What the hell was with her reaction? She was taking this like they had merely cracked open a really bad thriller novel and not the real world. Really, would she pull out that inane book about surviving a zombie apocalypse next and start quoting it as though she were some Televangelist leading lambs to greener pastures and from the mouths of wolves? He itched to make some remark toward her about it, maybe even hit her, but he knew he A) had nothing to say and, B) would never hit her. Maybe he was the stupid one for that but even in jest he'd never hit hard enough to leave even a pink residual mark on the victim area. He kept trying to tell himself that it was only the situation, the immediate notion that everyone was<em>dead</em>, turning his otherwise mellow and rather slow-on-the-uptake personality into a bitter, rage-consumed one.<br/><br/>Of course this fellow, Marco, wasn't exactly helping things but that was hardly his fault. Heaven only knew what he was thinking of the both of them, nevermind the situation at hand. It couldn't be a comfort to stumble upon a seemingly stupid girl and a rather macabre boy. Then again all things can be worse; just not right now.<br/><br/>"Remind me who in Louisiana has a basement," he cut through the silence of what he supposed had been thought but was now another life dangling on the edge of a cliff, looking to let go of the ledge and fall upon the jagged rocks below.<em>Natural splash of color, hmn? Good, vibrant taint against ALL THE GRAY.</em>Well we wouldn't dwell on that. "We're below sea level, if there's even a sea anymore. So face it, we're fucked. I mean look around. What building looks intact? That fucking government building has a CHUNK OUT OF IT." Uncharacteristically he twisted out of Heather's grasp, shoving her arm back towards her body with a huff that sounded like a muffled curse of some sort. "No weapons, no food, no shelter."<br/><br/>His hands slipped into his pants pockets just as his spine curved to allow his torso to slump while still keeping him upright. His left hand curled around something, jolting when the pad of his ring finger came into contact with something sharp and pulled back out, showing the reddened area that threatened broken skin and, ultimately, blood. What did he have in there? Again the hand dove, grabbing the smooth length and pulled free a calligrapher's pen, the metal tip still slightly stained with India ink. He had taken to using it for inking sketches and practicing his horrid handwriting, but he couldn't for the life of him remember why he'd had it with him beforehand. Of course he couldn't remember much of before they'd blacked out. What on earth was he going to do with this stupid thing?