Gathering: New Guest Reception

[concierge]

The black sign positioned in front of the Dining Hall's main entrance reads:

New Guest Reception
TODAY
6 PM - 8 PM

All guests welcome

In the Dining Hall itself, the chairs have been pushed up against the walls and the long dining table turned into a buffet stocked with finger foods. At the far end of the room is a small bar serving beer, standard cocktails and non-alcoholic drinks.

Comments

[onamissiontocivilize]

Will nods and raises his beer. "That's the general plan," he says. "Shit-faced is the only way this fucking hotel is going to be remotely tolerable."

[prayimdead]

Snorting softly, Daryl pulls a long drink from the bottle before answering. "I couldn't agree with you more, man."

Taking a look around the room at all the people, most looking comfortable and chatty and content, he shakes his head, mostly in disgust. "Folks look damned happy to be here, for the most part."

He isn't about to lump himself in with the rest of them, though. There are people back home he can't stop thinking about. Stupid, he knows, but that's how it is.

[onamissiontocivilize]

"I take it you're not happy about being here?" Will sure as fuck isn't. He has a goddamn job to do and while, okay, it's actually kind of pleasant to be away from the fucking tabloids and the critics, he actually does like his job and would like to get back there.

[prayimdead]

"Not...entirely," Daryl allows. While there are some perks to this hotel business, like hot water, a comfortable bed, and plenty of food, he doesn't want to become complacent. That would be the worst damned thing that could happen to him and, with Daryl's luck, he just knows that would be the moment the hotel would ship him back to zombie central.

"I got things back home to do. People depend on me." Another long pull of Bud.

[onamissiontocivilize]

"Well, I hope you can get back to them soon," Will says. He wouldn't say he has people that depend on him, necessarily, but he would like to think that at least part of his audience misses him when he's not on their television every night. Considering his focus group data lately, he fucking doubts it.

[prayimdead]

"Yeah." Pulling a little on the moist label on the beer bottle, Daryl nods, almost to himself. Softly, "Yeah."

Tilting his head a little, he figures he ought to go ahead and introduce himself. "M' name's Daryl." Not sure how to brooch the topic of, "Hey, man, you got zombies where you came from?" Daryl shakes his head a little and scuffs the toe of one steel-toed boot. "Might be a strange question, but what were things like where you were?"