Jenni seemed to have figured out what he meant, and expressed her good mood in a manner that Suicide decided he could definitely become accustomed to. He was still wearing a grin when the door slid open and the Fern interrupted. His hand automatically went halfway to his knife--inevitable when something surprised him--but as it explained, its psychic 'voice' carrying just the tiniest hint of amusement, he understood what was going on.
Oh, he knew that one. The addition of the banner was a nice touch, he had to admit, but it was still a routine that was old even in his day. Didn't mean it wasn't funny, though.
"Someone once accused me of being shameful," Suicide observed, glancing around and taking his bearings. "He's dead now. Hey, Jenni, which way is the lounge?"
When she pointed it out, he nodded and took stock of himself and his resources. The Fern wouldn't be much help, but then plants never were. (Suicide was not racist or speciesist. Kingdomist, absolutely.) He himself was already a rumpled mess, and his hair . . . ahhh, the hair. Like Dienekes always said: nothing like long hair to make a handsome man more comely or an ugly man more terrifying. He ruffled his hair a little more, giving it the extra volume it needed to be really Wolverine-shaggy and manelike, and made sure the sleeves of his uniform shirt were pulled up for that 'no time, things to do' touch. The knife, in its curious white leather sheath, he shifted to his hip: "Very Byron Sully," as Dio had once said.
Taken all together, he was appeared the antithesis of someone who would even be caught in the same zipcode as the concept of shame.
"C'mon, Jenni," he said. "Let's go say hello." With a small grunt (no comments, please, it was still early for him) he picked Jenni up entirely. There was another of those wonderful surprised squeaks from her, but it didn't seem to bother her too much: it was obvious she'd sussed out what he was thinking, and probably shared it. Suicide arranged her as artistically as he could, finally settling on a hold that left Jenni halfway between bridal-style and a '50s damsel being kidnapped by the monster of the week. He strode off down the corridor, balancing her fairly easily and feeling decidedly cheerful. Rubbing his excellent night in the faces of everyone in the lounge sounded like a good start to the day.
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