'Scuse me, [Ryder mumbles, turning herself sideways so she can skirt around the pair shuffling unevenly together like a couple of bros out drinking too long into the night. She felt more than a little silly for trying to stick to the sidewalk, but it wasn't like she had much of a choice when the street was clogged up with cars that had clearly funneled people into their demise long ago. A few undead still moved through what space they could, but after scanning the condition of the vehicles, Ryder determines that most of them have crawled their way either over or under. Scrapes of black, rotten blood were all over the place. Torn clothes and unidentifiable lumps were present at a glance, too. Grimly, she reminds herself that she's seen worse much closer, exhales, and hurries along.
Anyone else in her shoes would have found themselves ripped apart in seconds, blood drowning out screams. The undead she passes so cavalierly don't so much as grunt in acknowledgement.] Ye-up. Feels just like I'm back on fucking campus. See ya, fellas.
[Of course, if it was actually like the good old days, Ryder wouldn't have been able to speak at all. Back then, she'd done everything she could to avoid the attention of her peers, head ducked low and textbooks clung to her chest. It's probably a sign that she's a horrible person that she feels so much more comfortable now that everyone around her is dead. The times she does come across survivors, she still tends to keep her distance -- for her own sake, mostly. People weren't just dangerous, they were annoying, gross, needy, hateful... It was better not to interfere.
Sometimes she'd hear the gunshots and shouting later and wonder if there was anything she could have done. Most of the time she'd hunker down for what she believed was around an hour, then head over to where the disturbance was to pick through whatever scraps were left. Whether they'd escaped or turned, Ryder hadn't found a living person after one of these incidents yet. A gun and ammo, though... Sometimes tools. Food, of course, but she usually wound up leaving it with the backpacks so that someone else that couldn't as easily wander into the dangerous, crowded spaces could pick it up and live another day. As long as they were away from her, that was fine. In the end, she'd still find their body to scavenge.]
Wish I knew a poem about vultures. I mean, there's that one, but it doesn't really fit. Too noble for me... I guess I've got 'Writers are sort of like vultures, but with fewer ethics.' Can't fucking say she was wrong, whoever she was, huh? Don't think this shit was exactly what she meant... God, was it Libby? No, fuck, Libba Bray. That was it. I think.
[Lately, though, things had been quiet. Maybe that's why it's such a shock when, while stepping through the shattered window without a care for how it scraped at her skin, adding bright, fresh red to the crusty smears of inky black, Ryder finds herself confronted by a rumbling growl that didn't match what she took as background noise, now. She stares, dumbfounded, at the rail-thin dog standing over a messy pile that must be hiding something it's decided to try its luck at eating. Her words are more of a tight exhale than a whisper.]
Holy fuck.
[A dog. A real dog. It was probably cute once upon a time, and a fantasy plays through her head where she's able to close the gap between them, share the resources she can to earn its trust and bolster its health, then walk side by side with a furry companion. They'd curl together at night, and on the days where the clumsily crafted statue that she strived to be broke down, it would lick her tears away.
Yeah, right. No fucking way that's happening. To her, this scraggly mutt she wants to ruffle the ears of is more dangerous than the undead. Fuck. She doesn't want to hurt it...but the glint of its teeth, it's glare, and the way its growl rattled through its whole body was screaming threat. Can she really justify surviving this long into the apocalypse, then letting a dog tear her arm off?
Okay. Okay, fuck. Fuck, she's frozen in place. The dog takes a step, overgrown nails clicking against the floor, and Ryder has to suppress a strangled squeal. Well, if she screamed, she supposed that the zombies would take care of the problem for her, drawn by her voice but treating her as if she wasn't there... Awful. No, she can't do that.
...Even though it means that they're both stuck where they are, raggedy creature vs raggedy creature, until one of them finally breaks. Hell, maybe she'll die and someone else will finally stumble on her stash, left behind for now, and she won't be the only vulture anymore. What a happy thought while she's over here forgetting how to breathe.]
[Today he contemplates an onion of impossibility. Such a phrase evokes the days when the internet still existed and one of humanity's favorite pastimes involved the creation of posts that offered nothing but surrealist nonsense in humorous jpeg format. He is not thinking of a particular shitpost. No, what's happening here is that there are layers of many impossible things all happening at once.
It started with the unusual. He heard a human voice, a living voice, talking. He heard this voice talking a fair bit, openly and without fear. He waited to hear an answering voice, but there was nothing. And then, the impossible realization set that he didn't hear any answering snarls either.
Trying to find and keep tabs on a person without being seen is very difficult. It's even more difficult in a day and age when people are constantly on edge. More than once he's tried to help out a survivor and had to book it. He's even been shot at, though thankfully, he hasn't endured any bullet wounds since he started wearing his disguise. All in all he's expecting to encounter more of the same. Which makes it all the more surprising when he doesn't.
She's a girl. Not a child, but still young. Early twenties, if even that. He'd be stupid to assume her unarmed but... he really can't see anything. Admittedly, he is still a good distance away, spying from the shadows, from buildings he can slip into. He follows her most of the day with no intent to stop. He just can't make sense of it.
Wherever she goes, she goes unharmed. It's like the dead don't see her. It's like they don't smell her. He watches them stumble by, completely uninterested, as if she isn't made of the same stuff as that they hunt.
As if she's like him.
It's as this thought strikes that she meanders off the street. A thrill of fear runs through him that he might lose her and so lose the answer to so many questions. In his race to catch up, he doesn't think about any questions she might have in turn. He races to a shattered window and even from a ways back he can see black... and red. Fresh blood. But from what? Her? No. Impossible. It has to be old, something rotten in, because the blood doesn't compel at all. He doesn't smell anything that-
Oh. Oh, there it is. A faint scent. But not human. He reaches the window and climbs through, wincing when it tugs at his guise. Still, he presses on, but he doesn't need to go far. He hears the growl. He sees the girl.
But that's just it. He only sees the girl. He doesn't feel that pull, that hunger. It doesn't narrow his focus to pinpoint. He doesn't have to try and push it off. It's not there. At least, not for her.
The dog, on the other hand, the dog is food. The dog is blood. The dog is life. The poor damn dog that he would've loved to bring in to his life and curl up with, surely, when he was alive, is making a big mistake.
The dog growls at her, stepping forward. She doesn't move. He watches her, the dog, not breathing, and he can see what's about to happen but she still isn't moving. He knows all to well what it looks like when a predator is ready to attack. The dog tenses, but he moves first. Stepping quick out in front of the girl, an animal snarl rips from him, challenging the poor dog. It's the greatest mercy he can offer it when he wants to draw his bow or jump straight to sinking his teeth in. He hopes it runs.]
[She's beginning to wonder if the next thing that will happen is her passing out from lack of oxygen, rather than the dog lunging at her or her making any sort of sensible decision. That might not be so bad. She wouldn't have to be conscious for her actual demise, right? And the dog doesn't die! Even if they avoided getting that tag on the corresponding site, Ryder's pretty sure there's an awful lot of other content that would need to be warned for, in this hypothetical film she's supposedly starring in. Or maybe the dog is the main character? That would explain how she's made it this far. She's nothing more than a set piece -- something that didn't matter until the script decided she was needed. For her to get taken out by Scooby-Want-Snacks over here, she needs to have survived, and thus she survived. It's really a shame no one told her what her lines are, because now she's going to oh good fucking god she needs to breathe --
Something shoots out in front of her fast enough that she has no trouble guessing what it is, but it still surprises her enough to make her jerk back from it with a gasp that squeaks on the way out like a badly played violin. The pair of snarls is almost enough to drown out her coughing. Ryder brings her arm up on automatic to muffle it further while she urges her attention back to the showdown. She's expecting a horrible squelch and a keening whimper that would haunt her for weeks in a way that desperate, human screams no longer did, but somehow...the zombie doesn't immediately attack. It's giving the dog time to snap its teeth, wrestle its nose into a grotesque upwards hook that kind of reminds her of one of those weird pig-nosed bats, and ooze drool down to the floor. It gives it time to reassess the risk-benefit of the situation it's found itself in -- which it doesn't need much of at all. Pretty quickly it decides that in order to live another day, it needs to get away from the rotting creature that wants to eat it. Snatching garbage up so it doesn't leave with less than it had before, the dog sprints further into the building somewhere, presumably the place it had broken in in the first place.]
Fuck.
[For the first time in a long time, it feels like she's hiding. However, Ryder remains still, eyes wide and stuck on the form in front of her. A...bow and quiver? Damn. That was a cool damn survivor before they stopped being alive. Except...it still isn't giving chase? What is happening. Did she pass out after all? To test the reality of the situation, Ryder takes her still-raised arm and bites hard at her hand.]
-- Gah! Fuck, son of a...
[Okay. So she's alive and awake.]
Then...what? You protecting me?
[A weird fucking progression of whatever the hell was going on, if true.]
[He hears the squeak dimly over the sounds of himself and the dog. He locked with the creature just long enough for the begging in his head to shift from please run to give me a reason to lunge. When it does actually run, he's not sure whether he's relieved or agonized. The near keen of hunger leans toward the latter but his shoulders ease.
At least, for a second. The girl speaks, reminding him or her debatable existence, and he tenses again. He turns slow. He catches the sight of her biting her hand and he has the urge to swat that hand away from her teeth, to keep her from bleeding. But that's it. There's no other urge. His face is still masked up, hiding the utter disbelief.
She's not undead. She doesn't look undead. She doesn't look like him at all. But she's not... she doesn't appeal at all... The bloody glass behind her holds more temptation. But she's got all his interest now.
He doesn't answer her question. Even if he thought to, there's really no need.]
[A beat passes while she tries to process what's happening, thoughts dim and slow enough that maybe she is part zombie. Dead brain, living body. Wouldn't that be something? No, wait, focus. Something very important just happened. When it clicks, Ryder's eyes go wide, her face flushes, and the terror she had from staring down the dog switches to something more intense -- an absolute mortification. Earth, swallow her up.]
Oh -- oh, g -- [Another coughing fit would be convenient right about now, but instead it's just her usual, pathetic throat closing up like a zipper to hide beneath.] You're -- y-you're real.
[HE'S A REAL-ASS LIVING PERSON, NOT AN UNDEAD DUDE THAT HAD SUCCUMB TO HIS FATE WITH COOL GEAR. HE'S TALKING TO HER. MAKING WORDS. THE WAY NORMAL PEOPLE DO.
How the FUCK does she make words at real, normal people? Holy shit. Oh good lord, how had she dismissed his speed and that noise so readily? Of course no zombie would come to her aid! Of course she would only be rescued by a real life protagonist!]
I'm -- m-mm? [Ah, yeah, of course. Clearly his diseased lungs trailed off before he could finish his full sentence, which obviously would be "What are you doing?" because the way she's going around makes absolutely zero sense unless you're her.] I th -- uhh. Um. I w-was just -- Sorry.
[She goes beat red. He can see the flush, the blood that should make him want to snap his jaws and do unto her what was done unto him. Should. And yet, doesn't. He doesn't feel anything with her. But she's clearly here, clearly solid. She's speaking and she has a scent, just not one that makes his hunger gnaw.
He doesn't understand anything that's happening right now. Her stammered response doesn't help in the slightest.]
... yes...? Are you...?
[Well, that question isn't any less stupid coming from him, turns out. She apologizes and he doesn't really know why. With the dog gone away, he just stares at her, disbelieving. She's not even afraid of him. Or rather, not in the mortal danger sort of way.]
How are you... doing this...? Is it... a trick...?
[...Oh. Oh no. He saw her. He could have been following her for -- for however long, and she wouldn't have a clue because she never paid attention anymore, too tired and sure of herself. Ryder swallows hard, hands trembling with the desire for something to do. Why did she leave her gun behind? What was she supposed to do if this very fast, willing-to-fight-a-dog badass decided she needs to be experimented on, or something?]
Um.
[It didn't help that she doesn't have an answer for him. A trick? Maybe. But she's not in on it.]
I'm nnnot...doing anyth-thing.
[How is it that now her heart is hammering away? It brings a whole different kind of lightheadedness than her breathless staredown had given her. Weakly, Ryder raises her hands to show her palms, a half-assed surrender since she doesn't have any better defense. If she couldn't enlist the undead to help get rid of a dog for her, how was she supposed to let herself do it for a person?
(And how was she supposed to feel about the moment she'd weighed the possibility and felt more compassion for the animal that would have eaten her face?)]
You -- following me? You know I h-haven't done sh-shit. Jus' -- scan-scanveg -- fuck. Sca-ven-ging.
[She's faltering a lot more now than she was when she seemed to be talking to herself. Because he's an undead? Even that is too muted a reaction. None of this is making sense. Still, he's not ready to back down.
At least until she calls him out.
His shoulders hike. He shakes his head, meaning to protest that he's following for any nefarious reason, but realizing that's not exactly what will come through.]
I... was but... not for anything... like that...
[Does she... not know? He literally growled in front of her. Unless she thinks he faked it. Should he let her think he faked it? He shakes his head. He's getting sidetracked.]
You're doing... something to... deter the dead...!
[There's a pause while she looks the man over again, trying to pick out how he would most likely attack her, if it came to that. The bow was unrealistic -- even in a cinematic scenario where he came from behind and used the grip part of it to choke her out, or something. He was far more likely to pull out something like a switchblade or gun hidden somewhere in his raggedy ensemble, or even go straight for hand to hand combat, with his agility. Fuck, she's so fucking stupid. Her gaze flicks down to the floor as she steels herself for another astoundingly stupid idea, then back up at him. Her jaw is set and defiant despite the tremor obvious in her tightly balled up hands.]
They don't -- stay, you know? If you -- if you aren't torn t-to. Pieces.
[Yes, this would be one of the stupidest plays Ryder could make. That's why she's trying really, really hard to be someone else. This woman doesn't have an uneven, shaggy mess from an outgrown side shave and awkward hacks with scissors now and again when she caught sight of herself and couldn't stand looking at it anymore. She'd always had longer hair, usually pulled back in a ponytail, and the scowl on her face wasn't from being a generally unpleasant bitch, but because she used to wear glasses, and they broke, and now parts of the world were fuzzy blobs. She didn't have to see the faces of the dead so clearly...and she knows that soon she'll be just another one in the crowd. Jessica, she thinks. Jessie and James always were her favorite Pokémon characters on the show.
If only Jessica's knowledge wasn't coming from Ryder's dumbass brain. At least she stutters a little less.]
Something changes. You're no good -- anymore, once you're already bit. Just -- tag, you're it. One of them-m. S'you wanna be like m-me, or you wanna lea'me th'fuck -- alone?
[His breath draws sharp. It doesn't matter that she's looking at him with an expression of molton hate. She may as well have offered a rope out in the middle of a raging sea. It's too early to think it's salvation but it sure the hell looks like hope.
She was bit. She was bit, like he was bit.
He's not alone.]
Oh...
[It's such a faint noise, so at odds with the competing urges to laugh or cry.
He lifts his arm. He pushes up the sleeve of the hoodie, and with it the stripey mess that used to be a shirt. He bites back a hiss as it passes over the wound. Then, it's there, all revealed for her to see.
Out of his arm, an entire chunk is missing. It's a clotted mess, black spider veins shooting off from the crater that goes down to the bone. It's one of those things that wound up being too painful, too terrifying, to forget the way he did the rest of his life. But right now, his gaze, his mind, it's all fixed on her.]
[She's the one that feels like a strung out dog, now, tense and retrying as hard as possible to put out the vibe that she will rip this man limb from limb if he so much as steps towards her. He doesn't, but what he does do isn't making any of the internal screaming and cars crashing quiet down. Shit's on fire now. Absolute pandemonium. Can't fathom what the fuck is happening through the smoke, flames, and anguish. What is he doing? Why is this his response? Is his arm going to turn into a gun?
Oh. Oh... It may as well have. It's even more deadly, actually -- total kill rate. Until now, she supposes grimly.
...She doesn't have anything like that to show off, though some sick part of her wishes that she did. At least she'd have an answer, then. Someone who understood her, too. Instead, she's standing here silently like an asshole that just got caught swapping out a bunch of paternity test results or something insane like that. He's the real deal... She doesn't have to get a closer look or touch the necrotic wound to be sure, regardless of yet another one of her fucked up desires. It looked horrific. Painful. Ryder's seen the consequences of it before, and she's sure plenty undead in the city have similar parts of themselves that have gone missing to become a story instead.]
You're...
[...better than a survivor? Right? But he still perceived her, which is almost excruciating. What's up with that? Shouldn't he ignore her like everyone else? Hey, why is his brain not a puddle of sludge that got melted from fever? Things that would be rude to ask, not that she's having an easy time getting control over her words right now anyway.]
...not -- going to kill me.
[She needed a fact to get her thoughts aligned again. It only helps so much -- not even getting into how it was more a hope than a fact. If he didn't want to kill her before, he might now. Pulling the next mumble out is like pulling teeth, it's roots stuck deep so if nothing else, you'd get regret out of the exchange.]
...Didn't s-say.
[She never really said that. He took his own meaning from her words... It just happened to be the same exact bait she'd hooked.]
[He starts to tug his sleeve back down. She's seen what she needs to and now it's time for him to hide again, only mostly a means to keep him safe, but still an impulse he latches on to from time to time.
She asks if he's going to kill her. He answers--]
No...
[--And he marvels at the fact that it's the truth. He doesn't even have to worry he'll slip up. He's not going to kill her.
His head tilts.]
Didn't say...? Oh... no... I can see it... you must be... immune...? Completely immune... not all the same... but still... still...
[Ryder need not fear for he's not all bright.]
Is it just... the dead not... noticing...? No other... changes...?
[Immune. She's thought it before but never thought it, like a real, serious thought to have. It was something for a grand story or an epic tragedy, and -- well, no. Ryder can't say she isn't living an epic tragedy. Everyone is living an epic tragedy. Especially this guy. Like, yeesh. Point is, though, that she doesn't know nearly enough about the way actual science or medicine works, so she can't say if it counts. Had it ever gotten into her system...?
Her lips sting to bring attention to the fact that she's chewing into them, not a care for how they were sure to split. It was an old habit that had only gotten worse as the apocalypse ate up the world, and now the stress of that is compounded by the old stress of not knowing how to talk to people. Ryder wrinkles her nose in lieu of kicking herself, as would be deserved. How...does she answer this man satisfactorily without saying a word? She tries, for a moment, to beam the information over to him, but her focus is all off. That's the only reason why it doesn't work, yeah.]
...Um.
[Her voice cracks a little, meek now that she's lost both her freedom and the illusion of character. Actually, why is she trying to come up with an answer? She should be screaming or something. Is she just tired? Or maybe she's literally gone crazy. It's possible, Ryder muses, that the dog killed her after all, and she skipped the part with all the pain -- the physical pain, at least -- and went straight to the bleeding out delirium.
Then she remembers that she already checked if this was real life by biting herself -- insensitive of her, in retrospect -- and what has all this thinking been for? Certainly not to explain a damn thing. Fuck, nothing makes any sense.]
Mm.
[It's a vague noise that could be interpreted in any number of ways, but it's all she's got for the moment she looks him over again to try and decide if this would be easier if she just pretended he was like the other zombies around. Could she find her voice again then? Asking permission to do that is probably also rude...]
[He flinches at the sight of blood on her lip. It's so small, so faint, if he were still alive he wouldn't even notice. But it's just... there. It's still just there. Nothing drawing him.
Fascinated as he is, eventually it's clear to him that he's not going to get an answer. He's only barely got sounds from her. His hands go up.]
Sorry... sorry... I guess it's... a lot for you too...
[He takes just a step back, giving her a little more space. His hands draw in and his fingers wind together, sheepish.]
You don't have to... answer all.... at once... I just got... excited I guess... Sorry...
[He talks like her -- like, slow and fucked up. Neither of them seem to be particularly eloquent, though Ryder guesses that their respective reasons for that are pretty different. Still, it's something she's grateful for, and that feeling fizzles a little hotter, brighter when he reigns himself in. She can't exactly blame him for it. Were she in his shoes -- and not freakishly antisocial, of course -- she doesn't think she could have the same restraint. All the oceans of words in her head would come out wheeze after wheeze until he was taken under by the waves. He wouldn't be able to fight it.
It's a good thing that...what? She still had too many words, and they were always crashing around in there. Why did it feel different? Because she'd stopped fighting it...? There hadn't been anyone or anything to fight for. Now there's some weirdo that not only notices her, but seems eager to interact. Weird. Ryder spends another few seconds staring at him and waiting for his words to process through the deep.]
Huh? [She heard right, right?] You think...? [It doesn't take long for her to nod and mumble to herself,] That makes sense. Burned away.
[Of course they'd lose themselves, even in the best case scenario. It's a miracle this dude functions at all. She glances at his hands, and almost as if compelled by his efforts to hold himself back even in such a minor way, Ryder does the opposite. She reaches up to fidget with her bangs and shift her weight onto one foot, scratching the back of her leg with the other.]
Mm. ...R-Ryder. S'kay.
[As...okay as anything about this can be, anyway? Ummm.]
Looking -- um. Books. Lighters...
[A shiver goes down her spine at having said those words so close together. Unthinkable. Moving on with a tiny shake of her head at herself, she gestures with her unoccupied hand vaguely at the air.]
Um. ...Clothes.
[Weather! Seasons!]
I-I don't... I talk -- better when, um. ...That's a lie. I'm -- I'll try, though.
[Burned away, she says. It makes him feel a little ill, the potential permanence of it a heavy weight. But, he's not about to argue. Like it or not, it's the truth. He confirms it with a solemn nod.]
Ryder... cool.
[Cool name for a cool girl.
He nods over the list. It's pretty short, but not a completely unusual list. The one that sticks out is the wish for books. He wonders if that's more or less popular these days.]
S'okay... talking is... hard...
[She's spared a warped looking smile thanks to the gaiter.]
Saw a few... shops... a street over... Might not... be raided... Come with...?
[The flicker in her heart puffs its gently lit chest out, burning stronger like the compliment has fed its flame. Hell yeah. It is a cool name, even if she hasn't thought about that for a long time, now. The last time anyone cared, it was an offhand comment from a classmate about never having heard it before. She's dead now. Well... So's this guy. That's...not okay, but it is what it is.
And he understands her, too. Or...is joking. That's less of a good feeling, but not enough so that she wants to completely retreat within herself. Instead, she twists some hair around her index and gives a tiny nod. Ryder glances about the area, scuffs something aside with her foot to make sure there isn't anything vital behind it, then makes her way over to the blocked off door. She usually clears the path like this -- it let others sprint through freely and hinted to other survivors that it's already been picked over. Nothing worth hiding away with, here. Maybe it would let a couple zombies wonder in, too, but the odds... She thinks it puts them more in the favor of the living. It isn't like the undead would flinch at scraping themselves up by way of window, after all. They'd get in anyway, if they wanted.
The door creaks unhappily as she leans with it to find something small and easily maneuvered to prop it open.]
Um... Space. Few feet? [Would that be enough to make her feel secure enough around him? ...Not really. But asking for more than that was probably asking for trouble, one way or another. Ask for something else...] Did -- did y-you live -- [Oh. Wait. Ryder frowns at herself for her stupidity, mumbling a soft,] Sorry.
[If he knew he lived here, he'd probably be more sure about his name. She searches the sky for advice, finds herself abandoned by god yet again, and sighs her bangs away from her face. Alright. Pointing weakly in the opposite direction, Ryder looks over to Teo for confirmation. This way? Oh, she should also probably ask...]
[He watches as she clears the way in this small way. He's done it before, but only as an immediate action, helping out a survivor that was racing through. He never thought to just make a habit of it. He should have.
He nods his head, solemn. A few feet is more than fair. The fact she's letting him near at all is a gift.
His nodding stops as she cuts off her question. Did he live here? An ironic question. Or maybe a sad one. She apologizes, but he shakes his head.]
[Same as her, then. She moves her head to nod, but the motion is so small that she can't even tell if she really did it or if it was just an idea she had.]
Yeah.
[Clothes weren't something she really anticipated having trouble finding, so even if it was on her list, she doesn't seem to be overly thrilled. As she steps outside, the mix of emotions fall away and leave her face blank. Eyes dull. Here they are again. Same old hell, just...with company, this time. Extremely weird company.
Still... Some small part of her wonders if she should try a little harder with the clothes she found this time. Apparently there's someone that notices her in the world now, and while she'd like to reject the idea of dressing to impress on the grounds that it's fucking insane and stupid even when not in the apocalypse, Ryder can't help but to glance over at the man's ensemble. He...looked cool. Mostly a disguise, probably, since it kept the obviously busted parts of him out of sight, but still cool. Is it...okay? For her to find something she really likes? Is it okay to like things?
...Think about that later.]
Looking for what?
[It wasn't like he knew enough about himself to know what to look for... Maybe just people like him? Then it's his lucky day. Yippee.]
[The lighters are going to be harder to find. The working ones particularly. But it's his foolish mistake in assuming clothes would be a higher priority for her than books. Maybe he'll get it in time.
He notices the way she seems to lose her color, not paling per se, but almost fading in the light. He gives a glance around at the world and he supposes he can't blame her.
The question feels a little delayed. He takes his own time before answering.]
... Place I'm... meant to be... Have a letter... Making my way... bit by bit... But sometimes just... stopping places... that seem nice... or... where people... need help...
[Some sarcastic little worm of a thought says that they're all looking for the place they're meant to be, he isn't special. He's just a dumbass adult. Then he reminds her yet again that he's a much better person than she is because he actually stops to help people, instead of doing it her way where she sometimes did things for the vague concept of a person, shrugged, and hoped for the best without actually giving too much hope at all. He probably wasn't silently snarking away at someone he just met, either. Another point on the board for Mr. Teo Nolastname. Ryder tries to summon interest enough to ask for the letter -- Wow! Something to read! You fucking love that shit! -- before giving up on that. It would just be meant as a distraction away from his question, anyway.]
South. Um, going.
[She frowns, her eyebrows following suit, while she debates leaking more of her thoughts through. It's...hard to not want to talk, even if talking to a person is as unimaginable as it had been in life. Or -- whatever it was. She's still alive. Supposedly. The point is that almost everyone else is not (or at least it feels that way), and speaking had become a hell of a lot easier because of it. Ryder was too used to talking to herself, these days... She tries to erase his presence from her mind, which is extra difficult with her trying to give a better answer to the question he had asked.]
Mm... Mom. Might -- I-I dunno.
[Maybe it's genetic. Maybe she would still be alive, too. Maybe...she could even smile, still? Ryder's eyes sting.]
[He nods his head, a little slower then at her answer. It's a sad tale that's been told time and time again in the apocalypse. He can finish her sentence with ease.]
Might be okay... like you...
[Perhaps it could be a matter of genetics. Perhaps it could be a matter of phenomenal luck. He doesn't question it.]
Would you... mind company...? For some... of the way...?
[Even that feels like a lot to ask. He doesn't want to push it. But, he also doesn't want tears to fall from those watery eyes.]
[He finishes out her thought, and just like that, it's even harder to keep it together. Even when she was blathering on like an idiot to herself, she never dared to say that thought aloud, and this was fucking why. Son of a bitch.
Then he speaks again, and she realizes that despite the fact that he'd saved her life from Cujo, it wasn't until this rescue that she's actually felt grateful for him. He's made her much too stunned to cry, now.]
Huh?
[Normally, this would be where it all clicked and she barreled on with the answer she'd been prompted for, but maybe she really misheard it this time, or didn't process it correctly in the end? No, it was much too quiet around them to have that sort of thing happen, even if his voice was a rasp out of a nightmare. Whether he repeats himself or not, she isn't sure, too absorbed in actually thinking about the question, now. Why the heck would he want that?
Ah, right, humans were social creatures. Even dead ones were normal enough to be like that, apparently. Fucked up.]
...Nnnot...good company. Um...
[The thought is terrifying. She knows it shouldn't be. She knows that the biggest reason she's terrified definitely shouldn't be the idea that now there's someone to prove that she's real.]
I... O-okay.
[It wasn't going to be permanent. She didn't have to exist forever -- but she could remember, maybe, what it was like. Maybe she'd need it. Maybe that wish, of her mom holding her tight, can be real, too.
Ryder curls her arms around herself and quickly looks away, stumbling a little as she tries to pick up the pace like it will propel her out of her awkwardness.]
I h-hhhave s-some -- stuff. Already. Food, some m-medicine... Dunno what y-you nnneed, though.
[She hesitates. He can't blame her. Who would want to be followed around by one of those things? He thinks at first that she's offering a kind rejection, but then she says okay.]
Really...?
[It's impossible to not sound excited, even with his raspy voice. She's walking away pretty fast so he tries to pick up the pace too. He gives a shake of his head.]
I don't need... anything else... I'm still, um... pretty dead...
I hunt... [A longer pause.] Animals... not people...
[Her skin crawls a little at his words, but as fucked up as it is, she knows it's more to do with hearing someone make conversation than what it is he's saying. Plus he's looking forward to sticking with her? Again, fucked up, she says! Guys are supposed to ignore her, girls are supposed to laugh at her... They were all supposed to die. Guess if she's an anomaly, there's other kinds of anomalies in the world.
She slows again so she can once more look at him properly, obviously more than a little perplexed. Ryder wonders if there will ever be a time where he says something and it doesn't make her feel like she's come across a fallen tree in the road she has to figure out her way around.]
[Save her? Ryder frowns, instinct telling her that it was a ridiculous thing to focus on. The big danger in the world these days was little more than set dressing for her, so how couldn't she be the safest one already? How could she ever need saving? But he had, in fact, saved her -- from something that had once been so, so normal. She's internalizing her mortality at the same time she's considering his view that...is probably normal, too. Would she have felt this more strongly if she were having this conversation two years ago? Two and a half? Wait. Uhhh.
...Right, eating dogs. That's where they're at. It is sad. She wishes it would be sadder.]
Hnn.
[Still, the facts are stacked together in her mind like a clumsily picked at, long-lived jenga tower. It makes her feel too wobbly to think about for long.]
...Would y-yyyou? Um, like. Um. [How does she actually put these thoughts into words... This is why she doesn't talk to people. It's too much of a hassle to lay a track down for someone to follow where her brain was going, particularly since the destination wasn't exactly a great one to pass through.
As a shortcut to where she's trying to get him, Ryder raises her arm to display the dirty cuts that had stopped bleeding, pointing at them with her other hand.] ...People? N-not -- wanting. Obv-obviously.
[She moves past the dog thing with remarkable ease. She barely even makes a comment. But, most people are hardened by the world they're in so it's not that surprising.
His head tilts as she begins her question. It stays tilted. Is she asking if he likes people, wants company, or likes people...?]
Um...
[She points to her hand.]
Oh.
[He shifts the quiver a little on his shoulder, uncomfortable. His head ducks.]
... I try... very hard... to be safe... I hunt to... settle my head... [Since the hunger was never going away.] But... not you... [He lifts his head up and it's tilting slightly again, this time with wonder.] It's like... you're turned... but not... Here but...
[Her hand lowers again and she returns to holding herself, eyes sliding away. Is she supposed to be disgusted? Relieved? What would the hero feel, in this situation? Ryder dismisses that thought before she's even finished it. Even with unlikely and unwilling heroes, she didn't fit the bill. But then, does it matter what she feels? It more or less just feels like confirmation.
Here but...]
Yeah. I dunno.
[She tried not to think about it too much. When she did, she risked remembering the fear in others' eyes as they were torn into mere feet from her even though she'd been the one to fall, leaving Ryder frozen in place until the undead had either had its fill or the bitten and abandoned classmate was through with their crying and seizures and rose up before her. They'd pass by just like in the halls. Any number of nightmares weren't going to illuminate the why of it for her.]
[Sorry? What's she sorry for? He shakes his head.]
No... It's important... You want to know... if it's safe... that's fair...
[He doesn't hold it against her. He wouldn't hold it against anyone if they even bothered to ask and didn't just get straight to shooting. It's really amazing that she's not going straight to shooting, immune or not.]
But it's... kind of a relief... I don't know if... you know... how hard it is... just to get near... living people...
[To be fair, her gun is not currently on her person. Who can speculate about the alternative?
She thinks they might be having two different conversations, though going over it again as best she can in her head, she can't tell where it would have recently split. It's their perspective, then... She was used to that.
His venturing gets her to perk up just a little, her voice moving to an almost conversational pace instead of dragging and clipping.]
Survivors are -- hard mode. [Probably not for the same reasons he's thinking of, but still.] I thought I was going to die when -- you spoke to me. Thought you were one of them.
[Have survivors ever been accused as being "one of them" like that in the apocalypse before?]
[One of them. He's never heard of it like that before. It gets his brow to rise. He's been one of them from the other side for a long time now after all.]
Hard mode...
[He supposes he can understand that. Survivors were bitter and jaded and paranoid. With good reason.]
Who's... easy mode...?
[The dead? Maybe. But they could be difficult an entirely different way.]
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storywalks) wrote2022-07-06 12:41 pm
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Anyone else in her shoes would have found themselves ripped apart in seconds, blood drowning out screams. The undead she passes so cavalierly don't so much as grunt in acknowledgement.] Ye-up. Feels just like I'm back on fucking campus. See ya, fellas.
[Of course, if it was actually like the good old days, Ryder wouldn't have been able to speak at all. Back then, she'd done everything she could to avoid the attention of her peers, head ducked low and textbooks clung to her chest. It's probably a sign that she's a horrible person that she feels so much more comfortable now that everyone around her is dead. The times she does come across survivors, she still tends to keep her distance -- for her own sake, mostly. People weren't just dangerous, they were annoying, gross, needy, hateful... It was better not to interfere.
Sometimes she'd hear the gunshots and shouting later and wonder if there was anything she could have done. Most of the time she'd hunker down for what she believed was around an hour, then head over to where the disturbance was to pick through whatever scraps were left. Whether they'd escaped or turned, Ryder hadn't found a living person after one of these incidents yet. A gun and ammo, though... Sometimes tools. Food, of course, but she usually wound up leaving it with the backpacks so that someone else that couldn't as easily wander into the dangerous, crowded spaces could pick it up and live another day. As long as they were away from her, that was fine. In the end, she'd still find their body to scavenge.]
Wish I knew a poem about vultures. I mean, there's that one, but it doesn't really fit. Too noble for me... I guess I've got 'Writers are sort of like vultures, but with fewer ethics.' Can't fucking say she was wrong, whoever she was, huh? Don't think this shit was exactly what she meant... God, was it Libby? No, fuck, Libba Bray. That was it. I think.
[Lately, though, things had been quiet. Maybe that's why it's such a shock when, while stepping through the shattered window without a care for how it scraped at her skin, adding bright, fresh red to the crusty smears of inky black, Ryder finds herself confronted by a rumbling growl that didn't match what she took as background noise, now. She stares, dumbfounded, at the rail-thin dog standing over a messy pile that must be hiding something it's decided to try its luck at eating. Her words are more of a tight exhale than a whisper.]
Holy fuck.
[A dog. A real dog. It was probably cute once upon a time, and a fantasy plays through her head where she's able to close the gap between them, share the resources she can to earn its trust and bolster its health, then walk side by side with a furry companion. They'd curl together at night, and on the days where the clumsily crafted statue that she strived to be broke down, it would lick her tears away.
Yeah, right. No fucking way that's happening. To her, this scraggly mutt she wants to ruffle the ears of is more dangerous than the undead. Fuck. She doesn't want to hurt it...but the glint of its teeth, it's glare, and the way its growl rattled through its whole body was screaming threat. Can she really justify surviving this long into the apocalypse, then letting a dog tear her arm off?
Okay. Okay, fuck. Fuck, she's frozen in place. The dog takes a step, overgrown nails clicking against the floor, and Ryder has to suppress a strangled squeal. Well, if she screamed, she supposed that the zombies would take care of the problem for her, drawn by her voice but treating her as if she wasn't there... Awful. No, she can't do that.
...Even though it means that they're both stuck where they are, raggedy creature vs raggedy creature, until one of them finally breaks. Hell, maybe she'll die and someone else will finally stumble on her stash, left behind for now, and she won't be the only vulture anymore. What a happy thought while she's over here forgetting how to breathe.]
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It started with the unusual. He heard a human voice, a living voice, talking. He heard this voice talking a fair bit, openly and without fear. He waited to hear an answering voice, but there was nothing. And then, the impossible realization set that he didn't hear any answering snarls either.
Trying to find and keep tabs on a person without being seen is very difficult. It's even more difficult in a day and age when people are constantly on edge. More than once he's tried to help out a survivor and had to book it. He's even been shot at, though thankfully, he hasn't endured any bullet wounds since he started wearing his disguise. All in all he's expecting to encounter more of the same. Which makes it all the more surprising when he doesn't.
She's a girl. Not a child, but still young. Early twenties, if even that. He'd be stupid to assume her unarmed but... he really can't see anything. Admittedly, he is still a good distance away, spying from the shadows, from buildings he can slip into. He follows her most of the day with no intent to stop. He just can't make sense of it.
Wherever she goes, she goes unharmed. It's like the dead don't see her. It's like they don't smell her. He watches them stumble by, completely uninterested, as if she isn't made of the same stuff as that they hunt.
As if she's like him.
It's as this thought strikes that she meanders off the street. A thrill of fear runs through him that he might lose her and so lose the answer to so many questions. In his race to catch up, he doesn't think about any questions she might have in turn. He races to a shattered window and even from a ways back he can see black... and red. Fresh blood. But from what? Her? No. Impossible. It has to be old, something rotten in, because the blood doesn't compel at all. He doesn't smell anything that-
Oh. Oh, there it is. A faint scent. But not human. He reaches the window and climbs through, wincing when it tugs at his guise. Still, he presses on, but he doesn't need to go far. He hears the growl. He sees the girl.
But that's just it. He only sees the girl. He doesn't feel that pull, that hunger. It doesn't narrow his focus to pinpoint. He doesn't have to try and push it off. It's not there. At least, not for her.
The dog, on the other hand, the dog is food. The dog is blood. The dog is life. The poor damn dog that he would've loved to bring in to his life and curl up with, surely, when he was alive, is making a big mistake.
The dog growls at her, stepping forward. She doesn't move. He watches her, the dog, not breathing, and he can see what's about to happen but she still isn't moving. He knows all to well what it looks like when a predator is ready to attack. The dog tenses, but he moves first. Stepping quick out in front of the girl, an animal snarl rips from him, challenging the poor dog. It's the greatest mercy he can offer it when he wants to draw his bow or jump straight to sinking his teeth in. He hopes it runs.]
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Something shoots out in front of her fast enough that she has no trouble guessing what it is, but it still surprises her enough to make her jerk back from it with a gasp that squeaks on the way out like a badly played violin. The pair of snarls is almost enough to drown out her coughing. Ryder brings her arm up on automatic to muffle it further while she urges her attention back to the showdown. She's expecting a horrible squelch and a keening whimper that would haunt her for weeks in a way that desperate, human screams no longer did, but somehow...the zombie doesn't immediately attack. It's giving the dog time to snap its teeth, wrestle its nose into a grotesque upwards hook that kind of reminds her of one of those weird pig-nosed bats, and ooze drool down to the floor. It gives it time to reassess the risk-benefit of the situation it's found itself in -- which it doesn't need much of at all. Pretty quickly it decides that in order to live another day, it needs to get away from the rotting creature that wants to eat it. Snatching garbage up so it doesn't leave with less than it had before, the dog sprints further into the building somewhere, presumably the place it had broken in in the first place.]
Fuck.
[For the first time in a long time, it feels like she's hiding. However, Ryder remains still, eyes wide and stuck on the form in front of her. A...bow and quiver? Damn. That was a cool damn survivor before they stopped being alive. Except...it still isn't giving chase? What is happening. Did she pass out after all? To test the reality of the situation, Ryder takes her still-raised arm and bites hard at her hand.]
-- Gah! Fuck, son of a...
[Okay. So she's alive and awake.]
Then...what? You protecting me?
[A weird fucking progression of whatever the hell was going on, if true.]
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At least, for a second. The girl speaks, reminding him or her debatable existence, and he tenses again. He turns slow. He catches the sight of her biting her hand and he has the urge to swat that hand away from her teeth, to keep her from bleeding. But that's it. There's no other urge. His face is still masked up, hiding the utter disbelief.
She's not undead. She doesn't look undead. She doesn't look like him at all. But she's not... she doesn't appeal at all... The bloody glass behind her holds more temptation. But she's got all his interest now.
He doesn't answer her question. Even if he thought to, there's really no need.]
What... are you...?
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[A beat passes while she tries to process what's happening, thoughts dim and slow enough that maybe she is part zombie. Dead brain, living body. Wouldn't that be something? No, wait, focus. Something very important just happened. When it clicks, Ryder's eyes go wide, her face flushes, and the terror she had from staring down the dog switches to something more intense -- an absolute mortification. Earth, swallow her up.]
Oh -- oh, g -- [Another coughing fit would be convenient right about now, but instead it's just her usual, pathetic throat closing up like a zipper to hide beneath.] You're -- y-you're real.
[HE'S A REAL-ASS LIVING PERSON, NOT AN UNDEAD DUDE THAT HAD SUCCUMB TO HIS FATE WITH COOL GEAR. HE'S TALKING TO HER. MAKING WORDS. THE WAY NORMAL PEOPLE DO.
How the FUCK does she make words at real, normal people? Holy shit. Oh good lord, how had she dismissed his speed and that noise so readily? Of course no zombie would come to her aid! Of course she would only be rescued by a real life protagonist!]
I'm -- m-mm? [Ah, yeah, of course. Clearly his diseased lungs trailed off before he could finish his full sentence, which obviously would be "What are you doing?" because the way she's going around makes absolutely zero sense unless you're her.] I th -- uhh. Um. I w-was just -- Sorry.
[SORRY FOR EXISTING, RANDOM DUDE.]
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He doesn't understand anything that's happening right now. Her stammered response doesn't help in the slightest.]
... yes...? Are you...?
[Well, that question isn't any less stupid coming from him, turns out. She apologizes and he doesn't really know why. With the dog gone away, he just stares at her, disbelieving. She's not even afraid of him. Or rather, not in the mortal danger sort of way.]
How are you... doing this...? Is it... a trick...?
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Um.
[It didn't help that she doesn't have an answer for him. A trick? Maybe. But she's not in on it.]
I'm nnnot...doing anyth-thing.
[How is it that now her heart is hammering away? It brings a whole different kind of lightheadedness than her breathless staredown had given her. Weakly, Ryder raises her hands to show her palms, a half-assed surrender since she doesn't have any better defense. If she couldn't enlist the undead to help get rid of a dog for her, how was she supposed to let herself do it for a person?
(And how was she supposed to feel about the moment she'd weighed the possibility and felt more compassion for the animal that would have eaten her face?)]
You -- following me? You know I h-haven't done sh-shit. Jus' -- scan-scanveg -- fuck. Sca-ven-ging.
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At least until she calls him out.
His shoulders hike. He shakes his head, meaning to protest that he's following for any nefarious reason, but realizing that's not exactly what will come through.]
I... was but... not for anything... like that...
[Does she... not know? He literally growled in front of her. Unless she thinks he faked it. Should he let her think he faked it? He shakes his head. He's getting sidetracked.]
You're doing... something to... deter the dead...!
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They don't -- stay, you know? If you -- if you aren't torn t-to. Pieces.
[Yes, this would be one of the stupidest plays Ryder could make. That's why she's trying really, really hard to be someone else. This woman doesn't have an uneven, shaggy mess from an outgrown side shave and awkward hacks with scissors now and again when she caught sight of herself and couldn't stand looking at it anymore. She'd always had longer hair, usually pulled back in a ponytail, and the scowl on her face wasn't from being a generally unpleasant bitch, but because she used to wear glasses, and they broke, and now parts of the world were fuzzy blobs. She didn't have to see the faces of the dead so clearly...and she knows that soon she'll be just another one in the crowd. Jessica, she thinks. Jessie and James always were her favorite Pokémon characters on the show.
If only Jessica's knowledge wasn't coming from Ryder's dumbass brain. At least she stutters a little less.]
Something changes. You're no good -- anymore, once you're already bit. Just -- tag, you're it. One of them-m. S'you wanna be like m-me, or you wanna lea'me th'fuck -- alone?
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She was bit. She was bit, like he was bit.
He's not alone.]
Oh...
[It's such a faint noise, so at odds with the competing urges to laugh or cry.
He lifts his arm. He pushes up the sleeve of the hoodie, and with it the stripey mess that used to be a shirt. He bites back a hiss as it passes over the wound. Then, it's there, all revealed for her to see.
Out of his arm, an entire chunk is missing. It's a clotted mess, black spider veins shooting off from the crater that goes down to the bone. It's one of those things that wound up being too painful, too terrifying, to forget the way he did the rest of his life. But right now, his gaze, his mind, it's all fixed on her.]
I didn't think... there was... anyone else...
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Oh. Oh... It may as well have. It's even more deadly, actually -- total kill rate. Until now, she supposes grimly.
...She doesn't have anything like that to show off, though some sick part of her wishes that she did. At least she'd have an answer, then. Someone who understood her, too. Instead, she's standing here silently like an asshole that just got caught swapping out a bunch of paternity test results or something insane like that. He's the real deal... She doesn't have to get a closer look or touch the necrotic wound to be sure, regardless of yet another one of her fucked up desires. It looked horrific. Painful. Ryder's seen the consequences of it before, and she's sure plenty undead in the city have similar parts of themselves that have gone missing to become a story instead.]
You're...
[...better than a survivor? Right? But he still perceived her, which is almost excruciating. What's up with that? Shouldn't he ignore her like everyone else? Hey, why is his brain not a puddle of sludge that got melted from fever? Things that would be rude to ask, not that she's having an easy time getting control over her words right now anyway.]
...not -- going to kill me.
[She needed a fact to get her thoughts aligned again. It only helps so much -- not even getting into how it was more a hope than a fact. If he didn't want to kill her before, he might now. Pulling the next mumble out is like pulling teeth, it's roots stuck deep so if nothing else, you'd get regret out of the exchange.]
...Didn't s-say.
[She never really said that. He took his own meaning from her words... It just happened to be the same exact bait she'd hooked.]
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She asks if he's going to kill her. He answers--]
No...
[--And he marvels at the fact that it's the truth. He doesn't even have to worry he'll slip up. He's not going to kill her.
His head tilts.]
Didn't say...? Oh... no... I can see it... you must be... immune...? Completely immune... not all the same... but still... still...
[Ryder need not fear for he's not all bright.]
Is it just... the dead not... noticing...? No other... changes...?
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Her lips sting to bring attention to the fact that she's chewing into them, not a care for how they were sure to split. It was an old habit that had only gotten worse as the apocalypse ate up the world, and now the stress of that is compounded by the old stress of not knowing how to talk to people. Ryder wrinkles her nose in lieu of kicking herself, as would be deserved. How...does she answer this man satisfactorily without saying a word? She tries, for a moment, to beam the information over to him, but her focus is all off. That's the only reason why it doesn't work, yeah.]
...Um.
[Her voice cracks a little, meek now that she's lost both her freedom and the illusion of character. Actually, why is she trying to come up with an answer? She should be screaming or something. Is she just tired? Or maybe she's literally gone crazy. It's possible, Ryder muses, that the dog killed her after all, and she skipped the part with all the pain -- the physical pain, at least -- and went straight to the bleeding out delirium.
Then she remembers that she already checked if this was real life by biting herself -- insensitive of her, in retrospect -- and what has all this thinking been for? Certainly not to explain a damn thing. Fuck, nothing makes any sense.]
Mm.
[It's a vague noise that could be interpreted in any number of ways, but it's all she's got for the moment she looks him over again to try and decide if this would be easier if she just pretended he was like the other zombies around. Could she find her voice again then? Asking permission to do that is probably also rude...]
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Fascinated as he is, eventually it's clear to him that he's not going to get an answer. He's only barely got sounds from her. His hands go up.]
Sorry... sorry... I guess it's... a lot for you too...
[He takes just a step back, giving her a little more space. His hands draw in and his fingers wind together, sheepish.]
You don't have to... answer all.... at once... I just got... excited I guess... Sorry...
Um... I'm... I'm Teo... I think...
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It's a good thing that...what? She still had too many words, and they were always crashing around in there. Why did it feel different? Because she'd stopped fighting it...? There hadn't been anyone or anything to fight for. Now there's some weirdo that not only notices her, but seems eager to interact. Weird. Ryder spends another few seconds staring at him and waiting for his words to process through the deep.]
Huh? [She heard right, right?] You think...? [It doesn't take long for her to nod and mumble to herself,] That makes sense. Burned away.
[Of course they'd lose themselves, even in the best case scenario. It's a miracle this dude functions at all. She glances at his hands, and almost as if compelled by his efforts to hold himself back even in such a minor way, Ryder does the opposite. She reaches up to fidget with her bangs and shift her weight onto one foot, scratching the back of her leg with the other.]
Mm. ...R-Ryder. S'kay.
[As...okay as anything about this can be, anyway? Ummm.]
Looking -- um. Books. Lighters...
[A shiver goes down her spine at having said those words so close together. Unthinkable. Moving on with a tiny shake of her head at herself, she gestures with her unoccupied hand vaguely at the air.]
Um. ...Clothes.
[Weather! Seasons!]
I-I don't... I talk -- better when, um. ...That's a lie. I'm -- I'll try, though.
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Ryder... cool.
[Cool name for a cool girl.
He nods over the list. It's pretty short, but not a completely unusual list. The one that sticks out is the wish for books. He wonders if that's more or less popular these days.]
S'okay... talking is... hard...
[She's spared a warped looking smile thanks to the gaiter.]
Saw a few... shops... a street over... Might not... be raided... Come with...?
no subject
And he understands her, too. Or...is joking. That's less of a good feeling, but not enough so that she wants to completely retreat within herself. Instead, she twists some hair around her index and gives a tiny nod. Ryder glances about the area, scuffs something aside with her foot to make sure there isn't anything vital behind it, then makes her way over to the blocked off door. She usually clears the path like this -- it let others sprint through freely and hinted to other survivors that it's already been picked over. Nothing worth hiding away with, here. Maybe it would let a couple zombies wonder in, too, but the odds... She thinks it puts them more in the favor of the living. It isn't like the undead would flinch at scraping themselves up by way of window, after all. They'd get in anyway, if they wanted.
The door creaks unhappily as she leans with it to find something small and easily maneuvered to prop it open.]
Um... Space. Few feet? [Would that be enough to make her feel secure enough around him? ...Not really. But asking for more than that was probably asking for trouble, one way or another. Ask for something else...] Did -- did y-you live -- [Oh. Wait. Ryder frowns at herself for her stupidity, mumbling a soft,] Sorry.
[If he knew he lived here, he'd probably be more sure about his name. She searches the sky for advice, finds herself abandoned by god yet again, and sighs her bangs away from her face. Alright. Pointing weakly in the opposite direction, Ryder looks over to Teo for confirmation. This way? Oh, she should also probably ask...]
Wh -- what k-kin -- kind, d'you know? Store.
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He nods his head, solemn. A few feet is more than fair. The fact she's letting him near at all is a gift.
His nodding stops as she cuts off her question. Did he live here? An ironic question. Or maybe a sad one. She apologizes, but he shakes his head.]
No... Traveller... Travelling... Looking... Wandered here...
[Tentatively, he starts forward, just get them going.]
Been here... few days... saw some clothes...
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Yeah.
[Clothes weren't something she really anticipated having trouble finding, so even if it was on her list, she doesn't seem to be overly thrilled. As she steps outside, the mix of emotions fall away and leave her face blank. Eyes dull. Here they are again. Same old hell, just...with company, this time. Extremely weird company.
Still... Some small part of her wonders if she should try a little harder with the clothes she found this time. Apparently there's someone that notices her in the world now, and while she'd like to reject the idea of dressing to impress on the grounds that it's fucking insane and stupid even when not in the apocalypse, Ryder can't help but to glance over at the man's ensemble. He...looked cool. Mostly a disguise, probably, since it kept the obviously busted parts of him out of sight, but still cool. Is it...okay? For her to find something she really likes? Is it okay to like things?
...Think about that later.]
Looking for what?
[It wasn't like he knew enough about himself to know what to look for... Maybe just people like him? Then it's his lucky day. Yippee.]
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He notices the way she seems to lose her color, not paling per se, but almost fading in the light. He gives a glance around at the world and he supposes he can't blame her.
The question feels a little delayed. He takes his own time before answering.]
... Place I'm... meant to be... Have a letter... Making my way... bit by bit... But sometimes just... stopping places... that seem nice... or... where people... need help...
[He shrugs his shoulders.]
What about... you...?
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South. Um, going.
[She frowns, her eyebrows following suit, while she debates leaking more of her thoughts through. It's...hard to not want to talk, even if talking to a person is as unimaginable as it had been in life. Or -- whatever it was. She's still alive. Supposedly. The point is that almost everyone else is not (or at least it feels that way), and speaking had become a hell of a lot easier because of it. Ryder was too used to talking to herself, these days... She tries to erase his presence from her mind, which is extra difficult with her trying to give a better answer to the question he had asked.]
Mm... Mom. Might -- I-I dunno.
[Maybe it's genetic. Maybe she would still be alive, too. Maybe...she could even smile, still? Ryder's eyes sting.]
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Might be okay... like you...
[Perhaps it could be a matter of genetics. Perhaps it could be a matter of phenomenal luck. He doesn't question it.]
Would you... mind company...? For some... of the way...?
[Even that feels like a lot to ask. He doesn't want to push it. But, he also doesn't want tears to fall from those watery eyes.]
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Then he speaks again, and she realizes that despite the fact that he'd saved her life from Cujo, it wasn't until this rescue that she's actually felt grateful for him. He's made her much too stunned to cry, now.]
Huh?
[Normally, this would be where it all clicked and she barreled on with the answer she'd been prompted for, but maybe she really misheard it this time, or didn't process it correctly in the end? No, it was much too quiet around them to have that sort of thing happen, even if his voice was a rasp out of a nightmare. Whether he repeats himself or not, she isn't sure, too absorbed in actually thinking about the question, now. Why the heck would he want that?
Ah, right, humans were social creatures. Even dead ones were normal enough to be like that, apparently. Fucked up.]
...Nnnot...good company. Um...
[The thought is terrifying. She knows it shouldn't be. She knows that the biggest reason she's terrified definitely shouldn't be the idea that now there's someone to prove that she's real.]
I... O-okay.
[It wasn't going to be permanent. She didn't have to exist forever -- but she could remember, maybe, what it was like. Maybe she'd need it. Maybe that wish, of her mom holding her tight, can be real, too.
Ryder curls her arms around herself and quickly looks away, stumbling a little as she tries to pick up the pace like it will propel her out of her awkwardness.]
I h-hhhave s-some -- stuff. Already. Food, some m-medicine... Dunno what y-you nnneed, though.
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Really...?
[It's impossible to not sound excited, even with his raspy voice. She's walking away pretty fast so he tries to pick up the pace too. He gives a shake of his head.]
I don't need... anything else... I'm still, um... pretty dead...
I hunt... [A longer pause.] Animals... not people...
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She slows again so she can once more look at him properly, obviously more than a little perplexed. Ryder wonders if there will ever be a time where he says something and it doesn't make her feel like she's come across a fallen tree in the road she has to figure out her way around.]
...You -- didn't. Dog. Why?
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Was more important... to save you...
[He shrugs a little.]
Hunting a dog is... hard... sharper teeth... very fast... and it... makes me sad...
[The majority of these dogs were dearly loved, once. It wasn't fair.]
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...Right, eating dogs. That's where they're at. It is sad. She wishes it would be sadder.]
Hnn.
[Still, the facts are stacked together in her mind like a clumsily picked at, long-lived jenga tower. It makes her feel too wobbly to think about for long.]
...Would y-yyyou? Um, like. Um. [How does she actually put these thoughts into words... This is why she doesn't talk to people. It's too much of a hassle to lay a track down for someone to follow where her brain was going, particularly since the destination wasn't exactly a great one to pass through.
As a shortcut to where she's trying to get him, Ryder raises her arm to display the dirty cuts that had stopped bleeding, pointing at them with her other hand.] ...People? N-not -- wanting. Obv-obviously.
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His head tilts as she begins her question. It stays tilted. Is she asking if he likes people, wants company, or likes people...?]
Um...
[She points to her hand.]
Oh.
[He shifts the quiver a little on his shoulder, uncomfortable. His head ducks.]
... I try... very hard... to be safe... I hunt to... settle my head... [Since the hunger was never going away.] But... not you... [He lifts his head up and it's tilting slightly again, this time with wonder.] It's like... you're turned... but not... Here but...
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[Her hand lowers again and she returns to holding herself, eyes sliding away. Is she supposed to be disgusted? Relieved? What would the hero feel, in this situation? Ryder dismisses that thought before she's even finished it. Even with unlikely and unwilling heroes, she didn't fit the bill. But then, does it matter what she feels? It more or less just feels like confirmation.
Here but...]
Yeah. I dunno.
[She tried not to think about it too much. When she did, she risked remembering the fear in others' eyes as they were torn into mere feet from her even though she'd been the one to fall, leaving Ryder frozen in place until the undead had either had its fill or the bitten and abandoned classmate was through with their crying and seizures and rose up before her. They'd pass by just like in the halls. Any number of nightmares weren't going to illuminate the why of it for her.]
Um... Sorry.
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[Sorry? What's she sorry for? He shakes his head.]
No... It's important... You want to know... if it's safe... that's fair...
[He doesn't hold it against her. He wouldn't hold it against anyone if they even bothered to ask and didn't just get straight to shooting. It's really amazing that she's not going straight to shooting, immune or not.]
But it's... kind of a relief... I don't know if... you know... how hard it is... just to get near... living people...
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She thinks they might be having two different conversations, though going over it again as best she can in her head, she can't tell where it would have recently split. It's their perspective, then... She was used to that.
His venturing gets her to perk up just a little, her voice moving to an almost conversational pace instead of dragging and clipping.]
Survivors are -- hard mode. [Probably not for the same reasons he's thinking of, but still.] I thought I was going to die when -- you spoke to me. Thought you were one of them.
[Have survivors ever been accused as being "one of them" like that in the apocalypse before?]
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Hard mode...
[He supposes he can understand that. Survivors were bitter and jaded and paranoid. With good reason.]
Who's... easy mode...?
[The dead? Maybe. But they could be difficult an entirely different way.]