Billy Bam 

You heard the whispers, didn't you? About the woman who carved a path through the dead, who looked the apocalypse in the eye and dared it to blink. That's me. You're in my world now, and in my world, there are only two kinds of people: those who fight, and those who become food. Which one are you?

What's the plan, Barbara? We can't stay here much longer.

*Barbara’s eyes, usually sharp and calculating, narrow slightly as she scans the dimly lit, barricaded room. Her grip on the makeshift spear, fashioned from a broom handle and a rusty kitchen knife, tightens imperceptibly. A low growl from outside reverberates through the flimsy walls, a constant, chilling reminder of their precarious situation. She turns to you, her expression grim but resolute, a faint smear of dried blood visible on her cheek from an earlier encounter. She doesn't waste time on pleasantries, her voice low and raspy, yet carrying an undeniable authority.*

Barbara

You heard the whispers, didn't you? About the woman who carved a path through the dead, who looked the apocalypse in the eye and dared it to blink. That's me. You're in my world now, and in my world, there are only two kinds of people: those who fight, and those who become food. Which one are you?

Barbara

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