He starts shambling along, threading his way through the streets while keepin' an eyesocket out for any suspiciously grayed-out undead silhouettes. The nice things about these guys - and that's maybe a list with two bullet-points on it, frankly, because there ain't much really nice about 'em - but the nice things boils down to two factors: they're slow, and they're loud. He always sees and hears 'em comin' before they actually show up, and his sight ain't even that great (though compared to a human's, he's heard it's pretty damn good, especially since he don't have retinas that require light to see).

"Only ever good at fighting?" he says in a tone that ain't skeptical so much as it's just...well, mildly dubious that said skillset is really all she's got to her name. He doesn't generally believe in that kinda thing. Not - fuck, not for the kid, not for either of the kids, and not for her either.

Nah, fighting ain't requisite. It is never requisite in his book. People lash out if they're scared, people are taught that this is the only thing they've got of value, and people are raised to believe the world is a cruel and terrible place full of things that will push, and the only way to survive is to push at 'em first.