He shrugged. "He's another one of you, so get used to him."
"Ok." He caught the stranger's coat-sleeve again as he turned away. "And just who are we anyway?"
"You?" The stranger turned again, a strange feral smile twisting his lips. "Don't you know? You're the Four-" He stopped.
"Four what?" prompted the kid.
"I'm not bringing horses into this," the stranger muttered, seemingly to himself. "No mangaka can draw them worth a damn, not to speak of the terrible jerky animation." He raised his voice. "Let's call you... the Four Bishounen."
"Wow," the kid breathed, eyes widening. "Can I be War?"
"I am going to be Death," he announced, hastily. A hand the size and weight of a bulldozer's shovel fell on his shoulder, driving him to his knees. "Er," he said, looking up at the expressionless eyes. "That is, I really want to be, er, Famine. _You_ should definately be Death."
"Bishounen," the stranger repeated evenly. "Not Horsemen. Angsty, Brooding, Cute, and Snarky."
"I'm not snarky!" the kid exclaimed indignantly.
They looked at him, from spiky bleached hair to glittery silver wheels.
"Oh," he said, in a small voice. He bit his lip. "So... he's," his finger pointed at the living wall, "Brooding, and he is _totally_ Angsty-"
"I'm not-" he started, then wilted as every eye fell on him. "Okay," he grumbled, hunching his shoulders. "But I have good reasons! I'd tell you, but it would be too much for my cursed, suffering soul."
"Riiight," said the kid. He turned to the stranger. "So you're Snarky?"
The stranger shook his silver head. "I will find Snarky," he said, "when the stars are right." He looked mildly peeved. "That should be around one in the morning, when the writer is on her fifth cup of coffee and is able to tackle his dialogue."
"So if you aren't Snarky," the kid asked, brow furrowing.
"Me?" The stranger smiled that white, feral smile again. "I am the one who has been prophesised. The one who was but a distant rumour that fanboys laughed at, not seeing the infiltration of their beloved dens until it was too late. I am the one who replaced A4 magazines with small, exorbitantly priced books that are even printed the right way round. It is I who stalk the sweaty conventions, so that masses of the unwashed draw back in fear and loathing from my lovingly-sewn cosplay robes. I am the one who brings pages and pages of slash fanfiction in response to their cautious Googling for their beloved characters." He dipped his head, so that his sunglasses slid down his nose, revealing impossibly large, vivid eyes. Tiny starbursts blazed within them. "I am the Anti-Comic, and before me all things shall be made anew."
He straightened again, shrugging, and pushed his glasses up his nose.
"Also," he said, "I am a total authorial-insert character. Never mind. Shall we go remake the world now?"
Re: Part 4
"Ok." He caught the stranger's coat-sleeve again as he turned away. "And just who are we anyway?"
"You?" The stranger turned again, a strange feral smile twisting his lips. "Don't you know? You're the Four-" He stopped.
"Four what?" prompted the kid.
"I'm not bringing horses into this," the stranger muttered, seemingly to himself. "No mangaka can draw them worth a damn, not to speak of the terrible jerky animation." He raised his voice. "Let's call you... the Four Bishounen."
"Wow," the kid breathed, eyes widening. "Can I be War?"
"I am going to be Death," he announced, hastily. A hand the size and weight of a bulldozer's shovel fell on his shoulder, driving him to his knees. "Er," he said, looking up at the expressionless eyes. "That is, I really want to be, er, Famine. _You_ should definately be Death."
"Bishounen," the stranger repeated evenly. "Not Horsemen. Angsty, Brooding, Cute, and Snarky."
"I'm not snarky!" the kid exclaimed indignantly.
They looked at him, from spiky bleached hair to glittery silver wheels.
"Oh," he said, in a small voice. He bit his lip. "So... he's," his finger pointed at the living wall, "Brooding, and he is _totally_ Angsty-"
"I'm not-" he started, then wilted as every eye fell on him. "Okay," he grumbled, hunching his shoulders. "But I have good reasons! I'd tell you, but it would be too much for my cursed, suffering soul."
"Riiight," said the kid. He turned to the stranger. "So you're Snarky?"
The stranger shook his silver head. "I will find Snarky," he said, "when the stars are right." He looked mildly peeved. "That should be around one in the morning, when the writer is on her fifth cup of coffee and is able to tackle his dialogue."
"So if you aren't Snarky," the kid asked, brow furrowing.
"Me?" The stranger smiled that white, feral smile again. "I am the one who has been prophesised. The one who was but a distant rumour that fanboys laughed at, not seeing the infiltration of their beloved dens until it was too late. I am the one who replaced A4 magazines with small, exorbitantly priced books that are even printed the right way round. It is I who stalk the sweaty conventions, so that masses of the unwashed draw back in fear and loathing from my lovingly-sewn cosplay robes. I am the one who brings pages and pages of slash fanfiction in response to their cautious Googling for their beloved characters." He dipped his head, so that his sunglasses slid down his nose, revealing impossibly large, vivid eyes. Tiny starbursts blazed within them. "I am the Anti-Comic, and before me all things shall be made anew."
He straightened again, shrugging, and pushed his glasses up his nose.
"Also," he said, "I am a total authorial-insert character. Never mind. Shall we go remake the world now?"