[ Ben rubs the back of his neck; this is the problem with talking to anyone who is not-family. He knows that pretty much everything in his life, everything about him, deviates so far from the norm. Should he lie? Stay silent? Be honest and let the chips fall where they may? How to explain that he had been kept on a planned, healthy, optimized diet because he and his siblings weren't considered people with tastes and preferences of their own, but a team of weapons, that had to be kept in prime working order?

Instead he gives a little shrug, eyes sliding away as he settles for a little less of the truth, but the truth nonetheless: ]

Wasn't exactly a taste thing. Healthy food was kinda all that was on the table - [ A pause, for a brief but bright grin at his very bad pun. ] - and honestly, I didn't get a lot of takeout opportunities before I died. Doesn't look like that's likely to change soon, in this place.

[ Maybe, he knows, he shouldn't talk about dying like that, to random people. But he wouldn't know how to begin talking around that. And after all, he'd said he hadn't eaten a thing in sixteen fourteen years. This guy must have guessed something unusual was at play. ]

That's a lot of jobs. What'd you do?

[ Ben is suddenly self-conscious of the fact that he has had precisely zero jobs, ever. Responsibilities, yes. Tasks. Duties that he takes very seriously. But he's never filled out an application. Never gotten a paycheck. Never been an employee. Just one of a thousand normal things he has never experienced. ]