Meltdown || Literate Zombie Survival RP--ACCEPTING

Zombie strippers?

...Wut?	0.0%	[ 0 ]
I'm game. *shrug*	42.9%	[ 3 ]
HELL YEAH! BRING ON THE NAKED ZOMBIE BITCHES!	28.6%	[ 2 ]
I'd hit that...with a METAL BAT!	28.6%	[ 2 ]
Total Votes:			[ 7 ]

[Kriemhilde]

Margot's arm, finger stretched dramatically in a point towards the rabbit-clothed man, lowered to her side. She broke contact with Peter Cottontail's eyes (God, they were so blue!) and looked off towards the man that had just entered the scene. He was tall and muscular, and she adored his hair. She wanted to knot it up in her fingers and pull on it. He reminded her of Wolverine from the X-Men, for some odd reason. She noted a barefoot woman in a business suit limping up several yards to his left. As he asked his question, she looked down at the man-thing she had just clobbered. Blood was oozing off his scalp, looking bright and sharp against the whie linoleum. Her stomach lurched more violently than it ever had, more than on any rollercoaster she had ever ridden, upon first sight of any other gash she had seen or endured. Her mouth felt numb and papery.

[********, I killed him.

She kicked his shoulder softly with one foot, and looked at his face. Her whole body turned to ice.

His face, or what was left of it, was bleeding. A mixture of burned skin, pale tissue and blood was caked onto his cheeks. The whites of his eyes were dark red and almost purple. They bulged out of his sockets as if they would burst. He was covered in weird grey-or-purpley sores, and they leaked something repulsive and slightly flegm-coloured that would have made her gag violently, had she not been holding her breath. His irises were black and glossy like polished glass. He stared numbly off into space, his swollen, purpling tongue hanging limpy from his lips, just brushing the floor. His blue lips were pulled back in an eternal death-snarl. His teeth were yellowing and grey, the way teeth look when the nerves have died for whatever reason. His gums were black and bloody. He was sweaty and pale, and his veins stood out dark and sickly against his fat, pallid neck. Even his blood, as it continued to drip from his head wound, started to look dark.

Did I really hit him that hard? Should he be bleeding this much?

What little colour Margot had in her face flushed dead away, and her lips trembled. Her grip loosened on the guitar case, and if she had not clutched it to her now-freezing stomach it would have fallen from her hands. She always joked with the few friends she had about an upcoming zombie invasion. She often thought of it, wrote little stories about it, imagined what it would be like.

That was the only explanation she could think of for this creepy creature.

"I think he's a zombie," she said in a voice so faint that it might not have been heard.

[Seven VII]

Mars? Sol thought about that for a moment, and almost tripped over some one else's foot. Wait, like the planet, or the god? Maybe that was his name? Well, Sol figured, slightly calmer now that he had something to preoccupy himself with other than panicking, his name wasn't exactly normal either, and Zeb's was one hell of a mouthful. Actually, Mars was totally more normal then 'Zebedeo'. Ha. Sol tried to crack a smile, maybe managed one. Zeb would be pissed.

As they finally found the dumb blond, Sol spent the good first few seconds trying to get out of shock. There was a body on the floor. Even as Mars started yelling at some one above all the noise, Sol only paid attention to the body on the floor. That.... What... Was that guy dead? Oh s**t, this was just like those riots he read about in the newspaper, wasn't it? Sol practically had a heart attack when Zeb suddenly spoke, and he looked up at his friend with his eyes wide open. Mars pretty much stole the words right out of his mouth, and the only thing Sol could think to do was stretch out to grab one of Zeb's sleeves. "I can't breathe right," he confessed quietly. "Zeb, can we go somewhere else?" Where there weren't guards? He really didn't want to get accidentally shot.

Then he noticed the girl, standing above the guy who was on the ground. It had been hard to notice her, she just seemed to fade to the sidelines like some sort of ghost. She looked even worse than he did, and Sol suddenly felt really guilty. That kind of stuff really sucked... Trying very hard not to look at the corpse, he nudged Zeb in the direction of the girl. Even when he wasn't looking at it, tho, Sol was still able to smell something. Taking in a deep, shuddering breath, he resisted the wild urge to bolt off and just hole himself up in a bathroom stall.

[Kriemhilde]

Mars never took his hand off of Sol's arm. He didn't want the guy running off and getting himself killed. Now he grabbed Gunther's as he passed, the Mag-Lite in that hand making it difficult to get a good grip. No ********' way were these guys getting away that easily. There was a tiny woman standing right next to that thing, and for whatever reason, it made Mars queasy; something hard to do.

"Hold on, Gunther. Keep your cotton-tail on, let's see if the lady needs help."

He called to the girl, who was looking even more ghostly as as looked down at the body. He was definitely dead. Mars had seen dead people before. Not like this. This guy looked awful. He was all veiny and sweaty, and looked like he had the plague. She must have hit him. She was the only one in the same proximity, and she definitely looked scared enough. He was bleeding way too much to have just been knocked around with a guitar, and no way a tiny little thing like that could have conjured up enough force to kill the guy.

"Hey miss!"

The girl whipped around (Oh come on babe, please please please don't make that ********' face), looking terrified and as if she was about to cry, her wide eyes almost watering. She still held the guitar case to her body, and Mars noticed tiny splatters of red on the still-white parts of her sweater. He lowered his voice to a growl that, he thought, was somewhat softer. The girl was obviously about to check out, mentally. Halfway to bat-s**t.

"You okay? Need any help?"

[Homie G Luxory]

Max was just about to do...well, something, he was pretty much running on autopilot right now, this was one hell of an occurrence to swallow, when a waifish looking girl wielding a guitar case saved the day. He cringed, hands tightening reflexively on the chip rack when the guitar case connected with the crazy guy's head, the thump painfully loud, but still not completely covering the slight crunch of the guy's skull. If she hadn't just killed him, she'd certainly made him a vegetable.

He almost hit himself in the face with the rack when she yelled ELLLL KA-BONG, it was so shocking and out of place. As it was, he focused on her face, looking from her to the kid in the bunny hoodie, then back to the girl. She was staring at the crazy guy, and Max looked down, half expecting him to sit up like one of those horror movie villains and continue chase. Instead, he just laid there, eyes bulging instead of lolling crazily, blood seeping from a head wound. Max vaguely heard someone ask what the ******** was going on, why the guy was on the ground, but he was too focused on the blood. Max didn't do well with blood; not well at all.

He paled, then turned a sickly green, and with a quick motion Maxwell turned to the side, doubled over, and re-acquainted himself with the Subway sandwich he'd had for lunch. The panic levels in the immediate area seemed to rise, and he thought vaguely it was probably because he looked sick, looked infected, but when the vomiting was finished, he was clearheaded again. Straightening, he spit, and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his suit-jacket. He shook his head, stepping away from his lunch and towards the small group of people around the crazy's body (pointedly not looking at it, he didn't have time to waste dry heaving right now), everyone seeming to come around the girl with the guitar. He was just in time to catch her mutter, "I think he's a zombie." Improbable as it was...Max was absolutely sure the girl was right. The crazy--the zombie--had come at him and in the animal part of his brain, he had known this thing was not human, this thing was not safe, it was a predator, and he was dinner.

"You're right." It was affirmative, sure, though he really had no authority to say 'yes, this is so, it is a zombie!' Max stood watching it for a moment, looking for some twitch of life, but nothing came. "I'm going to assume it's finished off...if we follow zombie lore," he shook his head, incredulous that he was being scientific about something as impossible as zombies, "injuring the brain should...kill them." He looked around at the panicking masses, noting little bubbles bursting outwards as other infected suddenly attacked and people fled. Max took stock of the people around him--the girl looked like she was going to pass out or lose it, the shorter kid looked no better as he nudged the blond kid, and the guy with the dreads looked ready to do battle with his flashlight. Dreads asked the girl if she was okay, needed help, and she stared at him. Things were still hectic and getting worse, if the screaming was any indication. He spoke quietly, proud that his voice didn't shake, proud that he sounded calmer than he was. "We need to move, find somewhere quiet, less populated, and figure out what the ********," this with great emphasis, his hands tightening on the flimsy metal rack, "is going on. Weapon up, figure out how we're getting out of here."

Chrys, his brain reminded him, agonized, but he ignored it for now. He'd flipped on some kind of battle mode or something, and right now he just needed to get himself and his people (Pfft, he hadn't known them five seconds, didn't even know their names, and he already felt responsible for them) somewhere where they weren't going to get trampled or...chewed on. Chrys was tough. Chrys could...Chrys could take care of herself, until he found her. He had to believe that.

[Kriemhilde]

Margot achnowledged the man that had just walked up with those same terrified, staring eyes. She wouldn't cry, she wouldn't, she wouldn't. But Hell All if she wasn't more scared than ever in her life. She was beyond pee-your-pants scared. Way past it. She could only enunciate a small sentence. There was almost a hint of dark humour in her voice. "I knew this was going to happen."
And then quieter, "I just killed a frigging zombie."

Her skin felt wet-cold, and she instinctively felt at the coffee stain. Another glance down and she balked. Flecks of red littered her chest. Spots of infection.
Spots of whatever he had.

She nearly lost it; she ripped at the fabric madly, the last ounce of sanity she was clinging to tearing away for a moment. She tore the collar, and it ripped to her clavicle. It wasn't coming off, it wasn't coming off!

She whipped the scarf off her neck so quickly it tightened and burned for a moment, but then with a flick it fluttered harmlessly onto a clean spot of linoleum. The sweater was off in a nanosecond, or mostly off anyway. She fumbled and made guttural sounds. They weren't quite sound of disgust, and not quite sounds of lament; but they were close. when the bloody, wet thing was finally off, she balled it up and threw it as hard as she could. It caught the top corner of the cafe's stand and hung there, a stained flag of surrender to anything normal.

She breathed hard and loud for a moment, just staring at the thing as it hung unthreateningly. She needed to go wash herself in a sink. She really, really needed to.

The moment passed. As if shifted by some switch, her eyes, momentarily disgusted and terrified, went back to normal, and she straightened, looking over for her scarf. She squatted and grabbed it, and wrapped it right back around her neck. Had anybody in the oncoming crowd been paying attention, they would have definitely stopped and stared at the girl whose white brassiere seemed not to exist against her chalk-white chest.

She stood straight again, looking at the small plethora of men that had been standing around. Acting as if nothing had happened, she took on her usual breezy, relaxed air, her eyes narrowing peacefully. She stood straight, and a hint of a smile played on the corners of her pale, cracked lips.

"My name is Margot," she said with an air of proud finality. "And I have just fullfilled my greatest fantasy."

[NicGuy]

This is a small bit Frank side story, so this doesn't have to be read to continue or change anything so far. Thanks!



"Rularuha"

It was once a great studio. And the man, who shares the name of the studio, was also great. Frank didn't like him. One of those "spirited, artsy" types. Frank knew he was gay, but that wasn't the problem. He let his customers make his decisions. Ones that would turn his business into a walking failure. But people still bought into it, and Frank still took pictures for them.

He was a walking failure too.

But while in St.Hope's many restrooms, before the incident, he was thinking back on a job. A job just a few rock throws away: St. Hopes power plant.

One day, a cute chick, who looked like she wore panties made out of tinfoil (she was very tense), came into the studio and asked if we would take a job for St.Hope's Board of Shareholders and the Chairman himself.

"Sure..what did they have in mind, hun?" Not a good call, for she wasn't having it...must be a dike.

"Don't call me hun! I'm an important person..anyways, we would like you, or someone else, come and shoot in front of the new filtering plant construction site."

"I can do that. I leave the pricing up to you guys, and the Ruha, if that's cool with you..HUN."

He got a very MEAN glare..he liked it.

***

A few days later, in front of the site, the Board members, and the Chairman were lining up. They were suits through and though, and Frank knew it. If this was a bad movie, they'd be wearing leather gloves and big sunglasses. This wasn't a movie, however..which depressed frank a little...until the explosion.

It came from somewhere inside..almost like the shocks came from under the earth, but this wasn't a scary movie...just a boring photographers boring life. Frank could see the Chairman's eyes, which were very wide. The Board was bobbing up and down, squawking, neighing, bleeting. They knew nothing, but Frank had a sixth sense about the Chairman..

Suddenly, a man in a haz-mat suit appeared.

"Everything is contained and taken care of, sir!"

"Fine..thank you. Tell whoever made the mistake to come to my office. NOW!"

The messenger ran with his tail in between his legs.

Things seemed to calm down..he took the photo's, but those were fake smiles on the pictures. He knew something was up, or at least, he thought he did. he has a sixth sense about this sort of stuff. One of these days, something is going to come and bite these guys in the a**. Hopefully Frank wouldn't be around when the teeth came out and started chomping down on not just the Board..but him as well.

Frank was bad at metaphors.

[Homie G Luxory]

Max watched as the girl spazzed, tearing off her sweater, and understood--none of them had any idea how this...virus or whatever was spreading. He looked himself over, but there wasn't any blood, and he focused back on the girl--only to realize she wasn't wearing a shirt. Well. Color flooded his face, and he tore his eyes upward to her face, determined to keep them there, because now was not the time for the male brain to take over.

"Max Collins," he said, in response to her introduction. He cracked a smile at her admission about bashing someone with her guitar, and would have joked about 'your fantasy was to rip off your shirt in front of tons of strangers?' but didn't feel much in a joking mood. There was a dead zombie on the floor beside them, after all. Instead, he glanced around at the other three guys, waiting for some kind of introductions. It was then that he noticed the new addition to 'his people' (cue an eye roll), a woman standing off to the side, holding her stiletto heels in one hand and watching them.

"Miss?" Max started, but stopped. That would get old fast, if they asked every female they met miss, do you need help? Instead, he looked her over. "Do you need a weapon?" Sure, stilettos might be good for stabbing a zombie in the eye, but did you really want to get that close?

Helen thumped her forehead against the table a few times, trying to keep from letting her impatience win. If she didn't get her food in the next five minutes, she was going to throw a fit. She tried focusing on her iPod again, smirking at the guttural screaming as it reflected something of her mood. Then she recognized the song as the lyrics started--Well I loved my aunt, but she died, and my uncle Lou, then he died, I'm searching for someth--and hastily skipped it. Much as she loved Type O Negative, she wasn't in a mood for a song about how everything dies. Not after burying her mother. When the next one started and she realized it was another Type O, titled Everyone I Love Is Dead, she shut off the iPod in disgust, sitting up.

That was when she noticed the screams and sounds of general pandemonium. Her eyes widened and she watched as people ran past the little restaurant, some of them injured, all of them clearly terrified. What the hell was this? Was there some kind of terrorist attack or something? Helen shot to her feet, banging her knees on the table--she cursed and rubbed at them before stumbling to the exit, realizing she was all alone in the little restaurant. She saw a break in the crowd, and took her chance, darting out of the restaurant and heading in the opposite direction of the general flow. It was stupid, running towards an apparent source of danger, but she didn't like the feeling of mass hysteria that ran through the crowd, didn't fancy her chances of getting trampled.

Helen got to a slightly clearer area, and she turned a circle as she walked, looking around to see if she could spot whatever it was causing this panic. As she turned, she completely missed the guy, and ended up walking full into him. "s**t!" she muttered, just barely keeping from falling on her a**. Backing up, Helen eyed the guy warily. He looked kinda old, weathered and grizzled, and he looked pretty ******** scared. Behind him stood a younger girl, some breed of Asian, and she looked just as shook up. Now Helen was just starting to get annoyed.

"Look, can either of you tell me just what the hell is going on? Did we get bombed or something?" Helen put her hands on her hips, a perfectly manicured fingernail tapping at the hem of her smoky-blue turtleneck. "I'm sitting there waiting on a salad, and suddenly there's a ******** riot."

[Phantasm of the Orchestra]

At the man's words, anxiety hit Chrys like an acidic tidal wave. She desperately wished it was five minutes ago, when she was still in the dingy bathroom. At least while she was packaging her bag, she had some sense of what to do. Or better yet; she wished time would back peddle, and retract the viral outbreak, leaving her with only the stress of delayed luggage. She would have met up Max, exchanged a few sarcastic remarks about how airports seemed to generate stupidity, but everything would soon be fine when they settled down to dinner at his place. Now she felt helpless. Now, she should be driving home in Max's car, heater blaring and descending snow being effortlessly wiped off the glass. Blitzen Trapper would be playing on an endless loop, bringing peace and a smile to her chapped lips. Now, she had no idea where Max was, and standing in his place, a desperate, frantic stranger was screaming for her to run for her life.

"Alright, alright, calm down sir," she said, not quite calm herself. She made to follow him, all the while saying, "What the hell happened in there? Is somebody hurt? Is--" she was cut off when the woman slammed into the man. It was almost comical, and Chrys felt a surge of laughter rise to her throat. It was quickly stifled, however, when the woman launched into a slew of questions. Chrys shook a few loose strands from her face, and spoke quickly.

"Just now there was an announcement over the PA, something about a viral outbreak from the St. Hope plant. Now they're putting us under lock down and we're being quarantined without any additional information," she answered, frowning. "They're also insinuating that the disease might already be in here, to look out for...ah...? Pale skin, 'loss of speech function', out-of- whack coordination, and attacking people. Anyway, this guy says we oughta get the hell out of here." she nodded toward him. Noting his impatience, she started walking briskly toward the mall. "Said we should find security," she called over her shoulder, hitching up her bag. "They might have more information, at the very least."

[Storm Aether]

"So d**k--can I call you d**k?--Good, so d**k, how long have you been a cop, d**k? How's the slop at the pig department, d**k? Good benefits, d**k? Got dental, d**k?" The eccentric, hand-cuffed young lady nagged cheerfully as the older detective (d**k) impatiently dragged her out of the security office by her arm, avoiding eye contact at all costs.

He hadn't told her his first name, of course. She had insisted on seeing his ID before being placed in his custody. She knew her legal rights. That meant she would be a much greater pain in the a** than the average spraycan-wielding kid. Fortunately, the office was not far from the door, which meant it was only a short walk to reclaim his gun (and more importantly, his lighter), and get back in the car and back to the station.

This short walk was cut off by three rather shabby-looking men, however, as Detective Benvolo dragged the uncooperative and persitantly annoying vandal down an almost completely empty terminal hallway.

"Don't move," he grunted begrudgingly to his charge, the first thing he had said since the office. "Okay, d**k! I'll just stay right here while you talk to the nice muggers... d**k."

The detective approached them with a quick and purposeful stride--the first way a cop gets in your head--and flashed his badge. "Saint Hope PD. What happened here?" He asked officially, noticing their clothes seemed torned and they looked pretty badly hurt. Though they seemed to be shambling about in circles previously, they all slowly turned their heads to look at him, and began to approach.

"That's far enough." He said gruffly.

They kept coming.

"Hold it right there!" He shouted.

They accelerated.

He instinctively went for his gun--no luck. Security had it at the entrance.

"-NCTION, REDUCED MOTOR FUNCTION, AND TENDENCY TO ATTACK SURROUNDING PEOPLE..." The announcement he had been ignoring for the last ten minutes repeated.

He looked over his shoulder, making eye contact with the prisoner, leaning against a wall, who raised a brow and smiled slyly as though to question his sense of duty.

He looked back at the three men. They were coming fast.

"This is not my day." He said with resignation before turning and running. On the way he grabbed the prisoner's arm and pulled her with him. Despite struggling to keep up with his pace wearing heavy boots and with her arms bound, she continued to harass him mercilessly.

"Awww, is d**k scared? Maybe I should call you Little d**k. It suits you so well!" The girl mocked before looking over her shoulder at the pursuers. "Hey, I think they like me!"

[James Phobos]

Why does everyone insist on grabbing him? Zeb would normally demand his goddamn personal space back, thank you very much, and what's with 'Gunther'? Wait, is that guy talking to him? However, any stress-fueled arguments that he would snarl out are put down when Sol suddenly starts talking to him. Zeb pauses, and his brain tries its damnedest to ignore the body on the floor as he tries to remain calm himself. Almost unaware of the grip on his other arm, Zeb leans forward, his eyes narrowed as he says quietly, "Just calm down, Sol." He ignores the nudge in his stomach. Right now, him and Sol are first priority. That's brings a stab of guilt, and Zeb just tries to desperately ignore that, too. "Close your eyes and count, alright? Just keep counting, and follow us, got it?"

Once he's sure that Sol's following those instructions, Zeb finally draws himself out of his own personal bubble he somehow managed to create, and looks around at the rest of the group. He's just in time, apparently, to witness yet another odd sight: The girl who totally saved his a** suddenly freaks out, tearing off her shirt and making distressed sounds all the while. Even as Zeb instinctively jolts back, wondering the ********], he understands the second he spots the blood all over her shirt. Oh. Oh, right, s**t, he fell on thing (which he doesn't look at, can't stand to look at- ), is he alright? A quick inspection shows he's fine, probably, but he tries to remember what the PA said, if it mattered if they just touched and no one got hurt. Nothing comes up, typically, and Zeb looks up when the girl starts to speak, calm for no reason he can see- Although, admittedly, what he first notices, like every other young man, is that she is now devoid of upper body clothes.

It's really, really stupid to be focused and blushing at a time like this on something like that, but hey. Zeb's face goes beet red anyway. "You have very different priorities then me," he coughs, letting the older man who now seems to be their leader, for some reason, talk to some one else that's joining them. "'Cause I'm so jacking a shirt from one of these stupid stores for you the second I can think straight." His fingers start to twitch, tapping out a random rhythm against his palm as he glances at each of the people in their little group. It's easy to keep his cool as long as he just doesn't acknowledge the thing bleeding out onto the ground, which is stupid, he knows that. "So. Um. Quiet place sounds great, I vote we go to some place we can hole up in now. Because..." He trails off, and glances nervously at Sol.

[Homie G Luxory]

A viral outbreak at the plant? What the [********] did that mean? Yeah, home sweet ********' home. She was supposed to be landing in New York right now, not dealing with crap like this! Panicking people, viruses, and a quarantine? Helen crossed her arms, the corner of her mouth twitching over clenched teeth. She had a life, with things that needed to be taken care of--in fact, she had a meeting in two days with a director, and an audition for a spread in a magazine just a few days after. Helen was popular, but so were tons of other adult film stars--if she didn't show, she would be replaced, and she would lose rapport with the people working those projects. Helen's whole career could be damaged by this stupid quarantine.

She shook her head, breathing out of her nose--gotta calm down, Helen Paigi, as her mother would have chastised. Getting all pissed off about this and acting like a little kid throwing a tantrum wasn't going to get anything accomplished. And look on the bright side--Patrice was watching Ennis for her, Helen's manager Marty had tons of connections and could probably smooth things over (s**t, she had a legitimate reason for staying here, after all), and at least now she kind of knew what was going on. Helen watched as the girl started to stride off purposefully, and figured she might as well follow; didn't want to be alone here anyways. "Er. Name's Helen," she said, starting off after the girl. Looking over her shoulder at the guy, she asked "You coming with?"

Max was momentarily distracted from the woman holding the shoes by a cough, and turning to look over his shoulder he caught the gist of the conversation. "Aw, s**t, I'm sorry," he said, grimacing at Margot. "Wasn't thinking. Here," he began unbuttoning his suit-jacket, "do you more good than it will me." He'd been so focused on ignoring her state of undress that he hadn't even thought about offering her his suit-jacket.

[Storm Aether]

After running for some thirty seconds or so, Benvolo managed to gain enough distance on the zombies to make two quick turns in a row, effectively losing them, and continued to run for a short while longer to ensure their safety. He finally stopped, somewhat short of breath, in a hall between a line of pay phones and a bench.

"Gee, d**k, you don't get much exercise do you? Wonder why that could be..." The more fit and less exhausted captive commented with a roll of her eyes.

"Shut up and sit down, I have to call this in," The detective commanded bitterly, leaning on his knees. Catching his breath, he fumbled through his pants pockets for change, and dropped a quarter into one of the payphones.

"What, no cell, d**k? You're one wrinkly old d**k, y'know that?" The vandal commented, lying down and stretching out across the row of cushioned seats. She had pulled her knees up to her chest and slipped her cuffed hands under her feet to get her hands out from behind her and make herself more comfortable.

Without responding to the commentary, the detective dialed a private line to the police department. "This is Detective Benvolo, patch me through to the Captain."

The displeasure in his superior's voice was audible for several yards around him. Something about incompetance. Something about a simple assignment. This reaming inspired a muffled chuckle from the relaxed prisoner.

"There's a situation down here, Captain. Crazy people, attacking anyone on sight. I'm stuck here without a weapon, I need backup. We need this under control-" Benvolo tried to explain calmly, but was interrupted by more yelling.

Static.

More yelling.

Static.

"Captain?"

No response.

"Hello?"

Nothing.

"Damnit!" He shouted in frustration, slamming the phone back down onto the receiver. "Come on, we need to find a way out of here," He said with no physical indication of who he was talking to, still avoiding eye contact.

"Aw, can't we just cuddle?" The girl continued mocking, stretching her open hands out to him and pouting.

He started walking down the hall without responding.