Skizz was never much of a fighter.

Before the world went to shit, he was a babysitter and a part-time local comedian.

He did always love kids.

Now, though, thousands of miles away from the city he grew up in, he can feel something broken within him.

He's become cold. Hard.

The apocalypse turned him from a cheery, optimistic bundle of joy into a warrior. A man who does nothing except fight for his own survival.

He had someone he cared about once. His name was Impulse. His best friend, his other half, his forever and his always.

They got separated by the zombs, and Skizz had written him off as dead.

He cuts down another zombie with the greatsword he found in an abandoned historical reenactment camp and backs behind a rather large rock, effectively making the zombies loose sight of him.

He puts his back against the rock and slides down onto the ground.

Finally, hidden away from the world, he can cry.

His sobfest, however, is interrupted by the sound of footsteps. A firm march; survivor's footsteps, not the slow shuffle of zombies. And it sounds like there's multiple of them, not just one.

He prepares himself and his tall frame to intimidate whoever is coming his way.

Yes, he's touch starved and craving human interaction, but getting too attached will most definitely lead to heartbreak later.

Then they stop, and an achingly familiar voice says, barely loud enough to hear, "Skizz?"