(Untitled)

[hastrustissues]

There's a baggie burning a hole in her pocket and a bottle hanging loose in her hand as she moves from floor to floor of the Compound, trying to remember which room Santana had mentioned she was living in. It's not in her nature to write things down, and most of the time, she has a damn good memory without assistance from any outside aid, but she'

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[straightupbitch]

As with all things, there are as many benefits to living in the Compound as there are inconveniences (for lack of a nastier, angrier word). It isn't enough for Santana to considering roughing it out in one of those huts without ready access to air conditioning and haircare products, but she will never be at peace with the fact that none of the rooms have doors. If ever she meets the entity whose grand idea it was to partition dorm rooms with curtains, it will not be a pretty confrontation. Presently, she will settle for venting her anger and frustrations on whatever - or whomever - is nearest, so when she hears a faint knock interrupt the otherwise quiet and still mood of the dormitory, she whips the curtain aside and bounds down the hall in search of a target

[straightupbitch]

It's a slow, long drag and a few minutes yet before Santana can begin to consider the question, and even then, she does so with a massive roll of her eyes. Lucky that she smoked all those cigars, so that the itch at the back of her throat doesn't escalate into a full blown coughing fit and her façade of coolness remains intact that much longer. "Lima," she says on an exhale, billowing smoke chasing the word from her lips. "In Ohio. I'd be sorry for you if you'd ever heard of it, that place is a regular Stepford nightmare." She takes another hit, sucking deep and for too long, and her eyes begin to water as she hands the joint back to Wichita. Hallelujah for the dim evening light, she thinks. Having released her breath, she asks, "What about you?"

[hastrustissues]

She's got a few more sips from the bottle coursing through her system before Santana passes her the joint again, but she doesn't take a hit from it right away, keeping it pinched between her fingertips as she leans back, just far enough that her weight is still propped on one elbow, her position relaxed as she settles back more comfortably. It speaks volumes to the power of the weed, anyway, that she's able to relax this much, at least for this long, without keeping some kind of warning bell ready in the back of her mind, just in case of danger. Maybe it also says something about the company she's keeping, too, but she doesn't want to overthink any of that right now. "Never heard of it, so no need to be sorry. Kansas, for me. Hence the name. After that, it was sort of all over. I was in California before I wound up here."

[straightupbitch]

The giggles always hit her first. They invade on their own, uncalled for but not unwanted, and suddenly every last thing and smallest detail is a source of hilarity. She hears herself laughing as if from a distance, each second stretching longer and longer, and she has to concur: it's good shit. "They named you after the place you were born?" says Santana, who in her freedom from the horrors of Lima must have forgotten that people could actually be that absurd. "How creative."

[hastrustissues]

"Nice try, except it's not the name on the birth certificate," she explains, shaking her head at Santana despite the giddy grin that's made its way onto her own lips. "I don't know." Shrugging, the smile leaves her face in a sobering moment, as she starts to get way too reflective for the way the weed and the booze makes her feel. "After everything went to hell, things like names didn't really seem to matter anymore. So I ditched the old one, and - well, there you go."

[straightupbitch]

While leaning forward to grab the bottle by the neck, Santana freezes, and she spends a moment or so - it might be shorter, might be much, much longer - eying the expression the other girl is now wearing. Her bitchier side notes that of all the fake names to adopt, Wichita would not have been her very first choice, but the thought washes away quickly enough as the effects of the grass spread. "What went to hell?" she asks, without considering for a moment that it might be too painful to discuss.

[hastrustissues]

"Oh, God, I didn't tell you, did I?" Wichita realizes, her fingers slipping from the bottle in question as Santana reaches to pry it from her grasp. She's distracted by the joint anyway, lips pursing around it as her cheeks hollow slightly and she holds the smoke in, breathing deep and then exhaling slow, finally breaking her cool with a chuckle that sounds all too happy, given the subject matter. "The world totally ended where I'm from," she clarifies, if only to feel the need to shed some light on her earlier verbiage. "Zombies, widespread pandemonium, global shutdown, et cetera, and so on and so forth."

[straightupbitch]

"I'm not that high yet," is Santana's response. She treats Wichita to a pointed start and an arched brow, even as she pulls the bottle to her lips and knocks back a few swigs. Very briefly, she entertains the possibility that it's an entirely true story - maybe she is that high after all - but even after everything that has happened on Tabula Rasa during her time here, she remains skeptical. It's much easier for someone who hasn't been directly involved, except for that one time she was freak-of-nature levels of smart for a whole weekend.

[hastrustissues]

"M'telling you, it's the truth," Wichita insists, reaching out to tug the bottle back from Santana and punctuating her declaration with a swig of her own. She gets the part where she and Columbus are probably one of few people who have come from a world like theirs, and if there are others, she hasn't had the fortune of meeting them yet. Zell is the closest she's come recently, at least. And Santana could be like any other girl she was friends with in high school, in the middle of a small Midwest town, before everything literally went to shit.

[straightupbitch]

Santana stays silent, not because she has been rendered speehless but because she is waiting for the punchline. After what feels like a long stretch but may, to someone who isn't working up to a nice high, seem like only a minute or so, she sits up. In the faded light, it's hard to tell, but Wichita doesn't seem to be pulling her leg. Why would she? It's not even all that funny a joke. The expression she wears now isn't entirely suspicious, but not trusting either; what it is, is almost sympathetic. "So you're, you're one of those people who die and came here?"

[hastrustissues]

"Dead? Oh, shit, no, nothing like that," Wichita assures her, immediately doing so to clear things up, although the truth isn't exactly better than what Santana's misunderstood. "Back home, there was this - I guess you could call it a virus. Kinda similar to mad cow, but it spread suddenly, and fast, and long story short, well - " Sighing, she takes one more swig from the bottle, swiping the back of her hand across her mouth when it gets a little messy. "Where I'm from, it was a special order of the end of the world, with a side of zombies."

[straightupbitch]

For a moment, it appears as if Santana is going to speak, but it passes quickly and leaves her looking more confused than anything else. She presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth as her jaw drops open further, wracking her brain for something to say. "Rough," is the most that she comes up with, because what the hell else is there to be said? 'Wow, that sucks for you. Sorry your world ended.' Actually, she has to wonder if it even all that bad, the zombie plague. She can't count on both hands the number of people she'd not mind having reason to bludgeon with a - well, with whatever works best for killing zombies.