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OMG!Tom
re_mybrains wrote in milliways_bar
[From The Zombie Survival Guide, chap. 4, pg. 100: No matter what your chances for survival are during an infestation, they will undoubtedly drop by 50 if not 75 percent when traversing an urban area.]

The front door opens.

The man who comes sprinting through is lean, carrying a pack on his back and a gun in his hand, and looks and smells like he hasn't had a lot of time for personal hygiene lately. He pulls the door shut with a slam and then spins around to point the gun in front of him.

And stops.



There's really no way to properly verbalize the what goes through a guy's brain when he's expecting to be faced with an empty building, or maybe some zombified former residents of said building, and instead is faced with a bustling, brightly lit bar.

So Tom won't try.

He's just gonna stand here for a minute with the gun out and his jaw dropped until his brain tries to catch up with current events.

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Spoon hasn't been having a good day. That's why when the gun spins to cover him he drops onto the ground, hands over the back of his neck, swallowing his lit fucking fag and immediately going into a shocked rendition of, "Please, please don't shoot. Don't shoot me, I'm being good. Please, no, no, please don't, please don't fuckin' shoot, please, I'm sorry, please."

"--Jesus--"

That snaps him out of it. He pulls the gun up, eyes wide.

"Hey -- I'm not gonna shoot you, shit, sorry, I'm not gonna shoot."

It takes the man with the seriously scarred arm rather longer to manage to un-curl from his fetal position than it did for Tom to snap out of things. Widened and nervous eyes dart from the gun to Tom's cheek and back repeatedly.

Spoon, with shaking hands, eventually lights a new fag. It takes a couple of attempts to get the thing lit. "Sorry. Sorry. Sorry."

"No, I'm sorry. Uh. What the hell is going on?"

He looks the guy over, looks around.

". . . What the hell is going on?"

Tom isn't sounding so steady, himself.

There's a startled kid starting to turn at the sound. And, just as quickly, a kid diving into a booth.

Why in hell does he not have a gun?

The movement catches his eye, and he starts to spin that way, but it's way too fast and agile for a zombie.

And--

It's a kid.

". . . What the hell is going on here?"

Aha, there's that verbalization.

He banged his leg on the table edge while doing that whole diving thing, and now it's numb. Ow. Wesker checks through part of the lacework of the booth to see if the gun's still raised.

"Who are you?"

Bob rises from his seat as the disheveled man enters the bar. "Dude, you okay?"

Ignore the mun in the corner, who's a huge Coulton fan and is currently sqeeing in delight.




Tom stares for a minute.

"What the fuck."

"...ah. Let me guess, you just walked through a door expecting to go somewhere else and now you have no idea where you are?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

He's blue. And -- scaly and chromey.

WHAT THE FUCK.

Kendra's probably only preceded his arrival by sixty or so minutes, so she's still in a state of shock and awe at Milliways, but hadn't she just been told that the place was safe?

Because guns? Means not a happy Hawkgirl.

"Point that down," she says, rising a few feet into the air. "Right now. Point it down."

If nothing else, if he has to shoot at someone, better her than some random innocent patron. Thus, she rises higher, towards the ceiling.

That snaps him out of it really really fast.

"Jesus fucking Christ okay okay okay!"

Gun is pointing at the floor now. Oh yes.

"What the hell is going on?!"

"I don't know, guy, but you walked in here packing heat and pointing it at a bunch of strangers. Including me."

Kendra? A big fan of sixties and seventies hardboiled cinema and its attendant slang, in all of its glory.

She crosses the bar with a beat of her wings, and lands lightly a few feet from him. If he's going to panic and shoot, she has a better chance of disarming him if she's close.

Why yes, that is a very nasty and barbaric looking flail she's holding casually at her hip.

"Hell if I know what's going on. Why don't you put the gun down, and we'll figure it out together, okay?"

She's on the floor. Good.

. . . She's still pretty intimidating, even when she's not hovering up by the rafters. It's something about the flail. And the wings. Yeah.

He pulls the gun back and tells her blankly, "I was expecting zombies."

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