Kat Warbler (sharkswithguns) wrote in wariscoming, @ 2013-01-02 21:37:00 |
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Entry tags: | kat warbler |
Who? Kat, narrative.
What? Kat's meltdown commences!
Where? Her apartment.
When? Future-dated to about 3am, Jan. 3rd (because no way will I be awake then).
Rating: Highish. Kat thinks she's a zombie, there's mention of face-eating & etc. and then theoretically suicidalish tendencies because irrational Kat is irrational and thinks she's a zombie, k? Also swearing.
Kat, as a general rule, did not get bent out of shape about things. Well, no, she did - a lot, sometimes - but that was only things that annoyed her or made her want to throw people off buildings or something. Little things, or things she could do something about. It was never the sentimental stuff, or the stupid weak things, like this was.
Except, apparently, in this case, she was. Apparently being zombified and then dying was a bigger deal than she’d been telling herself it was. She wasn’t sure how long it had been since she’d slept, or at least since she’d slept the sleep of a person who didn’t just drink themselves into a coma and pass out, because sleep and blacking out were not the same, and either way she still woke up panicking from nightmares where she was ripping people’s faces off and chowing down like the aforementioned faces were really fantastic pizza, or cake, or something, instead of human flesh.
The last time she’d woken up from one of those dreams, she’d found herself in the middle of teleporting away from her apartment, ending up in the middle of nowhere (well, not nowhere, the Amazon was still somewhere, and she must have been there before or seen a picture of it to have been able to get there in the first place, but it was still the opposite of an effective place to go, and it still didn’t help anything when she became fully aware of her surroundings in the middle of a dark freaking jungle) and had been too worked-up to get herself back for at least a good fifteen minutes of frustrated, teary-eyed tree-punching (which, fucking hell, trees hurt) and angry screaming in an effort to get this crap the fuck out of her system. By the time she’d gotten back she was exhausted, and she had just curled up with a bottle of something and watched stupid infomercials until she blacked back out (informercials were boring as fuck, but she couldn’t watch the usual horror movies, anymore; she’d rather boring over more nightmare fuel).
This time, when she woke up, it was hard to dig herself out of the dream. Her skin felt wrong, and her blood felt thick. It was a horrifying realization, that it was back - she wasn’t Kat anymore, was she? She was something else. She was dangerous and she needed to stay away from everyone. She needed to be far away for good. Maybe - no. She couldn’t have Bruce kill her again, even though she knew he probably would. Hey, since you did such a good job last time, you think maybe you could shoot me again? - not exactly the best thing to ask someone. Not the nicest.
But someone had to do it, didn’t they? Because if no one did, she could kill someone. She could start a fucking zombie apocalypse, because she’d come back wrong, come back and thought she was okay when she wasn’t. So someone had to stop her before that happened. Maybe she could. There was still time. Yeah, that’s what she had to do. She wasn’t going to eat anyone, and she wasn’t going to be responsible for killing them or turning them into this, either.
She had a gun, somewhere. A shotgun. She’d gotten one, learned how to use one at camp and then gotten one, after, just in case. Not for this, never for this, but it would work, wouldn't it?
It would work. It had to work.
It was around here, somewhere. She just had to find it.
It was hard to think, everything slowing down and speeding up the way it did before, and she was fucking hungry (when had she last eaten? Everything made her sick, now, everything reminded her of flesh, of her dreams of ripping people apart and eating them - her stomach lurched, and she wasn't sure if it was revulsion or hunger; fuck, she really was infected), and it was distracting, trying to think through that and the panic.
Right. Shotgun. If she couldn't figure out where she'd left it, she'd just have to look for it. Tear the place apart until she found it. It had to be here, somewhere...