course this was holding up the line, which only made the people behind and in front of Marceline shout louder, angrier, and with more obscenities. The drone became a nauseating, rhythmic pulsation.

"Don't remember?" The woman spat, disregarding her growing number of detractors. "I walked right past you! That's the problem with your generation, you know, never paying attention to your surroundings."

"I'm sorry, ma'am," The clerk said again, displaying his almost saint-like patience. "Would you like me to call the police for you?"

"No, because I caught a glimpse of the thief right before she ran off!" She spun about as quickly as her stale, arthritic candy-joints would allow her to, and pointed straight at Marceline. "Give me back my wallet, globdurnit!"

Up until this point, the vampire had just been trying to block out the whole ordeal. She tried to breathe evenly, despite the fact that it was not necessary for her survival. It wasn't working very well.

"What…?" She was only vaguely aware of the situation. "You…think…I—stole—"

"I saw you do it, don't bother lying! I know your type—I can tell you're a criminal just by looking at you. That filthy, disheveled hair, that pale skin—"

"I'm not a thief," Marceline wanted to sound furious and indignant, but instead her voice came out shaky, with a touch of fear. "I'm not a criminal—"

"If you're so sure you didn't do it then turn out your pockets!" She turned to the other shoppers, as if she expected them to rally around her. "She's hiding it in her clothes!"

"I'm not doing that, you— you—crazy old hag!" But the next thing she knew, the woman had thrown herself at her, screaming and clawing futilely at her clothes with her stubby, ineffectual fingers.

"Get off of me!"

The woman was shoved hard, falling to the tile floor on her rear. At this point in time, the force of the impact caused a small, brown leather pouch to fall from her pocket. She turned slowly, curiously, to inspect the familiar object.

"…Oh." She scanned the observant faces of the crowd and felt a twinge of embarrassment, if not remorse.

And then there was Marceline, whose entire body was trembling, lungs expanding and contracting at irregular pace.

"…What."

The woman could only stare dumbly ahead in response.

"It was in your pocket the whole time?!"

She recoiled, shrinking away from the suddenly intimidating night-dweller.

"What is WRONG with you?!"

The woman—who still seemed old despite being very likely hundreds of years younger than her—cowered, raising a single, quivering hand to shield her face.

"Please…take whatever you want. Just don't hurt me…"

"Wait, what?" Confusion and mild panic swiftly reverted back to anger. "…No. No, that's not fair. You're not allowed to be the victim here. You—"

Marceline stopped when she noticed the huddled form at her feet, whimpering pathetically, tears running down her face. Mostly everyone was staring at them now, though no one said anything. Her entire body drooped, all of the air leaving her in one breath. She stared at the floor, still shaking uncontrollably.

"Ma'am?"

"Huh?" She looked around in a disoriented haze, trying to find the source of the voice.

"I can take you now, if you'd like." It was the clerk behind the counter, large brown paper shopping bags at the ready. His face looked consolatory.

"Wha—I—uh—" She floundered, trying to make the words make sense. "…Thanks." She stepped around the kneeling woman and began to ring up her things.

(Transition)

When Marceline arrived, Finn was waiting by the door. She walked past him and collapsed onto the tree fort's one large sofa.

"I'm sorry Finn," She said. "Can we just play Super Guts Punch tonight? I'm not really up to having a lesson right now."

"That's cool, that's cool," He nodded rigorously and took a seat next to her. "The original?"

"Mmmm…not the original. The spin-off, with…multiplayer party games?"

Finn's face practically supernovaed at this news, his eyes blossoming to spiraling Milky Way galaxies.

"Awesome."

(Transition)

Finn, Jake, and Marceline were all huddled around a smiling, giggling BMO, swinging controller clutching arms in wide, animated arcs, intently invested in the on-screen action. Marceline gained a significant strategic advantage over her floppy-eared friend and cried out triumphantly.

"Suck it, Jake! Eat my cowtapult!"