Schirach quietly ordered another drink and smiled at the barkeep in a way that would have worked better when she was Schiele. But the barkeep didn't flinch; he'd been sliding drinks in front of Death for longer than he'd had her as a customer.

Death was beside her, as usual, which left a peculiar gap that Schirach felt no need to have filled.

Not when she was there to listen to the music and drink and marvel at how she'd been accepted into the daily grind of Vanguard.

She'd repay all the kindness, of course.

And every drink and song.