(a/n: due to plot reasons i've had to switch around some of the specialties of the characters. as you can see, wasabi is strong at chemistry instead of applied physics. but i've tried all i can to keep them in character. well... if they were all sociopaths.)


HE LIVES IN A HOUSE WHERE THE furniture is set in perfect right angles and the ragged books on the crumbling shelves are arranged by the worn remains of their ISBNs.

He sleeps, eats, and works in the same room: his laboratory, a spacious, clean-cut chamber adjacent to a greenhouse, where he grows his progeny with tender loving care and a dash of classical music. The current flavor of the month is Beethoven, and he is currently synthesizing chemicals to the victorious beat of the final movement of the 9th symphony. The chorale speaks to him on a near-spiritual level, ascending him heavenward as he lifts his latest batch of hexamethlene triperoxide diamine into the air, relishing his repeated success.

Perhaps he should seek a challenge; something that he cannot synthesize with his eyes closed.

He takes a quick whiff of his wasabi plant and settles into his half-broken rolling chair, absorbing the peace and quiet around him.

(•–•)

A BIOGRAPHY

He woke one day with nothing but his
knowledge of English, a chemistry
textbook, and a horde of zombies.

He was not even granted his name.

(•–•)

He munches at his greenhouse-grown fruit, easily ignoring the bitter tinge of fallout against his tongue. He was once terrified of it, but now, he realizes that it does nothing to him.

He continues in peace, biting bits of apple and orange between chemical study. He is unshakable, grounded, invincible.

The foundations of his house rumble briefly, and he looks outside his window. Sector 4, obliterated, right on schedule. The zombies from Las Vepporo must have just arrived. No surprises; all calculated. He relaxes.

Then, there is a knock at his door.

(•–•)

KNOCK

(n.) a polite way to inform
people of one's presence.

(n.) generally impossible when a) humanity
is all but extinct, and b) a minefield of
self-synthesized explosives is set in a
mile perimeter around one's house.

(•–•)

"Knocking?" Gogo says. "Really?"

"It's locked," Tadashi says lamely. "I thought I might as well..."

"Look, Pipehead, no one's alive to open the door," Gogo says. "Just break it down."

"But the explosives," Tadashi says. "They're arranged in a huge circle, and this house is at the center. Wouldn't that mean something?"

Gogo quiets at this. Hiro only stares at his shoes.

"How many people are still out there?" Hiro says softly.

"Too many," Gogo says with a quirk to her lips.

Tadashi links his fingers together and stares at the blood-stained doorknob before them, willing it to remain still.

It turns.

(•–•)

SOUND

There is the whisper of the desert wind
and the faint strains of Beethoven's 9th.

Silence can be more deafening than sound.

(•–•)

The man before them is large in frame. His dark face is rounded at the corners, and his ebony hair is braided back from his face and thrown down to his shoulders. His shirt bunches around his muscled torso as he leans forward, his giant hands curling against the door frame.

Tadashi gulps. On second thought, maybe he shouldn't have voluntarily approached a known pyromaniac.

"Uh," he says unintelligibly. "Hi."

Suddenly, the man pounds them with a fluid-filled balloon, dousing them in sticky, greenish liquid that smells of pungent ginger and rotten eggs.

"Gyack!" Hiro yelps, shaking his clothes. "Gross!"

Gogo tenses, ready to pounce, but Tadashi hurriedly grips her arm.

"Not yet," he hisses.

She relaxes—slightly.

Tadashi evenly meets the gaze of the man, waiting for his move. The man scratches his chin, a slight smile pulling at his lips.

"Good," he says. "Come in."

He steps inside, but Gogo seizes his collar.

"First," she says coldly, "you tell us what this is."

She flicks the liquid at his face. He doesn't flinch.

"For you? Nothing," he says calmly. "For any active carrier of the LX-635... a caustic corrosive."

She recoils, rubbing the liquid between her fingers. "This... melts walkers?" she says.

He grins cheerily. "Come inside. And take off your shoes."

(•–•)

LX-635

General Term: Walker Virus

Symptoms: desensitized nerves, loss of
rational thought and inhibitions, cancerous
epidermal growths, enhanced strength

Cures: none

(•–•)

The house is one storey and small. It is orderly, with each object in its proper place, and if not for the bloody graffiti of NO WAY OUT, SAVE US, I AM SORRY scratched into the walls, Tadashi would have considered it a perfectly ordinary home.

The man gestures to the sofa, which is tinted red, but otherwise well-kept.

"Excuse my manners," he says. "It's been a while since I've received anyone."

Hiro leans to Tadashi's ear. "I'm pretty sure that tossing corrosive substances at your guests is rude in every culture," he mutters.

Tadashi swats the back of his head.

"So... where are you from?" the man says. He sits straight and his eyes are sharp and Tadashi wants to trust him like he trusted Gogo Tomago.

"I'm Tadashi. This is Hiro. We're from New Yoname." He gestures to Gogo, who is flopped over the armrest of the sofa, chewing something that looks vaguely like bubblegum. "And this is Gogo. From Denveshima."

Gogo sends a casual salute. The man doesn't budge.

"How'd you all survive?" he says easily.

Tadashi shuffles. "It was hard, but... Hiro and I got by because of our aunt. As for Gogo—"

"So, never wanted to eat each other?" the man interrupts.

They stare.

"People get hungry," the man says.

Silence.

"He's crazy," Hiro whispers to Tadashi. (This time, Tadashi doesn't hit him.)

Surprisingly, Gogo is the first one to speak. She leans on one knee, examining the man with a piercing gaze.

"You alone?" she says.

"You are, too," he says.

"How'd you know?"

"The—"

"—eyes?"

"Yes."

Hiro and Tadashi whip back and forth, trying to keep up with the conversation. Gogo smiles tightly.

"Ever cooked?" she asks.

The man shrugs. "When I was desperate enough."

"How done?"

"Medium rare. Wasn't bad."

"Medium's better."

He smiles. She smirks back.

"Score?" he returns.

"1 mill, give or take," she says. "You?"

"Lost count at 4 mill," he crows triumphantly.

Her eyes narrow. "You cheat."

"Well, define cheating."

Hiro stares at Tadashi. Tadashi stares at Hiro.

"You have any idea what they're talking about?" Hiro whispers.

"Not a clue," Tadashi says.

The man suddenly turns to them, as if he's just remembered their presence. Tadashi instinctively straightens beneath his keen perusal.

"Go wash up," the man says. "The bathroom's upstairs. There's running water, sort of."

They recoil at the sudden offer, blinking in surprise. Gogo only smirks.

"Uh, thank you," Tadashi says.

"No problem," the man says. Then his lips flatten and the glint in his eye turns cold. "But fold the towels into thirds when you're done."

(•–•)

MEDIUM RARE

It's the least amount that one
can cook zombie flesh without
suffering adverse side effects.

tbc.