She snorts. No, no allergies, she had her disease and it consumed all else. She was undead and it trumped any other aspects of herself. The sick irony of finding her 'heart' in her death, clinging precariously to humanity, was not lost on her. It sucked.

Zinc accepts the brochure and delicately takes a seat in order to read through it. She trusts this much more than she would have trusted a scroll dropped in front of her by a snooty cat. She is pleased to read that there is an arcade, video games were one of the few ways she kept herself entertained, interspersed with large puzzles and crosswords.

"The food," of course that is the first thing she asks after. "It is ours, to take?"