Z is patrolling with his tray, trying to stake out a good spot, when he spots someone familiar in what might just be the worst one. It’s not even necessary — there’s still plenty of space at adjoining tables.

He weighs his options for a second, glancing back and forth, then moves in to tap him on the shoulder.

“Hey — if you want somebody to watch your back, I found a decent spot.”

-oh, right. Humans, who expect him to interact with them. Virgil tries to get the ol' brain back into gear. It's slow-going, because he's been allowing it to grow rusty due to lack of use whenever possible. It's good practice.

"I'm good," he says. "I'm practicing for my starring role as mal food in this year's production of- whatever."

As usual, the joke peters out before he figures out how to end it. Virgil is not a stellar humorist, just a sad boy who's too self-aware to be properly goth about it. He should try being goth- this kid looks- goth-ish. Gothesque. Somewhere near goth.