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

[depicted]

[That poor hair. Poor, terrible hair. Dorian mourns it.]

I . . . I suppose, if that's the point you've reached. There is a guest room down the hall, with a bathroom en suite. You can stay as long as you like.

[enervated]

[At least someone is mourning the hair.

And the thing is, he's used to staying with strangers. That's how life is now. You encounter someone and then they invite you to stay, or you prove yourself to have some value to the group to make them want you to stay.

But he has no skills to offer in a 'normal world'. And the kindness of strangers often belies darker intent- he has not forgotten what happened to Mark, and how they all let their guard down in the face of kindness.]

Wouldn't want to burden ya... Dorian, right? I don't got shit to offer in return.

[depicted]

I don't particularly care either way, but I am a little curious why a man apparently from a zombie apocalypse somehow turned up in my bed, so if you do leave, I'd appreciate having some way to contact you. God knows I don't want it happening twice.

[TOO MUCH STINKY APOCALYPSE SURVIVOR DNW]

[enervated]

[He had been about to go on another train of thought when the words 'I don't want it happening twice' sink in. It may not be what Dorian means, but for Kenny it has a sudden, heavy weight to it.

He can't leave.]

Oh, godDAMNit! Fuck!

[His shoulders tense and he starts to furiously pace.]

I can't stay here. I can't- fuck me, I completely forgot. I'm infected. If this place doesn't have walkers, that makes me the ONLY fucking infected person!

[depicted]

[Dorian gives an intelligent and fully cognizant reply.]

What?

[enervated]

[He groans. God, having to explain what was a fact that he never thought much about because 'welp that's life now'...]

I'm infected. And not like 'oh, he got bit, he's gonna start eatin' us any minute now.'

[A beat.]

EVERYONE is infected. No bite necessary. You die, you come back.

[depicted]

[Oh.

Shit.

The dawning realization is visible.] How is the infection spread? Am I infected?

[enervated]

[Kenny roughly shrugs, not an apathetic one but one kind of angry.]

No fuckin' clue, kid. I ain't exactly a scientist. And in two years I haven't met one.

[depicted]

Well, fuck. Now I have to think about how not to spread the zombie apocalypse through London. And neither of us can leave until I work it out. Fantastic. If I have to burn my house down after this I will not be happy.

[enervated]

You're probably fine. And I wasn't plannin' on takin' any strolls through that fuckin' nightmare outside.

[Is there a chair in this room. I'm saying there is a chair in this room and Kenny fuckin flops down in it and crosses his arms.]

Good luck if you're tryin' to work out if there's some kinda bullshit cure though. It'd be great if there was, but I ain't exactly too optimistic 'bout it.

[depicted]

[congratulations on chair. Dorian drops onto a sofa.] I'm not optimistic as a rule, but I don't fancy the pessimistic alternative.

[enervated]

[He leans his head back, looking up at the ceiling.]

First few months, I thought there was a chance it'd all go back to normal. If we just waited it out, survived while we could, somebody'd come up with a cure and we could all go back to what we were doing.

Nobody came up with anything. More folks kept dyin'. Probably wasn't a single fuckin' person trying to work on some 'cure'.

[depicted]

Say you're right. What are the alternatives to avoid a second round of the zombie apocalypse?

[enervated]

I shoot myself in the head.

[He laughs once, quietly, bitterly.]

Which... I ain't plannin' on doin'. Sorry.

[depicted]

Oh, joy. Considering I'd have to go too—hang on.

Do you have a knife?

[enervated]

Nope.

[He hasn't carried one for years now.]

I prefer firearms or a crowbar. Knives ain't too useful for killin' walkers.

[depicted]

That would make a lot of sense. [Dorian searches his mantle for something. Ahah! A fire poker.] If I come back as a zombie, kill me. If I don't, don't worry about it. [Dorian spins the fire poker around and then slams it through his eye into his skull.

A corpse of Dorian is now on the floor. Wow.]

[enervated]

[He doesn't have a moment to interrupt before the man kills himself. He had only managed to lean forward, reach an arm out and the man is a corpse on the ground.

Kenny stiffens. His arm shakes, his shoulders shake. He didn't know this man but - it hits him anyway because suicide, suicide in front of him, these subjects cut and wound him deeply and he presses his hands against his forehead, his eyes.

Against the one, his ruined one, he's pressing hard enough it's shifting around the shattered fragments of bone under the skin. It doesn't hurt enough to distract him from the fact a man just killed himself.]

F... fuck...

[He needs to get up. The odds of the man reanimating are low - it was a- suicide to the head, blow to the head, damaged brains don't reanimate, but in case it didn't.

So he stands. He shakes even then. And he crouches down to Dorian's body. He doesn't have his crowbar or a firearm with him. If there is any reanimation, he needs a weapon.

He grabs the fire poker. He puts a foot on Dorian's shoulder. And out comes the fire poker with one rough tug. Then he stands upright, holding it tightly in his hands.]

You stupid... fuck...

[His voice is quiet, upset.]

[depicted]

[Dorian opens his perfectly intact eye.]

Ow.

[He rubs the blood away.] Can I get a hand up? Head injuries always make me a little queasy.

[enervated]

[Dorian. Do you know what Kenny does? As soon as he saw your eye open, he stopped thinking of you as alive. Survivor instincts kicked in and he didn't even pay attention to what you were saying.

He slams the fire poker furiously down into Dorian's skull.]

You stupid! Fucking! Kid!

[Why'd you have to do this, kid? Why did you fucking kill yourself and then reanimate?]

[depicted]

[Dorian's out again because a guy is killing him with a fire poker. Dammit. Dying sucks.]

[enervated]

[Kenny is starting to slip off into unhinged territory now, as there is no reason to hit Dorian's head again, but he does just that.

The fire poker comes down on Dorian's skull again. And again. And again. Most of the regretful emotion that he had, the shock and horror over this young man killing himself in front of him is gone, replaced with a wild eyed madness. Replaced with aimless, low burning fury. Again, again, again, again. Until his shoulders hurt, and he collapses down into the chair he had been sitting in before Dorian killed himself.

The fire poker is spread over his lap, and he sits there in a slight, furious daze. Kenny swallows harshly.

Absently, one now blooded hand goes up to his eye to wipe at it. He's started crying, but not enough for him to get caught up in the emotion.]

[depicted]

[The blood and the mess stays, so it's likely easy not to notice at first. Except, eventually, the awful mangled horror of Dorian's face comes back together under the gore. And this time, Dorian gets up quickly.] Don't hit me again, for the love of God!

[enervated]

[He stares.

That's it. His mouth agape, his eye wide. What. The. Hell.]

[depicted]

[Dorian helpfully explains.] I'm immortal.