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santana lopez

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There's a baggie burning a hole in her pocket and a bottle hanging loose in her hand as she moves from floor to floor of the Compound, trying to remember which room Santana had mentioned she was living in. It's not in her nature to write things down, and most of the time, she has a damn good memory without assistance from any outside aid, but she's pretty sure she'd been slightly drunk by the time they'd bumped into each other on Casino Night, and the time after that she'd only just finished sampling the joys of Bill Murray's ginormous hookah. So, really, she's two for two when it comes to reaching a certain level of intoxication around the other girl. Wichita would be hoping that she hasn't made that terrible of an impression - if she was the kind of girl who allowed herself to care that much.

"Fifth floor? It's the fifth floor," she declares, primarily to herself, and she's not above knocking on every door to find who she's looking for, but she doesn't think it'll come to that. Hopefully.

She takes a chance and guesses, lifting the hand that holds the bottle to thump it against the door itself by way of knocking, taking a step back to wait for the sound of movement from within. Idly, her free hand wanders into the back pocket of her jeans, fingertips brushing against the plastic bag there. She's even scored some rolling paper, but she's remembered to keep it in a pocket separate from her lighter. The last thing she needs is to burn a hole through a pretty decent score from the clothes box by being an idiot.

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As with all things, there are as many benefits to living in the Compound as there are inconveniences (for lack of a nastier, angrier word). It isn't enough for Santana to considering roughing it out in one of those huts without ready access to air conditioning and haircare products, but she will never be at peace with the fact that none of the rooms have doors. If ever she meets the entity whose grand idea it was to partition dorm rooms with curtains, it will not be a pretty confrontation. Presently, she will settle for venting her anger and frustrations on whatever — or whomever — is nearest, so when she hears a faint knock interrupt the otherwise quiet and still mood of the dormitory, she whips the curtain aside and bounds down the hall in search of a target.

Wichita lucks out by being one of the select few Santana would spare if she ever snapped and went on a killing spree. Or if she just threw a tantrum; words cut deep, especially the likes that she tends to fling around.

"That's a storage closet," she says, shaking her head. "Some genius thought rooms with doors would be unnecessary, so now we all have curtains. I think it's part of the conspiracy to drive us all crazy, like, stripping away our privacy is just the first step, you now?

Wait, what are you doing up here?"

Wichita isn't one to show visible embarrassment after making a flub. It's not her fault whoever designed this floor decided not to divide the rooms with actual walls, but rather than sweat her error, she simply shrugs, hoisting up the large bottle in one hand by way of an invitation, smiling encouragingly as she meets Santana's gaze.

"Looking for you," she replies, as if that was the most obvious reason for why she would be even here in the first place. The truth of the matter is she doesn't know very many people on the island - more accurately, she hasn't allowed herself to get close enough to feel like she can trust anyone, and so if anyone's to blame for her lack of friends, she has to point the finger at herself and her own issues. Regardless, Santana seems like a person she can get along with, even if she only has their brief encounters to go on.

Santana similarly has few friends around here, which is an expected consequence of her resolve to hate everyone. That resolve falters, however, around certain people. Wichita bearing booze quickly finds herself lumped into that small category. With a satisfied nod, Santana says, "Okay, I'm down. Rec room? I'd offer my room but my roommate's, like, one of those uptight British chicks from boarding school movies."

"Sure," Wichita replies, with an amiable shrug. "Or we could head out to the beach. Probably less chance of our scarring the impressionable children with everything I've brought." She wrinkles up her nose slightly, in a small face of incredulousness and light amusement, at the mention of Santana's roommate. "Seriously? That's got to be a downer, man. I'd say you could come room with me, but I'm shacking up with my boyfriend and I wouldn't want to subject anyone to that. Not even my own sister."

"Okay, now you've got me curious. Let's do this." Her attention caught and held, Santana eagerly follows after Wichita whilst entertaining the many possibilities in store, given the other girl's comment. Whatever is in store, there's booze involved and it's guaranteed to be rated above PG-13, which it good enough for a girl who hasn't properly misbehaved in months. "It's fine, and anyway, I couldn't live without air conditioning and electricity. I would literally go comatose or something."

"Some of the huts have both," Wichita points out, though those are probably few and far in between. And besides, she's not keen on moving away from the Compound until Columbus is ready. They've kind of reached this unspoken agreement that they'll keep living together, and she doesn't feel like giving up the comfort of having him nearby any time soon. Not that she'll admit to that out loud, at least not sober. She leads the way out of the Compound now, taking the shortest route that will get them closest to the beach the fastest. "But the setup here is pretty sweet. Don't blame you for wanting to stick around."

Moving out of the Compound, in a way, would be like admitting defeat. Her ego already took enough of a hit when she finally resigned herself to leaving the crash room, but she's too stubborn to lie down yet. "How's things with that guy, by the way?" asks Santana, if only to fill the silence as they walk, not actually interested but fond enough of Wichita to pretend. Actually, a part of her may be the slightest bit jealous, but it's a part buried deep and away, where even her conscious mind can't reach it.

"About as good as they can be without getting boring," Wichita admits, idly letting her arm swing by her side, her grip on the bottle never loosening. Things with Columbus are comfortable, at this point, but she's not exactly restless either. If anything, she's feeling somewhat out of her element, especially where the whole comfort factor is concerned. Before he'd come along, she'd never really pictured herself committing to anyone, much less him. "I thought about getting my own room for a while, but - it's better, this way," she adds quickly, averting her gaze as a breeze blows some dark pieces of hair against her cheek.

Just as Wichita turns away from the breeze, Santana tilts her head toward it, strands of her own hair whipping freely behind her for a few, cool seconds. She blinks, then, against the sudden dryness of her eyes, and when she faces forward again, she sees that the beach is finally upon them. Good, she thinks, a bit too bitter to continue the boyfriend conversation that she foolishly started. Her life these days may well have been penned by some sadistic bastard who thought it funny to shove herself and Brittany so far apart that they're not even in the same universe anymore.

"Okay, we're here. Finally, the suspense was getting to me."

"So sorry to keep you waiting," she replies, in a gentle tease, her lips curving upward at the corners in an obvious smirk before she makes her way toward the beach, continuing to walk until the path turns to sand under her feet and the sound of the water is louder here than before. She plops down somewhat unceremoniously in the sand, hardly caring about being graceful, and pries the baggie out of her back pocket, making sure nothing's been crushed.

"I don't think we'll need a corkscrew," Wichita declares, prying the cork in question out of the bottle with an audible pop. "You're not sick, are you?" She chuckles before taking a swig.

"Like most lesser beings with any sense of self-preservation, germs tend to run in the opposite direction from me," professes Santana. It's only a half truth, anyway; it may not apply to her specifically, but it certainly does for one Sue Sylvester. Besides, a girl can have goals.

Santana lowers herself down to a sandy seat next to Wichita, taking note of the baggie produced by the other girl and lifting a brow. The corners of her mouth follow suit, tilting up in a smirk to match.

"Man, I wish I had your immune system," Wichita declares, almost reaching something of a louder shout in her envy. She grins, loose and relaxed and comfortable - all new things for her these days - and offers Santana the first sip. It seems polite, or whatever.

She'll be distracting herself momentarily with the joints the bag has to offer, seeing as how she rolled them herself earlier. "Now, this is quality shit," she adds, by way of a disclaimer. "I'm not lying when I say this is Hollywood, grade-A stuff."

It's been too long since Santana drank just for the sake of it, or with friends, or in any situation that wouldn't be construed as entirely pathetic. For a little while, there, she almost didn't feel like herself anymore, or like a teenager at all. Not to be dramatic, but before, she had the kind of party life that MTV tries to mimic in short-lived TV shows that no one watches because turning to MTV for quality scripted television is like watching a Michael Bay film for the emotional depth of the characters. Now, she's more like the secretly gorgeous loser from all those teen flicks, prior to the life-changing makeover. Quite frankly, it blows, which is why she accepts the bottle without hesitation and drinks liberally. She furrows her brow when she hands it back to Wichita and asks, "What, did you, like, steal it from a movie star or something? Oh my god, did you steal it off the set of Twilight? They have to have the best shit to get through making those movies."

"What?" Wichita's got her thumb poised over the lighter, glancing at Santana with something of an incredulous look. She doesn't even hold back on the urge to snort in amusement, shaking her head hard enough to stir her bangs over her forehead as she finally gets the joint lit, brings it to her lips, inhales deep and holds just for those precious few seconds. "No, man, this stash is pure Murray. That's Bill Murray to you," she confesses, exhaling smoke with every syllable uttered, her voice only moderately hitching before she too reaches for that bottle and swigs wholeheartedly. She's going to have to find a reason to get another bottle from that Trixa chick, she thinks to herself, as the flavors hit her throat. No doubt she's going to get a pretty great buzz going.

"Then it must be ace," says Santana, looking every bit as impressed as she should. Truthfully, she forgets which one Bill Murray is; the only distinguishing factor coming to mind is that he's one of those old guys. She's not ashamed, or even hoping to impress Wichita, because Santana Lopez needs to impress no one. She calls the shots, she makes the judgments. But in order to do so, it's imperative to bathe oneself in the best possible light, which in this case is someone who actually has a clue who and what a Bill Murray is.

"Trust me, this is the good shit," Wichita echoes, pinching the joint between her fingers and passing it over to the other girl after sneaking in one quick hit, punctuating it with a long sip from the bottle until she's dizzy with that giddy feeling and only coughing slightly. She looks over at Santana, her smile a little more relaxed as smoke and drink start to hit her slowly, reaching up to shrug off her leather jacket and laying it out on the ground behind them. There's something about the cool evening air against her bare arms that feels pretty fantastic right about now. "So, where did you live, back home?"

It's a slow, long drag and a few minutes yet before Santana can begin to consider the question, and even then, she does so with a massive roll of her eyes. Lucky that she smoked all those cigars, so that the itch at the back of her throat doesn't escalate into a full blown coughing fit and her façade of coolness remains intact that much longer. "Lima," she says on an exhale, billowing smoke chasing the word from her lips. "In Ohio. I'd be sorry for you if you'd ever heard of it, that place is a regular Stepford nightmare." She takes another hit, sucking deep and for too long, and her eyes begin to water as she hands the joint back to Wichita. Hallelujah for the dim evening light, she thinks. Having released her breath, she asks, "What about you?"

She's got a few more sips from the bottle coursing through her system before Santana passes her the joint again, but she doesn't take a hit from it right away, keeping it pinched between her fingertips as she leans back, just far enough that her weight is still propped on one elbow, her position relaxed as she settles back more comfortably. It speaks volumes to the power of the weed, anyway, that she's able to relax this much, at least for this long, without keeping some kind of warning bell ready in the back of her mind, just in case of danger. Maybe it also says something about the company she's keeping, too, but she doesn't want to overthink any of that right now. "Never heard of it, so no need to be sorry. Kansas, for me. Hence the name. After that, it was sort of all over. I was in California before I wound up here."

The giggles always hit her first. They invade on their own, uncalled for but not unwanted, and suddenly every last thing and smallest detail is a source of hilarity. She hears herself laughing as if from a distance, each second stretching longer and longer, and she has to concur: it's good shit. "They named you after the place you were born?" says Santana, who in her freedom from the horrors of Lima must have forgotten that people could actually be that absurd. "How creative."

"Nice try, except it's not the name on the birth certificate," she explains, shaking her head at Santana despite the giddy grin that's made its way onto her own lips. "I don't know." Shrugging, the smile leaves her face in a sobering moment, as she starts to get way too reflective for the way the weed and the booze makes her feel. "After everything went to hell, things like names didn't really seem to matter anymore. So I ditched the old one, and - well, there you go."

While leaning forward to grab the bottle by the neck, Santana freezes, and she spends a moment or so — it might be shorter, might be much, much longer — eying the expression the other girl is now wearing. Her bitchier side notes that of all the fake names to adopt, Wichita would not have been her very first choice, but the thought washes away quickly enough as the effects of the grass spread. "What went to hell?" she asks, without considering for a moment that it might be too painful to discuss.

"Oh, God, I didn't tell you, did I?" Wichita realizes, her fingers slipping from the bottle in question as Santana reaches to pry it from her grasp. She's distracted by the joint anyway, lips pursing around it as her cheeks hollow slightly and she holds the smoke in, breathing deep and then exhaling slow, finally breaking her cool with a chuckle that sounds all too happy, given the subject matter. "The world totally ended where I'm from," she clarifies, if only to feel the need to shed some light on her earlier verbiage. "Zombies, widespread pandemonium, global shutdown, et cetera, and so on and so forth."

"I'm not that high yet," is Santana's response. She treats Wichita to a pointed start and an arched brow, even as she pulls the bottle to her lips and knocks back a few swigs. Very briefly, she entertains the possibility that it's an entirely true story — maybe she is that high after all — but even after everything that has happened on Tabula Rasa during her time here, she remains skeptical. It's much easier for someone who hasn't been directly involved, except for that one time she was freak-of-nature levels of smart for a whole weekend.

"M'telling you, it's the truth," Wichita insists, reaching out to tug the bottle back from Santana and punctuating her declaration with a swig of her own. She gets the part where she and Columbus are probably one of few people who have come from a world like theirs, and if there are others, she hasn't had the fortune of meeting them yet. Zell is the closest she's come recently, at least. And Santana could be like any other girl she was friends with in high school, in the middle of a small Midwest town, before everything literally went to shit.

Santana stays silent, not because she has been rendered speehless but because she is waiting for the punchline. After what feels like a long stretch but may, to someone who isn't working up to a nice high, seem like only a minute or so, she sits up. In the faded light, it's hard to tell, but Wichita doesn't seem to be pulling her leg. Why would she? It's not even all that funny a joke. The expression she wears now isn't entirely suspicious, but not trusting either; what it is, is almost sympathetic. "So you're, you're one of those people who die and came here?"

"Dead? Oh, shit, no, nothing like that," Wichita assures her, immediately doing so to clear things up, although the truth isn't exactly better than what Santana's misunderstood. "Back home, there was this - I guess you could call it a virus. Kinda similar to mad cow, but it spread suddenly, and fast, and long story short, well - " Sighing, she takes one more swig from the bottle, swiping the back of her hand across her mouth when it gets a little messy. "Where I'm from, it was a special order of the end of the world, with a side of zombies."

For a moment, it appears as if Santana is going to speak, but it passes quickly and leaves her looking more confused than anything else. She presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth as her jaw drops open further, wracking her brain for something to say. "Rough," is the most that she comes up with, because what the hell else is there to be said? 'Wow, that sucks for you. Sorry your world ended.' Actually, she has to wonder if it even all that bad, the zombie plague. She can't count on both hands the number of people she'd not mind having reason to bludgeon with a — well, with whatever works best for killing zombies.

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