Theresa "Tess" Servopoulos (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dog_eat_dog) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
paradisa2013-08-26 04:49 pm
dog_eat_dog) wrote in paradisa2013-08-26 04:49 pm
Entry tags:
First Shot
[Everything changes with the bat of an eye.
While she registers the change immediately, it takes a moment to truly sink in. Tess finds herself in what could only be a dream –– she hasn't seen a bedroom so immaculate and new and utterly inviting outside of old magazines in decades, and she's certainly never slept in one. She's never even stayed in a hotel this nice, never had her own place with such crisp, perfect white linens. The very act of being in a well-kept bedroom is jarring and discomforting and panic-inducing.
The only thing that keeps her from outright panicking is the fact that she still has her handgun in her hands, her arms outstretched to point it at some invisible intruders, her finger laid against the side of the gun, ready to move to the trigger at a heartbeat's notice––
Seconds ago, there had been bullets, and Joel and Ellie's retreating footsteps––
There's an assortment of things on the dresser, a hairbrush that had likely never even approached anyone's scalp, a comb with all its teeth, a jewelry box that looks freshly polished––
There had been a throbbing in her chest and collarbone and neck, and––
No, no, the throbbing is still there, the collar of her shirt half-stuck to the mess that is her throat, and Tess could (and can) feel it almost thrumming under her skin, almost moving––
Tess backs up into a wall, her support hand leaving the base of the gun in favour of splaying against the immaculate paint. Purple. The walls are rich, warm purple, without so much as a hairline crack, and Tess is pressing the grime of her skin and clothes against it. She feels like she needs to apologize, even when there is no one around to apologize to.
She's alone here, almost. Alone as any host is.
She's not sure if she can "feel" the infection crawling under her skin because she knows it's working its way towards her brain so that it might kill her, or if there really are cordyceps tendrils spawning in her veins, winding through her muscle tissue and up her neck to her skull. Have they reached her brain yet? Will it hurt when they do?
Of course it's going to hurt, she tells herself, almost angrily. But Joel and Ellie are gone, and oh thank god, Joel is gone, Joel doesn't have to see this, and there are no soldiers to shoot her like a fucking rabid dog, and it's just her and the gun and this immaculate not-quite-afterlife hotel room.
It was easy to maintain her composure when she had work to do and Joel to protect –– she couldn't let him see her die or turn or suffer, she had her pride and her obligations to her goddamn partner –– but now she's alone and she is going to become a monster if she doesn't put herself out of her own misery.
Tess fits the barrel of the gun to her chin.
Don't be such a fucking coward, Tess.
She pulls it away, takes a hard breath, and closes her eyes for a beat.
It's only been a few hours. You've got hours. Maybe twelve hours, or twenty-four, or maybe even forty-eight––
When she opens her eyes, they settle immediately on the window across from "her" bedroom wall. More importantly, they settle on what appears to be a distant city basking under a summer sun, and for an instant she thinks of being a teenager again, when she dreamed of backpacking across Europe. There were lots of pictures of little French cities all over the Internet, back then, cities that could still feel like quaint little towns despite their sprawl.
For a moment, she just stares in silence, and then she says:]
Couldn't pick a nicer fucking place to die, huh...
While she registers the change immediately, it takes a moment to truly sink in. Tess finds herself in what could only be a dream –– she hasn't seen a bedroom so immaculate and new and utterly inviting outside of old magazines in decades, and she's certainly never slept in one. She's never even stayed in a hotel this nice, never had her own place with such crisp, perfect white linens. The very act of being in a well-kept bedroom is jarring and discomforting and panic-inducing.
The only thing that keeps her from outright panicking is the fact that she still has her handgun in her hands, her arms outstretched to point it at some invisible intruders, her finger laid against the side of the gun, ready to move to the trigger at a heartbeat's notice––
Seconds ago, there had been bullets, and Joel and Ellie's retreating footsteps––
There's an assortment of things on the dresser, a hairbrush that had likely never even approached anyone's scalp, a comb with all its teeth, a jewelry box that looks freshly polished––
There had been a throbbing in her chest and collarbone and neck, and––
No, no, the throbbing is still there, the collar of her shirt half-stuck to the mess that is her throat, and Tess could (and can) feel it almost thrumming under her skin, almost moving––
Tess backs up into a wall, her support hand leaving the base of the gun in favour of splaying against the immaculate paint. Purple. The walls are rich, warm purple, without so much as a hairline crack, and Tess is pressing the grime of her skin and clothes against it. She feels like she needs to apologize, even when there is no one around to apologize to.
She's alone here, almost. Alone as any host is.
She's not sure if she can "feel" the infection crawling under her skin because she knows it's working its way towards her brain so that it might kill her, or if there really are cordyceps tendrils spawning in her veins, winding through her muscle tissue and up her neck to her skull. Have they reached her brain yet? Will it hurt when they do?
Of course it's going to hurt, she tells herself, almost angrily. But Joel and Ellie are gone, and oh thank god, Joel is gone, Joel doesn't have to see this, and there are no soldiers to shoot her like a fucking rabid dog, and it's just her and the gun and this immaculate not-quite-afterlife hotel room.
It was easy to maintain her composure when she had work to do and Joel to protect –– she couldn't let him see her die or turn or suffer, she had her pride and her obligations to her goddamn partner –– but now she's alone and she is going to become a monster if she doesn't put herself out of her own misery.
Tess fits the barrel of the gun to her chin.
Don't be such a fucking coward, Tess.
She pulls it away, takes a hard breath, and closes her eyes for a beat.
It's only been a few hours. You've got hours. Maybe twelve hours, or twenty-four, or maybe even forty-eight––
When she opens her eyes, they settle immediately on the window across from "her" bedroom wall. More importantly, they settle on what appears to be a distant city basking under a summer sun, and for an instant she thinks of being a teenager again, when she dreamed of backpacking across Europe. There were lots of pictures of little French cities all over the Internet, back then, cities that could still feel like quaint little towns despite their sprawl.
For a moment, she just stares in silence, and then she says:]
Couldn't pick a nicer fucking place to die, huh...
no subject
[But that pretty much clinches it] This place- it takes people from different worlds. I'm living with a very different infection.
Do you know a girl called Ellie?
no subject
[Tess is 39 in a world where that feels positively ancient. There's a whole generation now with no memories of a world without infection, and little means to support the elderly, so it's mostly just the people who were adults (or on the cusp of becoming adults) when everything went to shit.
Oh, terrible world.]
Yeah, I know her. Kid's my responsibility right now. You've met Joel, too, I hope.
no subject
Yeah, I have. You guys have it really rough, so do we, but in a different way.
no subject
Yeah? What's going on for you guys?
no subject
The dead don't stay dead any more. They come back and eat the living. It's been about four months since the...outbreak, I guess that's what you could call it. There's less and less living people every day.
no subject
[A long sigh. When has she ever had to explain this to anyone?]
Somewhere between sixty and seventy-five percent of the world's population is dead or shambling around, last I heard.
You're four months in. It's hard to sympathize, twenty years out, but I do. Believe me, I fucking do.
But you ain't seen "rough" yet. Not until your country's so thoroughly fucked that there's no coming back.
no subject
Jesus. I'm sorry you guys are going through that. It must be awful [And he really is. He pauses, before sharing something he doesn't share with a lot of people] We're all infected already. Carriers, I guess? When we die, we turn - unless someone destroys our brain.
I hope we can come back from it, I really do. But it's not looking likely unless they find a cure.
no subject
[She's shaking her head on this end.]
Four months? You might be alright if you can find the answer within the next few years. Maybe.
no subject
Haven't seen much of any scientists, but there's gotta be some of them working on it. I hope. Just so the others have something to move towards.
no subject
What about the government? What's happening with them?
no subject
[He shrugs] We thought they were doing something in the first couple days, but after that? There was no sign of them.
no subject
no subject
no subject
Freedom or security, take your pick. Closest thing to normal you'll get, if you don't mind giving up particular rights. You know what marital law is?
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
But you risk paying the price for security.
no subject
[It was bad enough being locked in that gym, with the bandits picking them off every time they tried to step outside]
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
Yeah. People can be really dangerous to other people when they want to be. [The dead have never been as much as a problem as the living have been]
no subject
no subject
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)