A day trip to London, and subsequently hell.

Pestilence grimaced as he stood in one of London’s less glamorous boroughs. The air smelled like horse shit and misery. Men, women, and children alike grasped at his immculately tailored trousers, their own rags all but falling off their withering figures. He smiled kindly down on a man of indeterminant age, his face ravaged by hardship and desperation.

“All I ask is for a single penny, sir.” The man pleaded, “Enough for bread, and a glimmer of hope for my family.”

“Not an unreasonable request,” Pestilence conceded, as he kicked the man into a puddle of rainwater, and what would be assumed by the optimist to be mud. He pressed his heel into the man’s temple, and with it, the man’s face dug a groove in the dirt, “But I am here to meet a friend, and I don’t think she’d appreciate my undoing her good work.” Pestilence slid his hands into his pockets, and began to walk away, before stopping abruptly and turning back. “So don’t tell anyone, ” he whispered as he stroked his beard, tossing a penny into the puddle with the groaning beggar.

Not three steps later, a melody of scorn and amusement escaped from the dark alleyway next to him, “Soft, as always,” it said.

“Enemies bring War, and I don’t intend on fraternizing with him today,” Pestilence responded.

“Diplomacy with the impoverished is a futile endeavour,” Famine smiled as she stepped from the shadows, and into the grey haze of daylight. “Like I said, soft.”

“How have you been?”

“Productive, and yourself?”

“Bored. I’ve been wandering around China aimlessly.”

“I take it this visit isn’t just social, then.” Famine’s eyes glimmered an odd, indistinguishable shade, “What are you planning, Pestilence?”

“You’ve done well devastating this disgusting city,” he mused, as a small rat scurried by him. He scooped it up by the tail, and held its seizing body in front of his face, “But I think it’s time I take the seed of suffering you planted, and nurture it into something the aristocracy can fear.” Pestilence planted a kiss upon the rat’s mangy fur, and tossed it aside, “would you like to invite me in for tea?”

Famine gestured for him to follow, and slid back into the crevice from which she had emerged. She led him through a series of winding back streets, and neglected buildings. He was careful not to let his shoulders brush the filthy walls as he admired one of the most beautiful cities he had witnessed. No effective sewage, babies born among the horse’s feed, sex and crime a more common currency than gold or silver.

Eventually, Famine settled in front of a rickety door wasting away with rot, the building leaning so far over the road, it appeared to be watching anyone that traversed it. “This is home,” she said as she undid the lock and chain wrapped around the door’s handle.

“A resourceful girl like you could certainly stay wherever she pleased,” Pestilence’s disgust dripped off his tongue.

“I take my work seriously,” she responded, her face blank.

“Still, it is a poor habit to bring work home. It’s about balance.” He stepped through the threshold into the barren house, “Do you take no comforts?”

“You’ve developed quite the tedious taste since that Justinian business in 540. Rubbing elbows with emperors has made you pretentious,” she chuckled, “what need do I have for comforts?”

“The burning of Rome was good work. I think we deserve some reward for our efforts.” He said, settling into a creaky chair.

“The burning of Rome was reward enough,” she responded, setting a cup of cold tea in front of him, and sitting across the table.

He sipped it with trepidation, “I don’t suspect you have any sugar, then? Will you leave this place once my work is done?”

Famine rested her face in her hand contentedly, “With your dedication, I assume you’ll render staying unnecessary. Though, I may keep this house as a vacation home, visit once in awhile. It is a wonderful city, isn’t it?”

Pestilence knocked back his tea, eager to get to work. He rubbed his hands together, and grabbed his overcoat from its hook. “It was nice seeing you, Famine. We should do this more often.”

“Proper balance would seem not to share that view,” she whispered with kind warning. Pestilence simply nodded.

“Do you think your hospitality could extend to gracing me with directions to the nearest market?”

He sauntered down the street, curiously eyeing the stalls, and trying to settle the squirming rodents that filled his pockets. He pretended to be interested in buying fruits, slipping the rats into baskets, and under wagons as he bowed cordially, and purchased produce. He granted them both with a deadly secret, and his own famous zeal, and so they scurried on with their business, as he scurried along with his.

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Four years later, Pestilence stood outside Famine’s door once again, adjusting his collar, and fixing his hair in a puddle’s reflection. The door swung open just as he prepared to knock. “It’s time to move on, ” he said.

“I bought sugar,” she responded, “come inside.”

Elsewhere, Death’s eyes fluttered open lazily. He sat up, and reclined against the old oak under which he had slept. He stretched, and lit his pipe, “So soon?” he yawned, scratching his head, “I wonder where those guys find all their motivation. Ten more minutes, then I’ll get to work.” With that, he was snoring once again, and the black plague raged on for another year.