It was fitting, in its way, the two so-modern predators seated at a new feeding ground, and in the heart of the meat packing district. Media enjoyed the irony as she settled back into her chair, long legs crossed languidly as she watched Marijuana settle himself back, behind all those masks that they were all so good at. The price of divinity in the modern age, or something, Media was far more interested in the smooth face that Marijuana presented when discussing his husband, the Opiates. She hadn’t expected anything less. Allowing the kiss, she tilted her head and soaked in the Drug Prince’s moment of submission. He played the game so much better than most, the balance of arrogance and subservience; he knew this dance, but then, so did she. And Media had been subverting steps since long before he had come into being. As she rested her chin on fingers that he’d kissed, she allowed that he was one of the most gifted partners she’d danced with, “I know, darling. I hope you’ll give Heroin my warmest regards, though. He’s been rather edgy around me since after the unpleasant backlash at the end of the ‘90s.” The light in her eyes was wicked as her purr, but her focus rested largely on the question of the deceased mortal. For a remarkably intelligent god, Marijuana had still managed to allow something so… transitory to burrow under his skin. It was far more foolish than Media could condone; what had he been thinking? Or rather, not thinking, as the case more likely was.
The smile that snaked across her lips was fully predatory. Oh yes, one of the very best dance partners she’d had. Media allowed her attention to drift towards a waiter, and for all his eagerness in obliging, the mortal fled for her coffee and Marijuana’s drink but she kept her attention on the room, the flow of servers and customers and ebb of conversations and music of phones, texts, newspaper rustles and menus shifting and slipping through fingers. The most powerful deity, it was a nice phrase, but she knew what she was, even if not always who and the type of power that she wielded – Jess James, Bonnie and Clyde, Dillinger, Bathory, Billy the Kid and Blackbeard, to say nothing of Bloody Mary, Crane and his Horsemen, the figures whose mortality had long since faded into pure legend. Mortals needed their creations and Media found the constructs entertaining in their own right. But Marijuana didn’t know that. She settled her full attention onto Marijuana again, grey eyes breaking him into component bits, an eye twitch, a rhythm of breaths, a single hair rising. “You already know the answers, Marijuana,” she spoke in terrible light, an unflinching sun that could burn a plant’s leaves as easily as feed them. “What you want to ask is would I bring a mortal to life; would I create something from nothing? Your Dave, as it were.”
She was gentle again for the waiter who returned, wrapped her arms around the hot ceramic mug of her coffee and sipped slowly. “Mm, Columbian blend. You should try it, Mari – your husband has always had an appreciation for strains south of the border.” The cup of cream was cold and she idly stirred it into the rich coffee, Dave’s image appeared in shades of black and brown and beige as she slid the mug to Marijuana. “And the answer is yes.”