*Having no friends was better. Less people to worry about. Less emotional, less distracting. Less...fucking complicated.*

Do you see the comment cards I put out? Thats because I didn’t put any out. Because I, shockingly, /don’t/ care what you think about the salt levels on the fries.

*Wipes down a table absently, eyes scanning around. No signs of anyone for a while…does that mean they’re— What would it matter, anyway? People die here all the time. Damn it. It /would/ matter. /Damn it./*

*Maybe he could go check on things, on them, but…He doesn’t even know his way around the place. He’s always minded his own business, stayed in the kitchen. Maybe it’s best to stay safe. Maintain some god damn semblance of self-preservation.*

Fuck. Fuck it. You know? Just /fuck it/. *Mumbles a slew of expletives as he shuts down the kitchen to set out to find anyone familiar.*

*Quietly cusses out Aperture, his friends, and the whole notion of having friends as he ventures out, having no idea where the hell anything is, or /what/ he’s even looking for, to be honest.*

All this shit looks the same. Every hallway…white walls white walls, damn it… *Could really, REALLY use a drink right now.*

Okay. Did I just hear voices or am I losing my fucking mind? Probably both.

Fuck. This was definitely a mistake. *Starts trying to re-trace his steps back to the kitchen, with little luck.*

I hate this place /I hate this place/. *Slower than before, holding his stomach, he starts trying to find a way back to his kitchen.*

*At least he’s caught his breath again. Wishes he could just /message/ the others, see if he could just ask for their locations. But he…doesn’t know how to use the Ping system. ...Or his tablet. Has never even turned it on.*

*Holds the Datapad in his hands like it’s a foreign object.* Username? Shit…username…I think I wrote that down once… *Puts the thing down and starts rummaging for that scrap of paper.*

…What the hell is that noise?

*Hiding. Fucking /hiding/. Whiskey in one hand, meat cleaver in the other.*

Maybe it’s safe...? *Hears crashing in the distance.* Nope nope nope fuck that /fuck all of that/.

*Hears something coming. Somethings. Knife in one hand, axe in the other.*

'Is the bread gluten free?' The bread has been desiccated in a package for 500 years. Anything remotely resembling gluten disintegrated around year 305. Bon appetit, genius.