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Post by servalstrike on Dec 27, 2016 17:27:08 GMT -5
(well mag you could start with ingrid and then bring in a hooligan or two as the rp goes on)
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Post by koi on Dec 27, 2016 17:28:11 GMT -5
[ INGRID!!!! INGRID ]
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on Dec 27, 2016 17:28:58 GMT -5
{ NEW HOOLIGANS! NEW HOOLIGANS! }
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Post by mags on Dec 27, 2016 17:30:17 GMT -5
( YEEEEET OK THATS IT INGRID IS COMIN BACK YALL but i might toss in some newbies as the rp goes on ;D )
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on Dec 27, 2016 17:37:05 GMT -5
{ no dang it! i was afraid this might happen! it's alright mal! this rp was made to make new friends! you're welcome to stay and become that new friend! }
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Post by mags on Dec 27, 2016 17:38:44 GMT -5
( yeah, mal!! stay & hang out!! ik we'd all love to have you <3 )
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Post by Salted Squid on Dec 27, 2016 19:36:00 GMT -5
Mal I swear I used to be a complete stranger to these weirdoes, now I'm one of them. Please stay and I promise we'll love you too <3))
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on Dec 27, 2016 19:44:45 GMT -5
{ we all used to be strangers u-u except me and serv. we're sisters. twin sisters. we were never strangers. }
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Post by mags on Dec 27, 2016 20:10:46 GMT -5
( HA rob my best friends irl are twins and i didn't know that till like 6 months after i started hanging out w them hahahah so i get u!!
but YEAH mal we all used to be strangers!! but everyone's so kind you'll be fine i promise <3 )
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Post by Salted Squid on Dec 27, 2016 20:26:17 GMT -5
It took me forever to figure out that hon and serv were twins though I swear they kept dropping hints))
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Post by Salted Squid on Dec 27, 2016 20:34:36 GMT -5
Also I've decided to bring in Skylar. Her child too. She's a child w a child))
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Post by mags on Dec 27, 2016 21:00:13 GMT -5
( woot ingrid is done hahah she's a little weirdo but she's my child and i love her a lot ok )
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Post by mags on Dec 27, 2016 22:14:46 GMT -5
( GUYS IM SO EXCITED OMG )
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on Dec 27, 2016 22:19:27 GMT -5
{ eeeeee! same! those sound great mal! i read brainwashed, sweet sweet boy as seaweed boy for whatever reason }
{ if everyone's in agreement should we start the rp??? i have a starter ready to go whenever you are! }
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Post by mags on Dec 27, 2016 22:21:33 GMT -5
( all of these characters are fab and im PUMPED OK i'd say go for it if u wanna, hon! i might not get anything up tonight but i can't wait to read it!!!! )
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on Dec 27, 2016 22:30:35 GMT -5
{ hmm. i think i'll post a starter just so people can start thinking about what they want to do with their characters. i know a lot of people aren't finished but now is as good a time as any to start! ...right? }
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Post by servalstrike on Dec 27, 2016 22:36:07 GMT -5
(And whenever hon posts her starter for Group 1 i'll post my starter for Group 2!)
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on Dec 27, 2016 22:47:58 GMT -5
{ there we go! sorry it's short, just something to get things started >w< }
The church was far from fancy, it especially paled in comparison to Barcelona’s cathedrals, of which Emilio had found himself in on more than a hundred occasions. For whatever reason, Abuela had made it her sacred duty to enter every church they happened upon. This one wasn’t the worst they had taken up residence in. At least it was clean of the dead. The church was small-- its dusty, dank pews likely only seated a hundred or less --situated just outside a small town. Dawns mist-dusted fingers were crawling through the sparse clouds by the time Emilio roused himself from something he would have liked to call sleep but was really more like fitful nap at best. Shivering candle flames made the morning light all the more eerie.
“Abuelita? Abuelita, Dónde está?” Emilio called, already rifling through his bag for his dwindling supply of cookies.
“Aquí, conejito,” came the old woman’s response. Craning his neck, Emilio peered over the pews to find his grandmother kneeling before the pulpit. Likely, he disturbed her prayer. That's all she seemed to do, even before the dead started walking. Now, instead of praying between meals and gardening, she prayed before walking out the door into a world infested with hungry undead.
Abuela wasn’t made of the stuff most granny’s were made of. She wasn’t sugar and spice and everything nice. She was sugar and steel. A steel-toothed trap, deadly stubbornness that could snap your leg in half. Sweet as candy and caramel until you pushed the wrong button. Then SNAP! CRACK! A broken ankle and a hurt worse than all the fire and brimstone in hell. And it was that steel trap of a woman that had kept Emilio alive for this long. Four months. Four months of scrounging and scavenging. Four months of sleeping with one eye open. Four months of the dead. She rose to her feet now, dusting off her pants and pocketing her rosary before turning to Emilio with that feather-soft smile of hers, the one made of sugar, not steel. “Go wake the others, mi cielo. We need to get moving soon. El sol no esperará para nosotros.”
“Sí, abuelita. Y usted?” He spoke through a mouthful of cookie, already shoving what he had left into his bag and hoisting onto his shoulder. Anxiety sparked at his feet, lighting the beginnings of the fire that would keep him walking for the day. He hated walking such long distances, but he hated the dead more. Abuela said he had the nerves of a rabbit, all jumpy and anxious. Conejito. Little bunny.
“I’m going to do a quick dead sweep. Make sure our path is clear. We should be to the sanctuary soon.” Abuela explained, already heading for the door, knife in hand and ready. She adjusted her thick-lensed glasses, white braids hanging limp around her face. Such a small, frail woman heading out alone to kill the undead, Emilio was still shaken by the sight. His grandmother shouldn’t be off on solo scouting missions. She should be in her kitchen, baking fresh bread and humming hymns and smacking Emilio for not washing dishes when she asked.
Instead, they were here, in a dusty little church, looking for hope, and living like hunted animals.
“Rápidamente, conejito. Rapido, rapido!” She called back over her shoulder, using the voice Emilio recognized as her chore-assigning voice.
Wash the dishes, mijo. Sweep the floor, mi cielo. Wake the others, conejito.
Emilio swept a hand through his hair and set to work. One by one, he walked the length of the church, waking his companions with a gentle shake of the shoulder and a quiet “time to go”. And one by one they did so. While the others collected themselves and their things, Emilio brought a map from his backpack and scanned it with those rabbit-quick eyes. They were somewhere close to the Washington coast, judging by the signs they had passed, they were closing in on the small town of Edgemont. Before everything went completely dark, rumors had spread like seeds on the wind of a town offering sanctuary to all who asked for it. Now those seeds had taken root in his heart and, the closer they got to Edgemont, the more they grew.
He cast a glance around the room, tracing his finger along the map. Edgemont wasn’t far. Just keep following the road. Keep following the signs.
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Post by servalstrike on Dec 27, 2016 23:08:04 GMT -5
(Sorry mine is so long and clumsy)
Soraya: The world seemed so hushed in the early morning gloom. The sky was a slate of gray, casting the world into a shadow-play. Soraya stood knee-deep in the river. Its waters felt like ice against her legs, swirling around her and trying to pull her into its currents calling her to join its dance with fish and stones. She stood as still as a statue. It was unknown to her just how long she had been standing there, but judging by the cramps in her frozen legs she could guess it had been quite a while. Her dark eyes remained trained on the ever flowing water while her hand kept the handmade three-prong fishing spear aimed at the river. Patience. How many times had her Father told her how important the virtue of patience was to fishing? The word had been carved into her memory like stone. Soraya was not a patient girl, but she was a hungry girl and if she wanted breakfast she would have to focus. Her feet had gone numb long ago it made her wonder that if she would even be able to move if she tried.
The mist that had blanketed the river when she got there earlier was beginning to disperse offering her vigil to her surroundings, to any menace that might try to sneak up on her. But while she endured the river’s icy tug she had never needed sight to remain vigilant. The water was calm enough that if any threat tried to reach her while she was preoccupied she would have heard it’s splashing. And heaven knows that the threat that infested the forest lacked the intelligence to try and reach her without being noticed.
Soraya’s eyes started to hurt from staring at the rivers stones for so long, then suddenly out of the corner of her eye she spotted a dark shape flitting beneath the water’s surface. Her body moved without conscious thought her spear piercing the water as if it were an extension of her arm and pinned the fish. A grin lit up her face as she pulled up her spear and revealed her catch. Not a very big fish but it had renewed her fading resilience. She removed the slippery thing from the end of her spear and plopped it into the basket on her back. Soraya was about to turn back to the flow of the river, but paused to survey the area around her. Dark trees loomed over grassy banks, the river in which she stood was shallow but wide and she stood near the center of it. Everything seemed quiet and for a moment she could almost pretend that things were normal. Almost. A shadow in the forest had come to life and stumbled from the line of trees. In the dim light Soraya could see the rotting thing on the opposing bank. It’s clothes hung in tatters on its decaying flesh, torn by violence and weather.
Fear pierced her stomach at the sight of it as it tripped down the muddy bank and into the water. Its hands reached for her as it crossed the water, teeth always gnashing in an endless chewing motion already in anticipation for fresh meat. Soraya felt fear but she did not let it freeze her. It was only one walker and she had faced dozens of them before, this kill would be nothing to her.
Her legs groaned in protest as she waded through the currents and met the ragged bag of bones before the water laid claim to it. She swung the spear in practiced motion and pinned the walker to the damp muddy bank with the blunt end. Her spear was a tool for hunting not killing the end, if she used it for any other purpose it would be tainted and the fish she caught would be cursed. The thing moaned in hunger as it reached for her. It’s mouth was a black pit of broken gnarled teeth, it’s jaw moved of it’s own accord ready to tear into flesh. Soraya’s lips twisted back in disgust at the creature. She could see it had once been a man, a person, someone’s father or brother and now it was none of those things. Her hand moved to her belt pulling a knife free from its sheath- one of her favorites, a thick blade with a guard grip shaped like metal knuckles- and held the blade at its temple. “Alssalam wakasr wahid.” Peace, broken one. It was the only consolation she could give to the dead thing, it was rude to let it pass into it’s final death without something of a prayer. But Soraya had said so many threnodies that they had become dust in her mouth, they meant nothing and she could not give peace to all the dead that walked. Finally, as the blade struck the walkers temple its movement stopped and it’s body became limp. As all the dead should be, it was quiet at last. Soraya wiped the blade clean on the body’s ragged clothes before she returned to the river.
By the time Soraya had finishing fishing her basket was only half full but heavy enough that she felt her time had not been wasted. Even just one fish would have been worth it. Every meager morsel counted in days like these. Her feet were glad to be back in the warm caress of her socks and boots, warmth had returned to her legs as she made her way up one of the sloping paths from the river. She was half a mile from where her group was camped but her movements were swift and quiet as she picked her way back. Travelling alone had been hard on her. The walkers had started moving in herds and you never knew when a herd would descend upon you. Every second you weren’t moving was another grain of sand slipping through the hourglass that marked life and death. Soraya didn’t know how much sand was left in her glass but she’d make every grain count. She path that she climbed was rocky with gutters worn in by rain water and surrounding on all sides by thick forest. It was exhausting to climb but this was the closest water source she had seen on the map. The forest around her was a blessing and a curse. The trees would break up a herd if one managed to pass by and provided cover and shelter if she needed it. Unfortunately, it also provided cover to the walkers from which she wanted to hide. She dared not dwell on it though as the sound of breaking sticks and rustling brush met her ears. Soraya only had a moment before she saw the shadows take human shape and gray hands reached for her from the trees, then she started sprinting. There were about a dozen, too many for her to stand and put down by herself. Her breath came in ragged gasps. The winding path was as much a curse as the forest. It slowed down the walkers but her as well.
She clenched her jaw, biting down whatever fearful scream was trying to claw it’s way out of her. There weren’t just the few behind her, she’d been caught in a herd. So many more, coming at her from all directions. Cold fingers fumbled at her face and tried to grab her hair, but Soraya jagged and dodged and dove through them. She pounded up the slope faster than a doe being chased by wolves as the mass of the dead growled out a moan of hunger and followed. She cut a line into the trees not wanting to be blocked on the path. As she ran, a walker rose up out of the tall grass directly in her path. There was no way to avoid the thing not with all the momentum she’d gained in her adrenaline fueled flight, so she tucked her head and drove her shoulder into it. The walker went flying backward, and Soraya leapt over the thrashing creature. More walkers came at her, rising up from weeds and staggering out from behind tumbled boulders. Blood thundered in her ears and she swung her spear and forced one to the ground, thankfully without letting her spear puncture it in anyway. She scanned the trees for one she could climb. A ladder clung to one of many trunks reaching up to a platform used for hunting. She thanked whatever benevolent creator had taken pity on her. Pushing the last of her strength into a headlong sprint she reach the safety of the ladder and climbed it like she’d been born a squirrel. As her the weight of her foot hit one of the steps the rung gave way unexpectedly. She let out a cry as her foot slipped from it’s perch and her leg scraped against the ladder. A jagged nail had been waiting for her, maybe if she hadn’t rolled up her pants while fishing the nails sharp edge would have been stopped or lessened by the cloth. But whatever benevolent creator was watching her had not been entirely merciful to her plight, and the nail tore through the skin on her calf and ripped a yell from her throat. Below her the dead were starting to swarm the tree. Their moans grasping at her like ghost hands. No turning back now. Soraya dared not look down until she reached the tree stand.
Her legs curled against her chest and her head rested against the tree behind her. She tried to slow her breathing, tried to calm the storm in her blood, tame the beast of fear that raged in it’s cage. With shaking hands she revealed a needle and spool of fishing line from her pocket. Adrenaline kept her pain at bay for now, but she didn’t know how long the high would last or for how long she’d be trapped up there. She ripped up part of her shirt and used it to try and staunch the flow of blood. All of her supplies save for the fishing basket she’d found and her spear had been left at the library with her group. The group she’d only known for a week and already she was out here trying to prove that she was a useful member to them. Well how useful would she be when she died out here? Not at all. What a foolhardy thing to do to go out alone. At least she had plenty of time to contemplate what a mess she’d gotten herself into while she bled to death.
Time passed, every second a grain of sand in her hourglass. She her head ached and her leg throbbed with pain, at least the pain meant she was still alive. But she knew she was ebbing towards that great beyond. Hopefully when she became a walker she’d fall from that stupid tree stand and break her legs so that she couldn’t hurt anyone.
Then, finally, the world hushed.
She dared a glance down at the forest floor and it was empty. The herd had passed. As she scaled back down the ladder as carefully as she could with her now injured leg she saw the footprints of the dead littered the area around her tree even some bark had been scraped away by their ravenous hands. Soraya felt light-headed and leaned against the tree trunk. She was lucky to be alive. Slowly she picked her way back through the woods to the path using her spear as a crutch.
By the time she reached the library she felt ready to faint. The library was a tall stone building with flower beds that hadn’t been tended to in weeks and glass that was starting to smudge with grime. At least it was secure and dry, and it in a way it was nice to be surrounded by all that knowledge. The doors groaned open, alerting all occupants that someone was entering the building. Soraya dragged herself into the safety of the library and closed the door behind herself. “If you’re all walkers I would appreciate it if you could just come eat me now instead of waiting in the shadows like damn cowards!” She called through the expanse of the library her accent lilting across her words as she spoke. Parts of the library were still dark and covered in dust but the sitting area was lit by the light of a lamp. She limped over and set down her basket and spear.
The library where they had chosen to set up camp wasn’t too bad, it sat on the edge of a town and had been free of walkers when their group arrived. The stacks and stacks of books that surrounded them were a comfort and a reminder of everything they had lost. Stories and pictures from a world lost to the dead. “I wish I had time to read every book in here,” she said almost wistfully, “If the world keeps going in the direction it is then someday all this knowledge will be lost, people may not even know how to read anymore.”
Soraya hissed at the pain in her leg as she let herself drop onto the cushioned couch. Reaching into her pocket she pulled out a shiny white orb. She clasped it tightly in her hand and held it against her heart. Her most treasured possession, a pearl. Her blood had completely soaked her makeshift bandaged and now ran down her leg onto the couch beneath her.
She licked her lips, her mouth was so dry. She could have really used a drink if she had any energy left to stand. At least she wouldn’t have to put herself in that kind of danger much longer. Either death’s fingers would claw the life from her body or they would reach Edgemont and the prospect of a Safe House. All around they had seen maps marked with a safe haven and signs promising reprieve from the horrors of the plague. Slowly Soraya forced herself up into a sitting position. Where was that doctor when she needed him? Where was her water bottle? When would they finally leave the confines of that dusty old library?
Edgemont, that's right she besides going out fishing she had wanted to see if they could get to that place. To anyone who was listening she cleared her throat and said, "I did a perimeter sweep. It looks like Edgemont is just a days journey away. If we leave soon we could get there by tomorrow. But I hit a walker pack on the way here..." Her voice sounded hoarse and worn.
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Post by Salted Squid on Dec 27, 2016 23:44:25 GMT -5
Wow
Just
How the heck am I supposed to get anywhere near that
I would be writing all night
Not to mention that I still need to finish forms lmao))
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Post by mags on Dec 27, 2016 23:54:21 GMT -5
( wowowow i'm bombarded w beautiful writing. i love reading this. omg ok i'm gonna get something up for ingrid ~hopefully~ tomorrow but tomorrow's super busy so it might be friday since i'm going to harry potter world on thursday PRAISE anyway beautiful <3 i love this alreadyyyy )
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Post by koi on Dec 28, 2016 1:16:43 GMT -5
[ whoops i leave for a few hours and ALL THIS GORGEOUS WRITING since i hate myself i'm going to probably get a post or two up tonight. ]
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Post by koi on Dec 28, 2016 4:03:48 GMT -5
mark lias group 2, library
Mark was about twelve years old when he was told he should quit dance.
It wasn’t a big kick in the gut, or anything, because Mark never listens and especially wasn’t fond of that whole listening thing when he was in grade 7 (is anyone, ever?), but he thinks back on it sometimes (oftentimes) and wonders if his doctor was right.
Mark’s body was a little b*tch to him, just, such a problem. He tried everything they told him to (which was usually summed up in less words Mark could say in one breath: “try using knee braces, or sports tape, ice and elevation, oh, and, quit ballet.”), iced so much he felt like he finally understood why Jack (y’know, from The Titanic) rested in pieces upon being in the water for like, a while. Not saying Mark is dead, but he always felt as much, when every time he came home from class he’d immediately open the fridge, open the ice compartment, pour its entire contents in a garbage can, put some water in it with the hose from outside, and dunk his legs up to his knees in it.
And this was only when Mark was what--thirteen? Maybe fourteen? He was only dancing four days a week, way back when. By the time he was sixteen, he danced six days a week, worked his damn ass nearly off (true, actually, he lost all of his baby fat through means of allegro. It was great. Who knew he had such a sharp jaw?), and I mean, the whole stress fracture thing wasn’t at all what he was going for when he decided to start working his damn ass nearly off, but it happened anyways. Yikes.
He’s always had shin splints, that isn’t new to him, wasn’t new to him at the time, as soon as he started working more on his jumps his shins absolutely hated him for it. It’s not like it mattered, he rubbed some homeopathic concoction on them and went on with his daily life until this one dude, once his fav dude, his best bro, Carmen Goddamn Garcia Canavan was carrying a chair and he accidentally swung it right into his shin. And Mark most definitely fell to the floor.
After not-very-profuse apologizing, and after Mark swore to some god (whoever was listening) he could feel a dent in his shin, Carmen took Mark’s leg in his lap (still, in the middle of the lobby and the studio, blocking all entrance, it was a really spectacular moment, like, shoujo anime on steroids) and ran his thumb up the ridge of bone, back and forth, as Mark winced generously, and said,
“Dude,”
and then,
“Dude, you have a dent in your shin.”
Mark’s father immediately wanted him to get x-rays (when Mark had mentioned his dent to his dad, a dent which he graciously named Carlos), and so they did, and so Mark said “No, I don’t have a stress fracture, screw off,” when the results came back and his doctor said, “You do, actually, and don’t try and leave,” and so Mark, with his lil booty halfway out that door, was dragged back into the room by his arm and a cross dad, and learnt that he needed to take four months off dance, and if that didn’t fix it, surgery would. And that hurt. That hurt like a kick right in the dance belt. Right in the knackers.
Except, like, he didn’t take time off dance. The thing is, it never really did heal. He always kept dancing, kept icing, kept it all under wraps like a sad, sad Christmas present.
So now, Mark has a dent in his right leg and all he can say about it is, “Carmen broke my leg with a chair,” which is both incorrect and makes Carmen seem like the bad person, here, when really it was probably his ballet instructor telling him he’d be cut from all his roles in Nutcracker if he didn’t get his ass into gear and jump higher. But Anastasia had always hated him. So he really shouldn’t have listened to her, just like he should have listened to his doctor when he was twelve about maybe, I don’t know, quitting dance.
Even now, he sits on top of his rolled out sleeping bag, as weighed down by sleep as his back is by bone, yawning with his mouth glinting metal and light blue elastics, running a finger along the dented ridge of bone between sore muscles. He curls his hand into a fist and knocks his knuckles where he remembers the doctor's hands being, feeling for anything, like hands deep in a shoal of minnows. You see, it’s been a solid four months now since Mark danced, since he did much aside from occasional spurts of running away from walkers with The Waltz Of The Flowers playing in his head (super dramatic. that dance never left him), though it’s been the required amount of time, still feels it ache when he puts pressure on it, like an icicle snapped clean off a hemlock branch, still feels it ache like stomping on a crack in a floor. With his hand in a hard, harsh fist, he expects it to open wide like a fissure between lands, taps on his bone like he wants it to crack and break. And he doesn’t know why he still does it, has no reason to, not now. But like, maybe he does it as a reminder, maybe, as if he is not reminded enough that he is decidedly mortal and decidedly, y’know, made of flesh and bone and all that jiggly stuff.
And he knocks on his bone, mercilessly against his fracture, and looks right up at Soraya. He’s unsure when she came back. It’s not like Mark had a zoning-out issue, Walter Mitty style or something, but.
“Yo, Soraya, you don’t look so hot,” he says, then rethinks it, “Not saying you’re not hot, but. Want some water?”
She says her next piece, then, about the herd of walkers, as Mark is rucking through his hiking pack for a half-empty water bottle he knew he had, and that’d explain it—explain her entire disposition, actually. “Sh*t. You’re not bitten, by any chance? Hey, where the hell is Dr. Dash anyways?” He looks at Soraya, eyebrows dark and knitted together, uncovered by hair in a rare moment in which he had enough sweat and grime in it that it stayed swept back, performance-style, “man, that dude has such an awful name. Dr. Dash sounds straight outta a comic book and, like. Dr. Shay sounds like he’s selling a product marketed towards acne-prone teenagers, so what do you do. Here.”
He tosses a water bottle her way, prays to not-God that she catches it.
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on Dec 28, 2016 9:57:11 GMT -5
{ morning guys! how is everyone today? }
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