♤ ⸻ Two regards her impassively, seemingly unmoved by the prospect. He's nothing if not a REALIST, and the chances of mankind returning to the way it was before after all of this damage, at least to him, is extremely low.
❛ Would it? ❜ he asks, grey eyes fixed relentlessly on hers. Papa taught him never to underestimate his enemies, that overconfidence was often the first step to losing, and so he isn't quite bold enough to assume that this girl is STUPID. Nevertheless, he wonders if she possesses more naivete than this new world affords. ❛ You know this shit is WORLDWIDE, right? And that even if it wasn't, America is fuckin' huge. Put it into perspective: there's roughly, what... ❜ Eyes briefly roll skyward, as if he's trying to recall something. ❛ ...let's just say 340 MILLION PEOPLE HERE, roughly? Do you think that many people are dead yet? Of course not. Too soon. People are still holding out hope. Hell, the lucky ones are probably still holed up in their houses. But give it time? More 'n' more people are gonna die. It won't all be from these things neither. It'll be accidents, or starvation 'n' dehydration, or the living killing each other. But we'll all join 'em, I saw it. A little ways from here? There's a guy hanging from a tree, obvious suicide. He's too high up for the freaks to reach him, yet he is one anyways. They're gonna grow and grow in number indefinitely. And let me guess— you've already experienced HOARDS, yeah? You felt overwhelmed, didn't you? You RAN? ❜
Two lets the question linger for a moment before getting up, walking over to a different desk and pulling one of its drawers open. It's probably foolish to give some of this information away, but his brother's presence, while personally unwelcome, soothes some of his suspicion. At the very least, Henry's goody-two-shoes persona ensures that he keeps TRUSTWORTHY company. Besides, does it matter? They're all going to die eventually.
He returns to them with a small folder in his possession, flipping it open as he reclaims his perch atop the desk. The paper's covered in messy Russian scrawl.
❛ You might think I ain't got a clue what it's like out there, given I've been holed up in here, but you'd be wrong. I've gone out there deliberately, gotten myself acquainted with the enemy. Done some research of my own. Always stayed close so I can keep an eye on Papa's shit but I've been. Camped out. These skinbags don't feel pain. I've disembowelled one incredibly slowly, I've cut off another's limbs 'n' pulled out its insides with my bare hands, I've even set one on fucking FIRE— nada. Only way they die is if you destroy the brain. They don't get TIRED, they don't get HUNGRY, and they don't feel anything so they don't lose HOPE. Humans do. You really think we can outrun that forever? Sooner or later, there's gonna be too many to deal with. The best we can hope for is setting up defensive camps. 'Communities' of some sort, with blockades. Out own makeshift Berlin Walls. But we ain't EVER gonna return to the way it was. It's impossible. You keep going hoping for that, you're gonna wind up LETTING one of 'em bite ya. 's a miserable lie to live. ❜