Soryan was pulled from the confines of REM sleep by a soft, mellow tune that roused his ears, and a light vibration against his leg. Groggy as he always was when first waking from his usually dreamless sleep, his blurred vision took a moment to adjust to sight. It only took him another half-second after waking to comprehend where he was, what had happened the other day, and what was vibrating in his pocket.
The grogginess disappeared, and his eyes shot open as he sat up quickly, scrambling for the device in his pocket—at least, until he realized that his alarm wasn't loud enough to escape the walls of Mitchell's apartment. He turned the alarm off, then disabled the whole alarm system anyways before tossing the device on the coffee table. It rattled loudly. Suddenly aware that he was blind, he blinked, bleary, searching the coffee table until his damaged eyes found the outline of those steel-framed, circular glasses of his. He equipped them quickly, then clarity returned to the world.
"Damn, dude, was that shit loud enough for ya?" Soryan's head snapped to the right at the sound of the English language, only relaxing when he saw that it was Mitchell, who was in the process of tightly lacing his boots.
The Cambodian grumbled apologetically. "Uh, sorry. I had it set to repeat. Never really turn it off, even during the weekends," he replied in his native language. His gaze fell to the aforementioned device. "It's probably a bad idea to use it now, though." He looked at Mitchell, scrutinizing him properly for the first time.
As Mitchell finished buckling a leather belt to his waist, attaching his sheathed bastard sword to it, he rested his hands on his hips and turned, facing the Ung. Soryan raised a brow. Guarding his torso, the American wore a jet-black protective jacket of sorts; it was riding armor of the motorcycle variety. Protecting his lower-half was a pair of black insulated utilitarian biker pants. Covering his hands was a pair of black biker gloves, his feet adorned by well-kept work boots.
Soryan analyzed the outfit. For an apocalyptic scenario like the one that they were currently in? It was pretty much perfect. The riding armor was thick enough that human teeth wouldn't be able to bite through it, no matter how hard someone clenched, but at the same time, it was light and thin enough to not restrict any movement whatsoever. The biker pants were not only insulated, thus keeping a good portion of the body in homeostasis, they also had a good number of pockets—a high carrying capacity for a pair of pants. The gloves and boots were probably the most utilitarian—the gloves protected his hands and allowed him to touch things he would otherwise be unable to touch, and the boots allowed easy navigation through most terrain without discomfort, the feet partially protected from falling objects.
Mitchell noticed the Cambodian's scrutiny. "I brought all this with me from home. I was saving up for a bike here but y'know how that turned out," he shrugged.
Soryan nodded at that. "Well shit, if you were preparing for this, then you did pretty much everything right." The Ung rolled his shoulders and popped the joints in his neck, the pockets of air releasing themselves. His gaze was drawn to the coffee table, where the large duffle gym bag from the night before sat, now full of chilled water bottles, a good day's worth of consumables for four people, and Mitchell's whetstone. He frowned. "So, uh, when should we head out, do you think? And do you have a backpack?"
"No backpack, sadly," Mitchell replied. He looked over to his room. "They're gonna have to wake up. We have to get started early in case people get the same idea we do."
"Aight then." Soryan swallowed. His throat was parched. "You do that I guess. I'ma go wash my face." Without another word, the Cambodian stood and walked to the bathroom. He shut the door, and the sound of the sink running could be heard.
Mitchell grunted as he turned away and stepped into his room. The blinds were shut so it was quite dim, but he could see both girls peacefully sleeping in his bed. To his minute surprise, Wakaba was unconsciously spooning Kasumi in a rather risque manner. The archer's breasts pressed against Kasumi's smooth back, and said spear-user's rear was placed firmly in Wakaba's nether regions, their lovely legs intertwined in a hapless pile of limbs. Mitchell moved to the side of his bed.
"Alright, I really hate to do this." He snapped his fingers loudly. "But we gotta go, girls. Wake up."
Kasumi stirred. One eye opened and stared at Mitchell. "Mmm, what time is it?" she moaned softly.
"Just after seven," Mitchell replied. "C'mon, y'all gotta get movin'. I'm sure we're not the only ones who are gonna be looting."
The spear-user only groaned in discontent. "Alright." She attempted to stretch, but in doing so, smacked the back of her head against Wakaba's face. "Ouch! What…?"
"Ow…" Wakaba winced. Her eyes opened, and she rubbed at them tiredly. It was then that she realized the position she was in. Like a switch had been flipped, her drowsiness dissipated as her eyes shot open, and her face heated up as she scooted away. "Uh..."
Kasumi turned around and faced the girl, rubbing the back of her head. "Oh." She said. A smile graced her lips. "Enjoy your sleep? I hope my back wasn't too rough for you."
"Shush, you!" Wakaba flushed, squirming. She looked away. "But… yeah, it was nice."
His intermediate mission accomplished, Mitchell turned and strode to the doorway. "Y'all do what ya need to. I'll be getting everything ready in the livin' room."
"Okay," Wakaba nodded. "We'll be out in a minute." The timid girl pushed herself out of bed, then looked herself up and down in the only dresser mirror in the room. Despite her sleeping position, her hair was in perfect condition, as was Kasumi's, though, said spear-user immediately set to tying her hair in the usual ponytail with her signature yellow ribbon.
Once both girls were satisfied with whatever ministrations they were usually wont to do, they left the room, stepping into the living room. At the coffee table, Mitchell fiddled with the gym bag, zipping it up just as the bathroom door on the far side of the room opened, an alert Soryan stepping out, his gaze analytical.
Kasumi's eyes flitted over to Mitchell, and she noticed the outfit he was wearing. She briefly wondered how she'd missed it when she'd awakened, but eventually chalked it up to grogginess. "Damn, Mitch. Are you preparing for war or something?"
"Uh, yes?" Mitchell gave her a dry look. "Do you really have room to talk, Tomoe Gozen?"
She walked over to the couch and grabbed the mop-handle, lamenting its shoddy form. "Touche," she said, staring at the makeshift weapon. "Well, if we're going to war, then it would only be right to enjoy the spoils of it, right?" She smirked at him. "I honestly just can't wait to get rid of this thing."
Wakaba nodded along with her words. The archer would be lying if she said she wouldn't enjoy the feeling of a bow in her hands again, even if they had to loot a store to get it. She understood that feeling this way was silly, all things considered. She hoped she'd get used to it in the future; Wakaba was sure that looting would be a regular occurrence in the near future.
Mitchell turned to her. "By the way, these are for you, Waka. I figure you could use 'em since you might need to kneel for steadier shots." He presented a pair of black knee-pads to her.
The archer took them gingerly. "Thank you." She smiled up at him, then took to equipping her new apparel.
"You mates ready to go?" Soryan walked up to them, the bat resting at his side. "There isn't really much to do here, and we're kind of just burning daylight."
He looked between the four of them. Truthfully, there was no more reason to stay beyond the small comforts that the apartment provided. The sun had already risen a couple of hours earlier, and despite just having woken up, none of them really needed any more time to prepare—in both the physical and mental sense.
"Yeah, let's head out," Mitchell replied. Despite the dangers that now lurked ever-present in the streets, he was eager to try out his swordsmanship skills. He knew that perhaps it was foolish. Attacking Zs without restraint may make a big enough commotion to attract more and may drain stamina that might be much needed in the future—but could one really fault him? He'd trained with it, tended to it for years, but not once had he ever been given a chance to use the bastard sword in any practical capacity.
"I'll carry the bag," Wakaba offered. She picked up the duffel bag, then slung it over her shoulder, her friends watching her. "You guys will be fighting so I'll hold our stuff."
Soryan frowned. "You shouldn't leave yourself defenseless." His gaze was drawn to the kitchen. "One sec." The Cambodian moved towards the kitchen, fiddling the grip of the bat between his fingers. From beyond the views of his companions, the Ung retrieved a kitchen knife. He returned, then offered it to the archer. "Take it. It will give you strength. Help you on our journey."
"Thanks."
Mitchell smirked as he moved to the front door. Soryan caught it as he followed, and he himself couldn't help the small smile that appeared on his lips. Evidently, Kasumi caught it as well.
"Uh, did I miss something?" she inquired. She was ignored.
Mitchell slowly opened the door, taking a cautious look around, his eyes scanning the vicinity. The second floor was clear. At ground level however, there were a number of Zs mingling about just outside of the gate before the street.
"Hmm. More than I hoped, less than I expected," Mitchell mused quietly. He turned to the others. "Looks like they're right outside the gate. Unless y'all want to literally fight right out of the gate, we'll have to go out the back way."
"I don't think we should chance it until we are properly armed," Soryan advised. "Kasumi's stick is about to snap, and one of us doesn't have a proper weapon. Just one bite from those tossers down there, and it's over."
Though he couldn't see it, Kasumi nodded. "Yeah, I can totally agree with that. This thing just feels unreliable in general." Wakaba said nothing, but she hummed in agreement.
"Back way it is then," Mitchell nodded. He agreed with that assessment—he wasn't that eager to test out his sword.
The young American silently led the group down the stairs, hand on the hilt of his blade as he crept, each step emitting light thumps. He could hear his friends creeping along with him, a tiny orchestra of pitters and patters following him as he went. They reached the bottom of the steps, then moved to circumvent the right side of the building towards the back entrance where a small gate opened up to a side street. The American kept his watchful eyes glued to any Zs that he saw, watching for any sudden movements. His ears strained to hear anything, and to an extent, that unnerved him.
Usually, the streets of Tokonosu city were absolutely bustling with activity, and nary was there ever a time when one wouldn't hear a vehicle driving by or the honking of a horn in the distance—even the sound of people walking and talking near his apartment had been prevalent. But now, it was deafeningly silent—deafening in the sense that he couldn't hear anything. It was as if everyone in town had ceased to exist, as if all societal functions had come to a halt. The thing was, they had.
The only other thing he could hear beyond the sound of his companions' light footsteps were the groans of the surrounding dead. What's worse, it was so quiet that the footsteps of his friends seemed loud, and he couldn't help the worried look he gave to the Zs that surrounded them, hoping that they wouldn't notice the sounds.
The Outcasts approached the rear entrance of the apartment's property. Mitchell motioned to his companions to stay, and he climbed atop an adjacent AC unit to look over the wall where he surveyed the main street. He found only one. Signaling to his friends with a single finger, the American stepped down from the AC unit and slowly opened the gate. His breath hitched when it let out a quiet, near imperceptible squeak.
Behind him, his friends froze at the sound. Soryan checked behind them, the bat tight in his grip, Kasumi brandishing her spear as she watched the American. Wakaba mouthed something to herself, daring not to look around.
They waited for a moment. Nothing happened.
Slowly, gingerly, Mitchell pushed the gate open. Luckily, it made no more sounds, and with a light sense of urgency, Mitchell ushered his companions through. Soryan gave him a nod as he passed, and the group continued, hugging the nearest wall as they moved down the street away from the lone Zed.
The Outcasts found the nearest street exit, but when they moved to it, Mitchell froze, halting them. Another Z had stumbled into view. He waited for it to wander off—it didn't take long considering that it was already stumbling its way down the street—then he peeked out into the main street that led to the front gate of his apartment.
He noticed that a small number of Zs had congregated around the gate. Taking advantage of their current density, Mitchell led the group down the street, avoiding every Z he could. A few minutes passed before they eventually came to an intersection. There were Zs everywhere. There was no way that they'd be able to maneuver through that without a fight.
Out of pure coincidence, a few Zs began stumbling towards the group when they approached. The Outcasts ducked into a side alley that cut across another part of the intersection.
The groans of the dead were growing in volume, they noticed. The atmosphere grew tense with every step. Mitchell never saw it coming.
From an open doorway to his right, a Z tripped on the doorframe, falling right onto him. The American reflexively dodged forward, but the Z gripped his arm, tight as the human grip could possibly be. Pain flared as the grip tightened further, and Mitchell immediately twisted his right arm and pivoted to the Z's side. Using his left arm, he quickly turned the Z's inertia into a weapon, and he slammed it's bloodied face into the hard, concrete wall. The Z released it's grip. He drew his sword and thrust the blade into its temple. It perished instantly.
The whole event occurred in only five seconds. Soryan and Kasumi had been quick to react, but neither of them had the potential to get a good hit in. Had Mitchell not undergone the training that his grandfather had put him through, and had he not been equipped with the riding armor, that would have been the end of the Marlowe. Soryan realized this. Kasumi realized this. Wakaba realized this. And of course, Mitchell knew this.
Soryan cursed under his breath. In that moment, he realized just how unprepared they were. It wasn't even a matter of weapons. It had all been about perception, seeing the event coming, and acting accordingly. They'd all seen that the door had been wide open, but they passed in front of it rather than rounding it. The tense atmosphere had gotten the better of them. What's more, both Kasumi and Soryan had a good second-and-a-half to react when the Z attacked before Mitchell started swinging it around, and in that time, both of them had had a clear shot, but the sheer surprise instilled by the event had halted them.
"Fuck me. You good?" The Cambodian inquired.
Mitchell took a deep breath as he calmed his racing heart. "Damn they're strong." He looked at his friends as he finished wiping the blade on the dead body. "I'm good, guys."
"Just…" Mitchell turned, and his eyes found a worrying Kasumi. "Just… let's not let it happen again."
Wakaba only exhaled, calming herself. The knife in her hands quivered at the scare. Soryan noticed. His hand found her wrists, and he steadied them for her. She muttered a thanks.
"You don't have to tell me twice," Mitchell replied. "I'm properly paranoid now, believe me." His eyes roaming about the area. There were some Zs in the distance, but they were nowhere near enough to hear the conversation. At least, he hoped.
"Hey, let me take the lead," Soryan offered.
"By all means, dude," Mitchell conceded. "I won't lie, a moment to wind down from that would be nice."
The Ung nodded. "Right then. Kasumi, stay by me if you can. You're the greatest fighter out of all of us—fastest too. If anything like that happens again, well, I'm counting on you to save my ass."
"Alright," the spear-user replied simply.
Soryan's gaze turned to the archer of the group. "And Wakaba, I don't want to alarm you or anything, but if you're staying at the back of the group, keep an eye out, especially behind you. Paranoia ain't paranoia if the threat is real."
Wakaba nodded. "Right."
The Ung gave a half-grin to his companions. "Let's crack on then, yeah?" He didn't wait for a reply, moving forward.
His companions followed wordlessly, their alertness having all but tripled. Soryan's movements were light and quick, and rather than hugging a wall, he led the group down the middle of the side alley, no matter how much his instincts screamed at him to adhere to one.
Ultimately, the zombies were blind. No matter how bright it was outside, hugging the walls held no benefit on uncrowded streets like this, because the Zs wouldn't see them. Ever. What hugging a wall did do was allow a zombie to appear undetected from around a corner, giving its prey no time to react. From the center of a street, especially in tighter alleys like this, approaching an intersection gave a greater field of view in both directions, and allowed for rounding corners at a looser angle, meaning that one wouldn't haphazardly run face-first into an undetected Z.
Soryan's eyes zeroed on any objects large enough to hide a man, and he turned as they passed each one, checking each and every corner, minor or major. Sometimes his gaze went up, and he looked at the rooftops—he'd learned from more than enough horror games that not looking up every-once-in-a-while was a one-way ticket to death, and the same definitely applied here. Zs, again, were blind. They had no idea if they were about to walk off of a cliff, and one day, if he wasn't paying attention, a Z may fall onto Soryan.
The Cambodian considered the number of people that had likely fled to rooftops in order to survive, only for their salvation to become their doom. He bet that there were more than a few lurking above them right now.
His gaze flitted downwards every few seconds—just to make sure that he wouldn't step on anything noisy, whether it be a piece of plastic or a crushed can. When he found nothing, he proceeded on, but when his eyes fell on a piece of trash or two, loud enough to attract attention but small enough to be unseen if one weren't paying attention, he turned to his friends and silently notified them.
The group weaved through a number of streets, some of which were flooded by Zs, and some of which weren't. Soryan led them swiftly, but also with an intrinsic care that assured their stealth. They reached a main street at some point where a Z stumbled out from around a corner, but it was avoided entirely—the group's adherence to the center of the road gave them ample distance to move around it.
Soryan didn't keep track of how long they walked—none of them did, really—but at some point, his eyes were drawn to a rather small building where a number of mannequins stood on display, jeans and skirts adorning them. The front door was wide open. The Ung frowned. Nobody sane would just leave a relatively secure position wide open like that. It meant that someone had fled the area for good, or something else broke in.
The Cambodian scanned his surroundings, and seeing that there were no Zs in the immediate vicinity, he deemed it safe to speak. "There." He pointed at the building, then looked at Kasumi. "If you want your change of clothes, now's the time. Careful though. Door's open, so either someone got out, or something went in."
"Let's check if it's clear first," Mitchell emphasized. "Then we'll lock the doors 'till we're done."
"Alright. If you don't mind, I'll go in first." Kasumi stepped forwards. "I don't think you'll want to be swinging that bat around in a small space."
Soryan's thoughts exactly. He merely shrugged. "Go right ahead."
"I'll back you up." Mitchell joined her, hefting his sword.
"Be careful, you two," Wakaba fretted, eyes worried.
The group cautiously approached the building, then Kasumi entered, immediately followed by Mitchell. Soryan took to keeping watch for any possible approaching threats.
As the American and the spear-user scanned the interior of the building, a faint groaning met their ears. So the Zs did get in. Hopefully, whoever was in here had made it out. It was unlikely that they did, though.
The two combatants slowly advanced further into the store, checking corners and possible blind spots in the manner that Soryan had shown them. As they stepped further, it became apparent that the groaning was coming from somewhere at the farside of the store—likely a backroom, considering the slight muffle. It was another minute or so before they reached the end of the store, having met no resistance so far. Indeed, there was an employee-only backroom sat between two metal clothing-racks.
The two crept towards it, then Kasumi stepped forward to peek into the room, but Mitchell held her back. She gave him a questioning look. The American shook his head in reply, holding up a finger that told her to wait. They had no idea how many Zs were actually in there, and the door was only slightly ajar, opening outwards. If either of them made too much noise and happened to be in front of the door, the Zs would come out upon them.
That being said, Mitchell took the pommel of his blade and tapped on the nearest clothes rack. The vibrations rang metallically, loud enough to be heard throughout the entirety of the store, but mitigated by the fact that the clothes-racks were totally solid, thus stopping the sound from actually leaving the store. The two waited tensely, weapons at the ready. A moment passed, then another. Some shuffling was heard, then the door squeaked open, three Zs stumbling into view. Judging from their apparel, they used to be the store attendants.
Without waiting, Kasumi took the initiative, thrusting her weapon at the nearest Z. The tip of the mop handle speared through its eye easily, emitting a bone-chilling squelch. By now, Kasumi was used to the sound. The Z collapsed, it's body letting out a thud as it hit the ground.
Seeing the remaining Zs turn at the sound, Mitchell tapped the metal rack again, drawing their attention away from Kasumi. He stood up when the nearest one got too close for comfort, and he stepped forward, dodging around its sudden lunge. It stumbled behind him, leaving the other one totally defenseless. The American gripped the hilt and the blade in a practiced half-sword technique, and he thrust the sword at his unknowing adversary's head. The blade cut deep into an integral part of its brain. Without a struggle, the Z fell to the ground.
Mitchell turned to the remaining Z, ready to strike it down—its attention was no longer on him, as Kasumi had taken to distracting it with hard taps against a coat rack. The American quickly struck it with a murderstrike. The guard of the blade lodged itself deep into the Z's cranium in the same manner that an icepick would cut through ice. It immediately perished. He ripped his weapon out, slashing once to rid of the blood that stained it. The fight was over.
After the last body hit the floor, Mitchell and Kasumi searched the rest of the building for any threats. They'd found none. The coast was clear. Kasumi waved Soryan and Wakaba in, and Mitchell locked the doors.
"Okay. We're good for now," Mitchell said. He gestured to the endless clothes racks. "Go wild, you two."
By now, there was a noticeable excitement in Kasumi, and Wakaba was no longer so tense. The spear-user led the archer by the wrist. "C'mon. Let's go!" She practically dragged Wakaba away, and they went to gather what they needed.
Letting out an exasperated breath, Soryan's gaze fell on the corpses at the back of the store. "Welp, that was something. You guys just murdered three men to make shoplifting easier. Nice to know you've got your priorities in order," he quipped in his native tongue. Before Mitchell could even think of replying, he spoke again. "Ah, I'm just fucking with ya."
"Did y'all see anything out there while we were dealin' with these poor souls?" Mitchell inquired, knowing better than to reply.
"Nope. Well, there was one zombie, but it was really far down the street. We should be good," Soryan replied.
"Fantastic," Mitchell sighed. "I need a moment to fuckin' relax already. And it's not even noon."
"Mate, I don't know how long it's been, but if that's all you got in you, then I'm not sure you're all cut out for this apocalypse thing." He paused at the light aching in his feet. "Honestly though? That makes two of us."
"Hell, it's not even about being tired," Mitchell mused. "It's the constant, suffocating tension. Dude, I don't wanna 'get used' to that shit. I think I now know what my grandad was talkin' about when he said War is Hell, but the wait is worse."
"Yeah…" Soryan trailed off when his eyes found the corpses again. He noticed something strange about them, and curiosity got the better of him. Frowning slightly, he walked towards them, leaving Mitchell behind. His eyes scanned the injuries on their bodies, but not the ones inflicted by his friends. His gaze zeroed in on the bite marks and the blood that spilt from them… only, the blood was dry… "Hey, Mitch. You ever seen one of these things bleeding? Like, when they're undead, I mean. They don't, do they?"
"I noticed that too, but I just thought it was part of them bein' all fucked up." Mitchell replied with a shrug.
"What about the 'fresh' ones? Like the ones… the ones at Fujimi. They weren't bleeding too much either, yeah?"
"... Nah, they weren't," Mitchell gave Soryan an analytical look. "What are you gettin' at, Sor?"
The Cambodian stayed silent for a moment, his eyes roaming the injuries. He recalled seeing Zs with massive chunks of flesh ripped right from their shoulders or their guts—some even had portions of their head ripped off, exposing the brain beneath, but none of them had bled too much, if at all, even when hindered by a particularly gory injury. Not even the former students that had just turned really bled that much at all.
"… Their hearts aren't beating," he said suddenly.
"Uh, how the fuck..? How the hell are they movin' around without blood flow? Don't tell me they just need a brain and nervous system." Mitchell replied incredulously.
"Beats me," Soryan shrugged. "With bites like those, especially to the head, hemorrhaging is bound to happen, but that process relies on a higher blood pressure and a beating heart. No blood flow means that the body isn't getting the necessary resources required to make ATP, and after a few moments, the body dies. With these guys though? It doesn't even make sense. The virus or infection or whatever—if there even is one—doesn't move anywhere, doesn't circulate." A thought occurred to him. "Whatever this shit is… maybe it enters through the bloodstream to hijack the brain, then kills the host and uses the remains of the body." He frowned. "Still doesn't make sense, though. Where the hell is it getting the energy to move? How is the brainstem still able to send signals to dead muscles?"
"Dude, as long as this shit isn't supernatural, I don't care." Mitchell conceded. This was getting way too in depth for him. He was no virologist.
"Hey." Soryan's tone was serious. "Whatever you do, aim for the fucking head. Considering this, a stab through all of their vital organs won't do shit. In fact, even if you decapitated one, I wouldn't hesitate to crush its brain anyways. I would rather not wake up one day to find a severed head biting me on the ankle."
"You say that as if that was ever in question," Mitchell gave him a dry, yet serious look. "I've been taught all my life to go for the head."
The Cambodian hummed at that. "I'm just saying. I saw Rei stab one through the chest yesterday. It kept swinging at her."
"I saw that same thing happen last night with Kasumi actually." Mitchell mused thoughtfully. "And she speared that thing in the eye too. It went down when she attacked its neck though, so severin' their heads should still be a viable option."
"... That makes no sense, but ok. None of this makes sense, really. You sure she didn't sever the spinal column? Wait. Nah, that would just undermine everything I just said." Soryan frowned deeply. He was probably overthinking this too much. At the end of the day, killing the Zs seemed to boil down to: head equals dead.
"I heard my name just now." The two foreigners whirled. They stared at the newcomer. "What're you guys talking about?"
Kasumi approached them, a slight but noticeable pep in her step and an alluringly confident smile adorning her lips. Gone was the light-blue t-shirt—taking its place was a white, equally form-fitting long-sleeved shirt that did just as good a job showing off her dangerous curves. A blue fabric jacket rested over it, but though it was much more conservative, it did naught to conceal the wonderful size of her chest, somehow only accentuating what could be seen, whispering to those who stared that there was more hidden only by a layer of cloth.
At the girl's waist was a simple black skirt with two white stripes that alternated horizontally from the hem, its casual shape rousing the imagination to go wild at the thought of what hid behind the skirt. When the eyes were inevitably drawn beneath the hem, they were met with long black tights that pulled at their attention, demanding them to ogle the slender legs that wore them while hoping to get even a glimpse of the supple rear it clung to. Contrasting with the tights were a pair of white running shoes that concealed gracious, yet nimble feet.
Before, she was gorgeous. Now, she was… equally gorgeous, but in a more casual manner. The same could be said about her stunning female counterpart.
Wakaba smiled timidly as she approached. She kept the ironically enticing white Umbrella t-shirt that emphasized her large bust, but did away with the jogging pants in favor of a pretty red skirt that highlighted her shy, cute demeanor—it was further enhanced with the way she toyed with the hem of it, a coy look in her eyes. Hugging the majority of her luscious legs were a pair of white thigh-high leggings that, as the name of the device implied, exposed only a fraction of her deliciously creamy thighs, instilling a desire in those who stared to see more. This was slightly offset by the somehow cute addition of Mitchell's biker knee pads, but it did nothing to take away from her beauty. Similar to Kasumi, a pair of white running shoes concealed her more delicate feet.
Despite the situation and the previous topic of conversation—likely much more important than the sexiness of the girls within the Outcasts—the males of the group were easily caught slack-jawed. Of course, no matter the situation, Kasumi wasn't one to let a chance go.
"Heh, I think we made the right choices, Waka," She grinned like a vixen.
Mitchell, despite the flush in his cheeks, turned his head in another direction, his visage adopting a frown. Like the night before, his thoughts swirled at the mention of his gawking before landing on a statement that reverberated through his mind.
"Yes, forgive me for not wantin' to seem like the rest of those degenerates at school," He had said. Though he cloaked them with sarcasm, those words were his true thoughts. He wouldn't lie and say that the girls weren't hot, because that would be a denial of what he held true. But he also wouldn't lie and say that he liked staring at them. There had always been an innate sense of wrong when his eyes lingered a fraction longer than they'd needed to—a sense of wrong that was brewed by the culmination of both his personal experiences, as well as all of the values that he believed in.
After having dealt with assholes who had objectified the girls for nearly two years, it was only natural that hypocrisy plagued him whenever he felt a bit too appreciative, especially considering the manner in which he was raised, and the experiences that he'd put up with in the past. At a young age, his parents taught him a golden rule of sorts, something to be followed no matter how old he was or how far he'd gotten in life: treat people the way you yourself wanted to be treated. In the act of staring at his friends with an obvious feeling of desire—it felt as though he was letting not only the girls down, but his parents and himself as well.
That was hardly the extent of his lamentations though—back in the States, after defending his sisters from their own bullies, seeing Wakaba dealing with the same exact issue resonated with him, and it brought forth his protective instincts. After years of defending people from other malicious, selfish people, he'd developed a hatred for those who'd objectified others, whether it be due to looks or another inane reason, and whenever he found himself leering at his friends, studying their bodies, he felt just like those he abhorred, and he loathed it.
The American was suddenly brought out of his brief lamentations by the resident Cambodian of the group.
"Don't take this the wrong way, but piss off, mate. There are… better times for… that." The Ung frowned as he licked his lips, staring eye to eye with Kasumi
"Yeah. Don't get me wrong, you both look great, but… another time, alright?" Mitchell glanced out of the store, searching for any threats.
Kasumi only smirked. "Alright. That just means you're not allowed to complain next time."
Mitchell rolled his eyes, but couldn't hold back a smirk. "If that'll make ya happy."
"... So, do we get our weapons now?" Wakaba inquired.
"Well, that was the plan," Soryan replied. "Nothing's changed."
"Good thing is, we're not that far from where we're goin'," Mitchell added. "Maybe a block or two away, I think."
"Can't wait," Kasumi quipped. Her eyes found the front door. "I don't imagine you guys want to stick around. We going or what?"
Soryan nodded. "Yeah. Let's crack some eggs." Without another word, he moved to the shop entrance and unlocked the door, taking a cautious peek before pulling it open. He turned to his companions, and waited.
Mitchell went first, scanning the area warily. "Stay on the lookout for other people, by the way. We can't be the only opportunists out here."
He received a chorus of affirmations, then they were off, Soryan heading the group.
The Outcasts took the street that they'd been navigating before, moving at a quick, yet silent pace. There were a few stragglers hanging about, but otherwise, the streets seemed trouble free. Soryan knew better.
The Zs could be hiding anywhere, from darkened alleys and large, open streets, to crashed vehicles and the buildings that lined the very streets they walked on. A single, simple mistake could bring them all.
The Ung's eyes perceptively roamed the environment, taking in as many details as possible, trashing the useless information and cataloguing the entities that could make a difference in their situation. His companions followed his footsteps, ready to spring into action should the need ever arise.
They walked for a good minute without strife, nothing of note catching their attention. But then, Soryan halted. His companions did the same. He had caught sight of movement in one of the many side streets, and he turned. There was a single Z staggering from it. Then there was another. Both turned towards the group, slowly beelining for them.
The Ung felt chills move up and down his spine when two more appeared from an opposing alley. Had they made a mistake? Had the Zs discovered their location? How!? They'd been so quiet and careful! He dreaded the thought of an approaching hoard. Out of his periphery, he saw Kasumi and Mitchell stand on either side of him, their weapons raised, alarm written across their expressions.
From behind him, Wakaba anxiously brandished her knife, and for the first time, the Cambodian hefted his own weapon, prepared to swing like a mad man. But before any of the outcasts could jump at the approaching horde, something stopped them. All of them.
In Soryan's ear, there was a low, quiet, but rapidly approaching roar, a shrill sound that grew with volume every moment. It grew louder and louder to the point that the sound waves themselves could be felt. It was coming from above them. No, behind them.
The Outcasts turned. Their jaws slackened and their eyes widened.
Not more than a few hundred meters from the way they came, an airbus—a 737 glided less than a hundred-fifty feet from the ground, rapidly descending. Its engines roared, and the nose of the plane dipped just slightly. Nobody was quick enough to react when the vehicle passed over them, it's left wing tilting, cleaving through one of the buildings nearest to them in a show of absolute mutual destruction. An engine combusted at the same time, eliciting an explosion of fire, rock and metal that decimated the top of the building, and large chunks of smoking debris began to rain down.
"Ah, hell," Soryan said in English, eyes widening further when chunks of concrete the size of boulders began to fall. He turned and ran towards a large, metal dumpster, seeking safety behind it.
"Christ!" Mitchell quickly whirled, grabbing a dumbstruck Wakaba as he dove behind the nearest abandoned vehicle. Kasumi dove into a quick, evasive roll over the hood of said vehicle, looking up just as a mass of concrete fell and shattered the windshield, flattening the hood.
The group only had enough time to catch a glimpse of the ensuing plane crash. Buildings toppled as the metal belly of the vehicle came down, wreathing the area in fire and destruction. Glass shattered and metal was sheared, wood splintered and dust billowed. The plane struck the ground, and the earth trembled as it dug a trench with its momentum, a massive city-block-encompassing fireball expanding outwards, exploding from the wreckage and rising to the sky in a mushroom cloud. The shockwave was immense, and as the Outcasts turned their heads, they were met with a hurricane of dust, debris, and shattered glass.
Mitchell, Kasumi, and Wakaba huddled as the vehicle they hid behind shook, its metal clanking against itself. Soryan was pressed to shield his gaze, lest his eyes be clouded by dust. Though the event lasted only moments, it seemed to last forever. It was another few seconds before the dust began to settle.
The Outcasts stared. The next few hundred meters ahead of them had been nearly obliterated: entire buildings had been torn from their very foundations as fires both small and large burned at what remained. Weakened chunks of material from many of the now ruined buildings continued to collapse as what structural integrity they had left finally failed them.
The whole scene looked apocalyptic. The Outcasts stared awestruck for a moment, their breaths prevalent.
"Holy fuck, how are we alive right now," Mitchell said, filled with incredulity. His attention was drawn to the companions at his sides. "You both good?" He inquired.
Wakaba nodded shakily, waving her hand in a rather feeble attempt to clear the dust from her face. "Y-Yeah. I'm fine. Thanks for that."
"We're in the middle of the zombie apocalypse, and I almost died to a falling rock." Kasumi let out a harrowed breath. "Yeah, I'm good. Somehow."
Mitchell searched for Soryan and found him a distance away "You good, Sor?" He called over.
There was a pause and a light thud against metal. "Probably!" The Cambodian called back.
Mitchell felt a small pang of relief hit him. He looked over at the bodies of the many Zs now scattered about the area. Many were dead, but many more rose from the ground, then turned towards the roaring flames of the crash site, stumbling towards the inferno. Luckily, it seemed that they hadn't noticed Mitchell's brief confirmation with Soryan. "Looks like the crash is drawin' all the Zs to it," he muttered.
"Well, that's good at least," Kasumi replied, eyeing the wanton destruction.
Wakaba frowned at her words, and her gaze fell on the shambling Zs. They weren't all coming from the same direction. "I think we should leave before we get surrounded by them. They're coming from every direction."
Mitchell nodded grimly. "I was just thinkin' the same." He looked over to Soryan and made to call out, but realized that he would just be drawing unwanted attention to himself. He pointed at Soryan and gestured away from the chaos. The Cambodian nodded, then began making his way through the maze of debris. Mitchell, Kasumi, and Wakaba quickly moved to join him, taking care to avoid any glass or debris that could make noise.
Soon, they were far away from the crash site and its surroundings, and most of the Zs that had been in the immediate vicinity had moved past them. Soryan looked between his companions.
"Fuck me," he said in English. "That was too fucking close for comfort. How the fuck did we get out of that alive? If that plane was any lower, we would've been toast. Fuck—where the hell did it even come from?" He paused, taking deep breaths as his companions recovered. Despite the possibility of that nearly being their end, they all gave the event nothing more than a fleeting sense of acknowledgement. What else were they supposed to feel? The shock was there, but there was no need to get into detail. Soryan steadied the shaking in his limbs. "Nevermind that. Priorities: what's the plan now? I don't know any other routes to the sports complex unless we go the long way around," he inquired.
Mitchell opened his mouth to respond, but he was stopped when the ground shook heavily, dust falling from ruined buildings. A deafening explosion erupted from the crash site in another fireball that incinerated everything around it. The Outcasts were stricken for a moment, but they were far enough away that the explosion didn't affect them. They quickly focused back on the topic at hand.
"I know a shortcut actually," Mitchell said. "I used it a few times goin' to the gym. We just need to move to the next street over." He gestured to the group's three o'clock.
Soryan nodded. "Alright. You wanna lead the troop?"
"Sure. Let's get movin' then."
Mitchell took point, a sense of urgency in his step. Kasumi and Soryan followed wordlessly, Wakaba tailing them closely. Knowing that the Zs were attracted to sound, it was only a matter of time before even more showed up. A terrible feeling welled up within the American, demanding him to get off the streets. He quickly led the group down the first side street they came across, a good hundred meters away. As far as he could tell, the street was clear.
It only took them a few moments before they were aware that the destruction from before was separated by nothing but a couple of buildings. As they ventured further, the sound of soft groans became apparent from the street adjacent to them, though it was mostly drowned out by the blazing fires. However, contrary to what was expected, the groans of the dead, rather than quieting as the roaring flames grew louder, grew in volume as well. With every step, the group grew more apprehensive. Their earlier experience with the plane crash still rattled their bones, and the increasing loudness of what sounded like Zs grew only louder, reverberating throughout the side street. Wait… reverberating? There was no way some near silent groaning could be that loud!
Mitchell's heart beat faster as they came upon the street's exit. He took a peek. Fear seized him.
Just beyond the sidewalk that the side street opened into was a huge vertical drop in elevation that led into the massive main highway, across from which there was another vertical rise in elevation where the opposite sidewalk sat. Had the highway not been designed to go below the infrastructure that surrounded it, then the Outcasts might have met their end.
On the far end of the highway, an ocean of Zs approached, so densely packed together that they tripped over themselves, shambling shoulder to shoulder, spilling onto and over vehicles that got in their way. There were so many that the ground and any vehicles on the highway were rendered invisible.
Mitchell stared in horror as the Zs piled higher and higher upon themselves, almost to the point where their collective mass rose halfway to the sidewalk. He heard Soryan curse under his breath as Kasumi gasped, Wakaba's breath quickening slightly. He shook himself out of the daze, searching for a safe way across.
His eyes ran along the highway, and to his relief, he caught sight of an elevated walkway that connected the opposite sidewalks. Without a word, he ushered the group to the walkway with the hopes of crossing it before the veritable tidal wave of undead grew tall enough to reach the sidewalks. Even as the group rushed to get past the horde, they couldn't help but gape as it approached like a particularly viscous liquid.
As they approached the walkway, a Z stumbled out of an alley adjacent to the entrance, blocking their path. Without breaking his stride, Mitchell stepped forward and slammed the pommel of his sword into its head, caving its skull in. They had no time to waste. The groans of the dead were loud in their ears as they rushed across the walkway.
In a strange positive feedback loop, the loudening groans of the horde drew other Zs like a hive mind. Zs began falling from the roofs of buildings and upper-floor windows, either falling to their demise or haphazardly adding themselves to the horde. Any Zs staggering about within alleyways were drawn from them, stumbling over the sidewalk railings and into the mass of undead. It was a harrowing sight.
Their hearts pounding in their throats, the Outcasts reached the other end of the walkway with the horde less than a dozen meters away. Mitchell cut a sharp left, and the group advanced down the sidewalk, away from the river of dead. It was miraculous that they managed to circumvent the zombies that stumbled from alleyways and even a couple that had tossed themselves from building windows. They were given a reminder of their earlier brush with death: as they moved along, the crash site came into view once more, fires blazing and smoke stacking high into the endless sky.
Mitchell became increasingly aware that they needed to get the hell away from the area. Alert, he turned a right corner and led the group down a street perpendicular to the sidewalk. Knowing that relative safety was ahead, and with even more Zs appearing from seemingly nowhere, he took off, sprinting down the street, his friends hot on his heels.
It wasn't long before they reached the end of the street, and their destination. The sporting goods complex was a large building that housed a plethora of different store brands that, as the complex suggested, sold a wide array of different sporting goods, from something as simple as a rubber ball to something as complex as a Canadian Canoe. Mitchell could equate the complex's volume to that of an average Dick's Sporting Goods back in the States.
Fortunately and unfortunately, a semi had crashed right through their first goal—the Asahi Archery store. Although they had easy access to the complex now, an indeterminate number of Zs also had access, and were probably shambling around inside.
Mitchell slowed as they approached. "Okay guys, we need to get in there and check if it's clear, 'cause holy shit we need to get the hell off this street," he said, eyeing the wreckage. He turned to his friends. Soryan was surveying the streets around them, looking for danger as he was wont to do. Kasumi stared ahead into the complex, resolute. Wakaba was mostly worried, still shaken from the things she'd seen thus far. "We'll get Wakaba her stuff before moving up to get Kasumi her stuff. Y'all got any thoughts?"
"Sounds good to me," Kasumi nodded. "Splitting up doesn't sound like a good idea right now." She frowned, looking at her weapon. "After what I just saw, I really don't feel comfortable having this anymore."
"You mates wanna get this done, then? We're really vulnerable out here."
Mitchell stepped over to the side of the truck near the rubble. "Yeah, we need to get movin'." He looked back at Kasumi. "Would you mind backin' me up on this one, Kas?"
Kasumi hefted her spear and joined him. "You don't even need to ask, Mitch."
Mitchell nodded gratefully and turned to Soryan and Wakaba. "We'll take point. Y'all stick close." With that, he pushed into the complex with Kasumi, Soryan watching their rear as they entered, Wakaba following him.
Mitchell and Kasumi crept forwards, immediately catching sight of two lonely Zs—the only ones that appeared to be inside the store. There were no back rooms or adjacent doors from which others could hide, and there weren't any cluttered objects that could easily hide something the size of a person. The only exit aside from the semi-sized hole in the wall was a half-lowered commercial security gate.
The American and the Spear-user were quick to dispose of them. Kasumi waited for Mitchell to approach the nearest one, following him silently, her grip tight on her shoddy weapon. They settled behind it, and Mitchell surveyed the area one last time before making his move. Aside from the other one, there were no obvious dangers about the area.
Swiftly, Mitchell gripped his sword in the practiced half-sword technique, and before the Z could even begin to comprehend the minute sound he made, he thrust the blade deep into its undead nape, severing the spinal column and causing it to collapse.
Before the body even began to fall, Kasumi had rushed past them, swiftly thrusting her weapon through the back of the other's cranium, obliterating the occipital lobe. She stabbed with such force that, a moment before it died, the Z was forced forwards, right into a wall. There was an audible snap.
Kasumi blinked. She looked down at the makeshift spear, or, at least, what was left of it. Her mouth fell open slightly, not quite in shock, but in slight surprise. After a moment, she let it go. It thudded softly on the corpse at her feet. She looked to Mitchell, who had been watching cautiously, prepared to jump in should the need arise.
As there were no Zs in the area, he deemed it safe to speak. "Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later." He shrugged, then gestured to the store. "At least it happened here, right?"
Kasumi sighed. "Yeah, true." A thought occurred to her, and she turned to Wakaba, who had relaxed when Mitchell spoke. "Hey, Waka. Since you're getting all armed-up here, you mind if I take your knife?"
The archer nodded numbly, her eyes scanning the store. "Uh-huh, sure." She handed the kitchen device to the spear-user, half paying attention. "So, uh, do I just… go wild?" She parroted Mitchell's words from the clothing store.
"Mhm. You might want to be quick though, Waka," Mitchell replied, eyeing the hole in the wall warily.
"Okay!" The reply was immediate, and undoubtedly excited. Without any real care for the unnerving sounds that leaked in from outside, nor the ominousness of the seemingly empty sporting goods complex, Wakaba dropped the gym bag that she'd been lugging around and zipped around the store with a critical eye, somehow near silent despite her quickness. In only seconds, she found the first thing she was looking for. A light muneate was hung low on the wall. She took it and equipped it in record time, adjusting it to fit her impressive bust.
It only took a few seconds more to find the next object of her attention, and she went to retrieve it. The familiar feeling of a leather quiver against her skin was, to her, amazing. With enthusiasm that Mitchell hadn't seen in her for weeks, she carefully stuffed four dozen arrows into the quiver, most of which were bullet-tipped practice arrows, and a few of which were the whistling Kabura-ya arrows.
The young archer looked around once more, and on the other side of the store were a number of brown mitsugake gloves. They fit her nimble fingers perfectly.
Finally, she set her gaze on the grand prize. A Seventy-One Inch Yumi hung from the wall. Just from looking at it from a distance she could tell it was high-quality. With a sort of reverence, Wakaba carefully plucked it from its place. The familiar wood in her hands gave her an unrelenting rush of euphoria.
Instantly, the young woman stood straighter. The shy demeanor that had almost defined her seemed to dissipate, and in its place was a strong, confident warrior. There was still a coyness to her, a timid bashfulness to her, but now, there was also a certain boldness in her eyes—a fire that incinerated the fear and anxiety within her. Her breathing slowed to a calm wind, and she let out a soft breath as she gave a confident, self-assured smirk to her companions.
Mitchell grinned at the sight as Soryan shuddered. "Well, someone looks ready to show Zach what's up. Good call on the whistlin' arrows, by the way."
Wakaba hummed. "I figured that since they were attracted to sound, they may prove useful to us in the future."
"Well, look at you," Kasumi quipped. "You ready to put yourself to the test?"
"Absolutely." There was nothing indicative of an amateur in the reply.
Soryan pursed his lips. As he was nearest to the hole in the street, he could hear the growing commotion outside. "We need to get going," he urged simply. The bat weighed heavily in his grip, and he was reminded that he had yet to actually use it.
"Now that we got our sharpshooter, let's get that spear," Mitchell looked over to Kasumi. "Whadda ya say, Kas?"
"Yes, please," the spear-user groaned. She grunted as she picked up the bag that Wakaba had dropped. "Let's get this over with."
"Right then," Soryan said. He paused, considering the store's inventory. There were a number of backpacks sat atop a display table. He took the forest-camouflaged one with the most extra pouches and slipped it on before facing the American of the group. "Mitch? You and me up front?"
"Yeah, I'll head up with ya." The American nodded. He considered taking a bag for himself, but ultimately decided that it would hinder his abilities in combat. As far as he was concerned, his biker pants had enough pouches.
"Aight. Let's go." Soryan stepped past his companions, then ducked under the security gate, moving into the heart of the complex. Mitchell followed, then Wakaba, then Kasumi.
The main area of the complex was more like a large waiting area than it was anything else. An array of couches surrounded a number of aesthetically pleasing supports, and in the center of the room was a pair of opposite facing staircases from which anyone on either side of the complex could access the second floor. Some of the stores on either side of the complex were closed entirely, but a good number of them were totally open.
Soryan and Mitchell headed the group, leading them to the nearest staircase without any difficulty. For a complex that sold weapons, it was surprisingly barren. Not a Z in sight. A little paranoid, Soryan's gaze was drawn up, and, as he expected, there were no Zs clinging to the ceiling. He relaxed slightly, then he was reminded of Mitchell's first close encounter in which neither Soryan nor Kasumi had been quick enough to react safely. His caution redoubled.
The Outcasts moved to the second floor without strife. Soryan wondered if the lack of activity was due to the chaos induced by the plane crash. His question was answered when he saw the numerous shattered windows that dominated one side of the complex. Though he hadn't been paying attention downstairs, he assumed that it was the same.
The second floor was structurally no different from the first—there was a needlessly large atrium surrounded by a number of standalone sports stores. On the right side of the complex relative to the front entrance, a brightly lit Sinonome-Japan welcomed any who sought its merchandise. The group beelined towards it. Suddenly, a single Z stumbled into view—
In less than a moment, less than the average human brain could even comprehend sudden inexplicable activity, something struck its head, piercing through all four lobes. The Z dropped like a sack of rocks, emitting a thud as it hit the ground. There was a moment of silence, then three of the four Outcasts turned and stared at Wakaba. She already had another arrow notched.
"... What?" the archer inquired innocently.
"You were robbed at Nationals, Waka. Damn that was clean," Mitchell praised, unwavering.
Kasumi looked somewhat astonished, but she wasn't really surprised. "Nice shot."
Wakaba merely gave a small smile at their praise.
Soryan was dumbstruck. Wakaba's reaction time had been mind bogglingly fast, and he was almost certain that she didn't have an arrow notched when they'd climbed the stairs. For fuck's sake, he speedrunned games like Doom Eternal on Ultra-Nightmare difficulty with demon Randomizer mods and Master-Level mods casually. Though he wasn't sure exactly how much that counted for reaction time, he was sure it at least counted for something.
By the time he'd shaken himself out of his dazed thoughts, Wakaba had already gone to retrieve her arrow, Mitchell and Kasumi passing her, standing before the Sinonome. The Ung grunted as he watched the archer grip the arrow at its base before twisting as she pulled it from the corpse. "Well shit. She doesn't need us to protect her, that's for sure. If anything, she might as well be… ah, whatever." Without another word, he followed after her.
"I think you're good to get your spear," Mitchell said, eyes carefully surveying the store interior.
"Cool," Kasumi grinned, "I'll be quick about it."
The spear-user found what she was looking for with relative ease. After a minute of browsing, she emerged from the store with her weapon of choice. A black, Carbon-Steel Narrow-Bladed Yari rested powerfully in her grasp, light, durable, sharp. Like an artist, Kasumi expertly maneuvered the weapon between her fingertips, getting a feel for it. A wide grin threatened to split her face in half, a fire of passion and excitement in her eyes.
"Oh, I can't wait to use this." One could feel the excitement in her voice. Her gaze found her companions, who waited steadily at the storefront. "Alright, I'm ready to go when you are."
"To Onbetsu then," Mitchell smirked confidently. Seeing the girls this motivated was infectious.
Soryan rubbed the side of his face in thought. "Are we going to go the way we came? Or are we going to make a detour?"
"I'll take us there," Kasumi replied. "If you don't mind, I'll take the lead, boys."
"Go right ahead," the Ung offered. Mitchell gave a thumbs up. "Let's roll some—"
The sudden sound of shattering glass was chilling, and every one of the Outcasts jumped at it. The sound that came immediately after was heart-stopping. Before anyone could get as much as a syllable out, the building was filled with the blaring of security alarms.
Their hearts fell into a dreadful pit, and they all looked at one another. At that moment, one word reverberated throughout all of their thoughts, dominating them.
"Run."
A/N: Ooh, the first cliffhanger. Will we live to see the light of day again—of course we'll fucking live you dolt. The story just started, and I like being alive thank you very much.
Seething Abyss: Normally I don't like cliffhangers, but this was too good to pass up. I look forward to seein' some actual combat, let me tell ya.
Yes, and I get to stop being 'useless'. Fantastic. Idk man. Idk what to say. Whatever. Keep an eye out for the many references you may or may not see in the next chapter. Also, did you know that the average word count of a novel-length chapter is only one-thousand to five-thousand words? That's fucking tiny.
Seething Abyss: Dude, I never even knew we wrote so much so quickly. It baffles me.
Truly. Btw, to those who read this story, I hope you know that any Author's Note that I write is entirely composed of improvisation about whatever the hell I happen to be currently thinking about, hence the relative randomness of all of my Author's Notes. That's it. That's all I have to say.
Seething Abyss: Same. Later on, y'all.