[hr][hr][center][h1][color=#00ff00]Jack Hudson[/color][/h1][img]http://68.media.tumblr.com/22e685d8a6b96a0d527a01a133dddebb/tumblr_inline_nuo578no1I1qlt39u_500.gif[/img][hr]Location:  Building 7 (Rec Center)[/center][hr][hr]Jack's eyes nearly popped out of his head at Meg's suggestion. Him? Perform? Sure, he did goofy little things to make Tatiana smile, but he figured him performing would be like someone's dad doing standup at the graduation party. No one really wanted to see that, and hardly anyone could handle that without cringing enough to pinch a nerve. His form of entertainment was bad enough to make the Joker look SNL worthy, at the very least. 

[color=00ff00]"I uh...I dunno if I'd be the best 'lovely assistant'"[/color] Jack replied, almost apologetically, to Meg. Dancing and doing parlor tricks hadn't been in the requirements for the police academy, and he spent most of his time helping out his mom growing up. The little he knew about performing was from watching her give tours around Boston, always in character. 

He grinned a bit, hearing Bazhooli compliment Tatiana's work. Her dance really was something else. It was almost the most beautiful thing he had ever seen (the most beautiful, of course, was Tatiana herself). The backdrop of the apocalypse only made her dance that more powerful and enchanting. He couldn't help but think quietly that if Tatiana did assist Bazhooli, she would steal the show. 

[color=00ff00]"Parents must have hated you if that's yah name,"[/color] Jack chuckled a bit. Of course, he knew the man's name wasn't Guy-Who-Carries-My-Stuff, but he couldn't resist the opportunity. Hopefully, he brought enough plates over for everyone, but if not, he could always double back to fetch some more. 
[hr][hr][center][h1][color=#cc6699]Édouard Riviere[/color][/h1][img]http://68.media.tumblr.com/881ce91e06a81a8fb0cda702e2d09ac9/tumblr_inline_mw08aemwGX1s73t47.gif[/img][/center][hr][center]Location: Following Lyon[/center][hr][hr]Édouard scoffed slightly. He wasn't religious in the slightest. There was no reason for him to kneel and pray. The Rivieres hadn't been religious in a century--the last time they went to the Catholic church, they still included the accent in their name, going by Rivière. His ancestor, Dorian, had seen to all of that. Of course, that was the only aspect of his ancestor's history that Édouard cared for. Dorian had been more British than French at heart, deserting his country and insisting that l'Unione Corse conducted meetings in English. 

Édouard tended to selectively forget that tidbit. 

[color=cc6699]"Waah....Kers....?"[/color] Édouard sounded out, squinting slightly. [color=cc6699]"Comment dit-on....Ah, oui. Les morts vivants!"[/color] He chuckled slightly, proud at himself for figuring out the word. Félix and he had never switched over to the shorter abbreviation for them. [i]Les marcheurs[/i] was a term he hardly ever used. As soon as he finished congratulating himself for understanding the phrase, he recalled the rest of what Lyon said. He would have to do more work. He shuddered slightly, feeling incredibly exhausted after his moping around in the infirmary, and then cleaning the blood and gore. Truthfully, his whining had been more effort than the actual cleaning. 

He flinched as Lyon hit him on the back, stumbling forward slightly towards the old man. Closing his eyes, Édouard counted to ten, a technique he recalled his sister, Alisanne, being forced to learn when they were small. She always had issues with anger. At the mention of Sana, a perplexed look came over his face, but his blush betrayed him, underneath the blood and gore on his face. 

And then, to make matters worse, a shovel was shoved in his face. He grasped it, fantasizing for a moment turning around, and beating Lyon [i]and[/i] the geezer to death with it. The blood would make a bit of a mess, but someone else would come around to clean it up. Lyon probably had beaten everyone in Franklin until they grew to love cleaning and having fucked up haircuts. He closed his eyes, counting to ten once again in his mind, first in French, and then in Italian. He still couldn't quite manage it in English. 

He straightened up, prepared to give some sort of scathing remark to Lyon, but in truthful, all of his fussing and whining was becoming tiring. He wasn't sure how much longer he could defy Lyon on principle, and he had questions still to be answered. Lyon, clearly, wasn't telling him the truth. Sana would likely explain why he was pretending to be a Mr. Moseby. Perhaps all of Franklin was held hostage by him, and Édouard could become a hero by saving them from the tyrant. 

Still, he wrinkled his nose at the old man. He smelled of [i]death[/i] to him, which was saying a lot, as they set Édouard at the task of building graves. Humming a rather explicit French song to himself, Édouard got to work, showing surprising strength as he started to make some graves. 

[hider=Translations]Comment dit-on....Ah, oui. Les morts vivants! = How does one say....Ah, yes. The living dead!
Les marcheurs = Walkers[/hider]