[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...]
no subject
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...]