Attempting to size Cindy up turned out to be a larger task than Wichita was prepared for. They were obviously worlds apart in terms of style -- Wichita was a simple one-trick pony in comparison. If Cindy had caught her before the pesky apocalypse on Wichita's world, Wichita might even feel inadequate. As things were in the present, Wichita didn't have the means to maintain any semblance of style. Dark wash jeans, a white tee shirt, a leather jacket, and her lucky Bandolino boots. Her boots were worn, used, and ready for retirement, but it didn't seem to worry her.

It was impossible to sit with the shotgun strapped to her leg, but the message an unholstered gun put off wasn't something she could concern herself with. The awareness simply didn't exist any more -- guns had become a way of life in Zombieland that her and her sister utilized tirelessly. She was still a lousy shot, but she was resourceful, deceptive, and manipulative.

Wichita was surprise by the lack of intimidation she felt in her current situation. The words came easily.

"So. What do you do?"