Of all the things that might happen, Fynn isn't exactly mentally prepared for this.
But it doesn't take him long. Zombies are rather a bad thing, one could imagine. And it seems like this poor fellow needs some help.
Fynn places his glasses on a table.
No time to remove clothing. Sigh.
Thirty seconds after Tom screams at the zombies, a vaguely-polite and (is that an Irish accent?) gruff voice that is rather far above Tom's head tells him "Out of the way, lad."
Fynn really wouldn't want to hurt Tom when he loses most of his control. He's got the barest bit of it right now anyway.
But Fynn has engaged and really, all he understands is that they are a threat and in front of him, and they need to not be in the building.
Rotten teeth and broken fingernails slide relatively harmlessly off his coat. Even healthy human bones and tissue are no match for a swipe of normal bear paws, and nothing about this situation matches those details. Zombie heads are at just the level of his paws, and make rather satisfying squish sounds. Mind the splatter, folks. Apparently it's infectious. Feel free to shoot something if you feel like it, Tom! Camaraderie, and all that.
Between the claws and the paws and the almost-tonne of angry bear pushing against them, there is no longer a welcome for the zombies inside Milliways. If Tom was smart, he'd shut the door before Fynn goes through it looking for more.
Fynn falls forward awkwardly onto his front paws which are somewhat suspiciously dexterous and not really meant to be walked on. But it puts him on a better level with Tom, who is probably very uncomfortably close right now.
Have a nose wiggling in your direction as it sniffs, Tom.
Where's the bar? Aha, there. He starts towards it, but doesn't get far before he's stopped by a waitrat with several towels who's glancing pointedly at the mess by the door.
"Sorry. Thanks. Shit, don't give me that look, they're not my fault." He returns to Fynn, towels in hand. "Here."
Are those.
Of all the things that might happen, Fynn isn't exactly mentally prepared for this.
But it doesn't take him long. Zombies are rather a bad thing, one could imagine. And it seems like this poor fellow needs some help.
Fynn places his glasses on a table.
No time to remove clothing. Sigh.
Thirty seconds after Tom screams at the zombies, a vaguely-polite and (is that an Irish accent?) gruff voice that is rather far above Tom's head tells him "Out of the way, lad."
Fynn really wouldn't want to hurt Tom when he loses most of his control. He's got the barest bit of it right now anyway.
Zombies, meet giant manbear.
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Let's blame the slowness of his response on the fact that he hasn't eaten much in the last few months, shall we?
"--Oh my God," he says, "I'm in Milliways oh thank Christ don't eat them they're infectious" and now he's getting out of the way.
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But Fynn has engaged and really, all he understands is that they are a threat and in front of him, and they need to not be in the building.
Rotten teeth and broken fingernails slide relatively harmlessly off his coat. Even healthy human bones and tissue are no match for a swipe of normal bear paws, and nothing about this situation matches those details. Zombie heads are at just the level of his paws, and make rather satisfying squish sounds. Mind the splatter, folks. Apparently it's infectious. Feel free to shoot something if you feel like it, Tom! Camaraderie, and all that.
Between the claws and the paws and the almost-tonne of angry bear pushing against them, there is no longer a welcome for the zombies inside Milliways. If Tom was smart, he'd shut the door before Fynn goes through it looking for more.
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Once there are more corpses than zombies, though, he moves forward to start closing the door.
"Hey, uh--"
You're kind of in the way of closing the door, giant manbear!
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"YO."
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Giant manbearpig turns to pin his attention on Tom and in doing so, leaves enough room to close the door.
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"Can-- uh, can I close the door now?"
(The top half of a zombie on the floor twitches, reaching for Fynn's paw.)
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Fynn doesn't notice the top half until it touches him. And then he stomps on it.
It goes very much squish.
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Fynn falls forward awkwardly onto his front paws which are somewhat suspiciously dexterous and not really meant to be walked on. But it puts him on a better level with Tom, who is probably very uncomfortably close right now.
Have a nose wiggling in your direction as it sniffs, Tom.
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"Thank you?" Tom hazards.
He also holds out a hand towards Fynn's nose, the way you would with a dog.
(He smells like six months without a real shower, like roadside dust and dirt, like adrenaline and too long with too little food and sleep.)
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Fynn snorts and backs up, shrinking as he goes. Bones crunch, fur retreats, muscles and organs make some rather wet sounds as they shift.
Eventually there is a rather slimy grimy hairy naked man staring at the floor and shaking his head as though to clear it.
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"Uh. You okay, man?"
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He stands up, putting a hand up to try and run it through his hair. Instead he pulls it away and makes a face when it comes back covered with goo.
"I hate doing that."
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"Let me get you a towel or something, hang on--"
Where's the bar? Aha, there. He starts towards it, but doesn't get far before he's stopped by a waitrat with several towels who's glancing pointedly at the mess by the door.
"Sorry. Thanks. Shit, don't give me that look, they're not my fault." He returns to Fynn, towels in hand. "Here."
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