Note: This story is kind of like poison. I sucked it all out of my system, but I need somewhere to spit it.
…Sometimes I thoroughly disgust myself.
Anyway. Please just don't read this. Really. Stop.
Prologue:
IN WHICH THERE WAS A BEGINNING, AND A DAWN OF THE UNDEAD
"Sokka?" a bandaged Aang, having just woken up, asked from his sleeping bag. "Whatcha doin'?"
"Cleaning up because my sister is a fascist tyrant who – "
"Sokka."
"Yup?"
Aang stares at a bored figure skulking by the dirty dishes and lifts himself up. "What is Jet doing here?"
From across the campground, Zombie!Jet raises a hand in a wave. "'Sup?"
Sokka frowns. "You know," he says, "we were kind of wondering where he came from."
"You should probably call someone about that."
"Jake Weber?"
"Hmm," Aang says, casting Jet suspicious glances. Jet yawns, bored and clearly the picture of terror. "Actually, I was thinking more like Simon Pegg."
"Good idea. Go distract him while I try to use my overly exaggerated intellect to invent a telephone."
"Sounds like a plan," Aang shrugs, picking up his staff. The wooden one.
"Remember to aim for the head!"
-end-