Some people think of Lazarus as a nosy person who has no business poking and inquiring about such personal details. Others think of him as a genuinely good listener who is interested in helping. Maybe both are a little bit true.

"I suppose, curiosity aside, it doesn't matter in the end," he says softly. "Death is, in the end, that great equalizer and final result, and unles someone is at clear fault, there's no point dwelling on the irreversible details. If you cherish her memory, that's the best shot at immortality mere humans have, right?"

He stares right back; he knows when he's being studied and makes no effort to ignore it when it happens. Maybe it's a challenge, too, wondering if he'll ask the obvious questions about a life that's left marks on his skin and behind his hollow, dark eyes. Instead, it's a fairly harmless one, even if the answer's not one he likes facing head on.

"I like it," he allows, still making no move to take his change. "But lately I haven't been so great at it. My attempts seem to backfire spectacularly. At best, they result in harmless embarrassment, and at worst... well, things get worse. Before the War, I guess things were different, and that's the only reason anyone listens to what I say now."