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Faith likes Germany mostly because German is easy to pick up and the beer is tasty and nobody much looks at her sideways, since goth punk will never die in the heart of Berlin.

Faith isn't actually goth or punk, at least not most of the time--she works a little too closely with death to be all that ironic about it--but she sometimes likes the music, likes the beat, the driving pulse of it.

She particularly likes when American bands will come over because she doesn't miss America much but she misses English and that sort of unspoken cultural connection that she's never been able to establish with most Germans. Granted, this is probably because she's largely nocturnal and hangs around with a lot of women who spend their lives hunting down creatures in order to kill them--not a breeding ground for the socially apt--but all the same. She misses that.

So when My Chem comes she goes more out of the yearning for songs that actually make lyrical sense to her than some sort of fondness for the band. She's only heard a few of their songs. She liked them, but whatever, music is music, something she uses to get outside of her head.

It's odd, then, how she finds herself actually inside the lyrics, not just the language but the actual meaning. She's not a listener, not like that, but Gerard Way evidently knows how to get her attention because she finds herself at the front of the pit without knowing how she got there and tomorrow, tomorrow she'll worry that she left bodies behind, but tonight she's just gonna look her fill.

That should be the end of it. She should go hunting after that, then spend the day sleeping off the dual highs of the concert and the killings but in the morning she finds herself unable to contemplate sleep so she slips off to the coffeehouse she prefers, heads to her favorite booth only to find it occupied.

She's going to ask if she can share--Germans aren't so selfish with their space as Americans when she realizes she's looking at the same man who's kept her up all night, who's fueled her way to the coffee. He looks up and she finds herself saying, "Uh, sorry, didn't mean--" which is odd, because she's not much of one for apologies, not for the small things.

Then he smiles at her and she doesn't worry so much about what she has or hasn't said. It's hard to worry in the face of a smile like that. He asks, "This your spot?"

"I can go for a walk."

"It's nice out there."

She's a Slayer and they don't have lovers, not real ones, for good reason, but she's also gotten used to following her instincts so she says, "Wanna join?"

"I miss people who can speak English who aren't in my band," he tells her.

She says, "I hear that."

It really is nice out.

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Skin by egelantier, photo by microbophile