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"I don't really care for spicy food. Never acquired the taste, I guess. My dad couldn't stand it." "Mine doesn't like it too much either. Gives him gas. But my mom loves it." "You drink?" She looked at him. "Drink? Do you? I think we're a bit young for that, aren't we?" "Hey, I drink all the time. Alicia and Jerome wouldn't have it any other way." Rose laughed. "Those two . . . they may fight well, but I wouldn't ask them for advice on much else. I wonder what Michael sees in that woman? He's so much more disciplined and serious than her." "I think it's because neither of them judges the other harshly for their faults. That kind of tolerance seems hard to find for people like them. But what's wrong with me drinking? Everybody else does it." "What are you, sixteen?" "So? We kill people, don't we?" Rose shrugged, her mood darkening. "Well, just because we've lost some of our innocence doesn't mean we have to give up all the rest of it." Hearing the change in her tone, Timmy smiled awkwardly. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. Sorry." "It's okay. You have a point--we do kill people. Are you a virgin, Timmy?" He stared at her, his eyes wide with surprise. She chuckled inwardly; she'd definitely gotten him back for upsetting her. "O-of course not!" he stammered. "Michael gets me plenty of girls!" "I'm a virgin." "I figured as much. You don't drink or have sex . . . what kind of mercenary are you?" "A better fighter than you," she teased. "You think you're better than everyone else, because you're so pure?" She did often find the amoral behavior of the other Blood Vines disturbing, but it wasn't as if she didn't feel guilty herself over all the people she killed--she was better at that than most of her comrades. "Hey, I've got to have something to feel good about myself." She decided to change the subject. "So what do you like to do?" "I don't know. I don't really have any hobbies--I just do whatever seems like it could be interesting at the moment. Michael thinks I have a talent for song, though." Rose waited. "Well, sing something!" In a low, serious voice he began, "Across the starlit road, the old hermit carries his load, burden he can never take home. Always he must roam, for his eternal sin, that sacrifice for his greatest win. Can't forget, can't deny, all he can do is cry . . ." "Okay, enough," Rose muttered. "What, no good?" It surprised her that Timmy had heard. She took a deep breath. "No, you're great. You're just making me sad . . . go on, though. It was really good." "Sensitive girl, aren't you?" "That song struck a nerve. I've a few tough regrets of my own." "You're like, fifteen!" "Well, we do kill people." # Rose listened to the rest of Timmy's poignant song about a great hero who had sacrificed his love to save his country, holding back tears. Then she asked him to sing a happier song, and he obliged with a tale of a barmaid who fell in love with a prince and set out to win his heart. But when he finished the comic tale, she found that he knew no more complete songs. "Well, singing hasn't exactly been my main job," he said. "You could be really good, if you keep learning." "Wine?" he offered, holding out his canteen. "I told you I don't drink." "You look uncomfortable, though. That gut wound must be bothering you." Rose reached hesitantly for the container and took a sip. "Okay, that didn't help much."
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