Self-declared number VII looked down at himself, back up, and then around the room.

What... what is this? I feel ...sick. The flu. Why am I in the hospital? What the hell is he raving about?

It's the zombie apocalypse. I knew it. Zombies. Just grea---... they don't look like zombies. Something else then. Either way, it's not good. It's not good at all.

#VII flexes, looking around the room again before raising a hand, rubbing at his ginger hair, "Oi, this is just great. 'Well I can't tell you anything, but THEY might find us, and we don't want that, so you have some powers...' And we're just supposed to believe you? Yeah right."

A loud snort follows this comment, followed shortly by a series of hacking coughs. Long, thin fingers search his form for a pack, a carton, a box, a tray of cigarettes. They come up empty. Damn it.

Looking around, #VII searches for others to bum cigarettes from, but they all seem to be in the same shoddy predicament. Just great. The zombie apocalypse HAS hit, only we're some kinda ****in' super-mutant supermen and we're just supposed to take this without a cigarette? Great.

Fan-****in'-tastic.

Another glance around before he hops up, staring at the 'ringleader' of this little affair, "So what's the plan, skippy? Just waltz on through the corridors like we own the place? Do you even work here?"