STEALING A PAGE FROM SCRIBBLES' BOOK AND OFFERING OPTIONS

[enervated]

[OPTION A: LONG DEAD WINTER]

[Walking Dead universe, here. Virginia in winter. And up near the mountains, to boot. Not the best place to be, but sometimes you're forced to play the hand you're dealt. And the cold slows down the dead, so there are worse places one could be.

It's just about the only 'good' thing that has happened to Kenny in the past week, and even then, the 'good' it is is highly up for debate. Though honestly, the bad is still stacked high, especially now. A herd separated the group and he's just trudging on through the cold streets trying to locate even ONE of the group. He'd prefer Clementine, if he had to think about it, but he wouldn't turn down Mike. Or even Bonnie. Luke... Luke, well, Luke- he doesn't want to encounter Luke, the fucking turd. Kenny's already chalked this fuckup to Luke, the boy's as bad as fucking BEN, and that takes some real talent. Some real, real talent.

He just keeps moving; a true figure of depressed, PTSD determination stalking his way through the cold, mostly empty streets. One hand on his firearm, the other on a knife. Firearm for survivors. Knife for the dead. To say he's prepared to stop anything that might slow him down from getting back with the group is an understatement.

Man, fuck this town though, how the hell is he supposed to find anybody here?]

[OPTION B: AN UNFAMILIAR PLACE]

[Your character's universe.

The last thing he remembered was the showdown against the fucking Russians. Russians. In Virginia. Of all the things. The kid in the leg brace pointed the finger at them for something they hadn't done, ambushed the lot of them. And then when Kenny fired his gun - Clementine called for help and he had given it without hesitation - they assumed he was firing at them instead of putting down someone who deserved a better life than what had unfolded. The Russians began firing at all of them, and in turn they (Mike, Bonnie, Luke, Kenny) began shooting as well.

He had one of the sons of bitches right in his sights.

And now he was here. On the ground. It didn't feel cold, and he didn't feel DEAD. Slowly, he opened his one working eye.

This... was not a cold, snowy road outside of some town in Virginia.]

Oh shit...

[OPTION C: BLIND LEADING BLIND]

[Wildcard. You get to make up the shit here, it could totally be anything.]

Comments

[enervated]

[He stares, deadpan, at Dorian.]

Really.

[depicted]

You smell terrible. [He is not apologizing.]

[enervated]

Well, excuse me for living in the apocalypse for the past two years.

[He is not budging.]

It's kinda hard to care about takin' a shower when you're more concerned about BEING EATEN ALIVE.

[depicted]

You're forgiven. But as you are now apparently in a dying dream, you can afford to take care of that problem.

[enervated]

Or it doesn't fuckin' matter since I'm going to die and then come back as a fuckin' walker.

[depicted]

. . . As opposed to a runner?

[wait]

Zombies!! You think you're in a zombie apocalypse. Oh, that explains so much.

[enervated]

Think? Think?

[Oh rip. Here comes the temper again.]

I am in a fuckin' 'zombie apocalypse', asshole!

[depicted]

No, you aren't. There are no zombies in London.

Probably.

[Dorian doesn't know. London has weird shit sometimes. He met zombies in Florida. Why not London? Why not?]

[enervated]

[Kenny suddenly stands and just like, furiously paces away, bristling.]

No fuckin' way. There's no FUCKIN' way that only America gets goddamn walkers and fucking Europe doesn't get SHIT.

[Kenny. Kenny wasn't this supposed to be a nightmare why are you acting like it's real again. Kenny just go take a shower. Please.]

[depicted]

Yeah, it'd only be Madagascar that would escape a plague. America isn't being attacked by zombies. I'd know. It would be on the news, and it isn't. [Dorian grabs the remote and turns on the TV to the news channels because of course he has a tv in his room] See? That's the kind of thing even the BBC can't avoid reporting.

[enervated]

[He has not seen a tv work in years.

So you know what he does? He tries to grab the remote so he can throw it at a wall to break it.]

Stop! Fucking! Doing that!

[STOP TRYING TO SAY THERE ARE NO ZOMBIES YOU TURD.]

[depicted]

[RUDE AS FUCK] Hey, back off! [No he is noT GIVING THE STINKY FLORIDA MAN HIS REMOTE]

[enervated]

STOP TURNIN' ON TVS.

[HE IS SERIOUS ABOUT THIS. STOP TURNING ON TVS. TURN IT OFF RIGHT NOW. LOOK AT HIM. HE IS ENTERING STERN, ONE EYED, SMELLY FATHER MODE.]

Turn that shit off.

[depicted]

[YOU'RE NOT HIS DAD.]

I will as soon as you take a shower.

[enervated]

[KENNY IS NO ONE'S DAD ANYMORE......................]

Ugh! Fine. But that shit better be off when I'm back in here, or so help me, I will throw it out that window.

[depicted]

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'll turn it off. And leave your clothes in a pile. I'll leave something outside the bathroom door that will fit you.

[enervated]

[Kenny grunts with disapproval and sulks off. He'll take your big dumb shower. He manages to find the bathroom without asking though. But before he takes anything off he sticks his head back out, unhatted - my god his hair is a mess]

You better not fuck with my hat. Get me? This hat is off limits.

[And he is gone again. You better not fuck with his hat, Gay British Dorian.]

[depicted]

[UGH] Fine!

[Everything else is thrown in a pile to be trashed or burned, but Kenny can keep his hat. And he'll get some nice expensive casual clothes left outside the bathroom door for him. Go be clean, smelly Floridan man.]

[enervated]

[Yeah, son, you BETTER leave that hat be. That hat is important. Like his dumb little necklace.

But Kenny begrudgingly showers. He's careful with his eye and whatever else and really the whole thing is just a weirdly surreal experience for him. When he gets out, he stares at these new clothes with disdain. But his old ones are gone, so he's forced to wear these.

He shouts from inside the bathroom.]

These make me look like a fucking asshole!

[depicted]

You are a fucking asshole! Those clothes are clean, you can buy something tasteless to wear later!

[enervated]

[Kenny comes out fully dressed, his hair mostly damp because he dried it with a towel but even now it's still doing it's weird flippy thing and let's be real washing it has only made his hair poof up more. This man has too much hair.]

My fishin' shirts ain't tasteless.

[His eye is also unbandaged, which, to be honest, is really nasty looking. It isn't swollen anymore, so he's managed to open it, but the whole area is still raw and flayed. And his eye itself, the sclera is red with blood, the iris is torn, and he has a clear eight ball fracture. It's quite obvious that the eye is irreparable.

Kenny was kind of hoping maybe he could see out of it. He can't.]

You got anything I could, uh, put on this?

[He points up to his eye. He's kind of eased his voice down too.

Also he has not denied being an asshole. Because he totally is.]

[depicted]

[It is too much hair. Kenny, you are a crime against the clothes you are in.

Dorian reigns in his temper at the sight of Kenny. The eye damage is enough to win even his sympathy. He sighs.] Let me check what I have for first aid. [He steps past Kenny into the bathroom. Dorian does not, as a rule, stock up much on first aid kids, but he does keep a box just in case someone less durable than him gets hurt. He opens the box up and rummages through until he finds some wraps and a pad. He holds them out to Kenny.] Would this work? We can get you to a hospital, if you prefer.

[enervated]

[Dorian, that's what you get for putting an old surfer-fisherman in nice clothes.]

Yeaaah, gonna decline on the hospital there, kid.

[He takes the pad and wraps and begins, sloppily, covering his eye and wrapping shit up in the saddest excuse for some kind of eye patch in the world.]

I'm havin' enough fuckin' trouble as is with the whole 'hey, look! tv. folks outside! telephones!' shit you're throwin' at me, and hell if I wanna experience that first hand.

[depicted]

You can't stay in my house forever. [except Dorian will let him do exactly that]

[enervated]

I didn't say I wanted to!

[He goes to get his hat from the bathroom.]

I just- alright, listen to me for a second here. The dead have been gettin' up and eatin' people for two years. Two years. I need a fuckin' bit to deal with the fact that apparently there aren't walkers out there.

[Wow, now that he's showered, he can kind of only barely smell that his hat smells awful. He frowns at it.]

I mean, I fuckin' know this ain't a dream. Or a nightmare. I ain't that stupid. I'm just... kinda hopin' I'll wake up and have a shotgun or an assault rifle pointin' in my face.