A Secluded Corner of the Beach, Friday Morning

Romeo had, it was true, said several times yesterday that he wouldn't go looking for a fight.

And he wasn't. Honest. But it was a rainy day, and there was a particular and rather inaccessible corner of the beach that he liked especially well when he was trying to write. He couldn't imagine many zombies would be out yet; if they were, he was armed.

Sitting on a rock, he stared moodily into the ocean and thought about death that was not death.

[OOC: For two zombies in particular and then someone else. Thanks!]

Room 502, Friday Afternoon

The day was yet young, but Romeo felt much older than he had been at dawn as he returned to his room, not bothering to close the door behind him.

Reno. Dojima. Gone to him, almost as surely as Mercutio or Juliet were. He badly wanted to break his promise to Arthur and go out alone again to kill or to be killed. It was much the same to him.

Friar Laurence's voice rose through his mind. Thy noble shape is but a form of wax, digressing from the valour of a man ... A pack of blessings lights up upon thy back.

He felt no pack of blessings just then, but he did need to be a man. Or to try. Somehow. Letting himself be taken would be of no use to anyone; he had to center himself on that fact, as badly as everything in him shouted that the sleep of death or undeath would be but a relief.

After making a single phone call -- she needed to know, and he kept his words simple so he wouldn't choke on them and give himself away -- he settled back on his bed and permitted himself the unmanly luxury of tears.

He was still crying when his phone rang.

[OOC: Mostly establishy, but his door is open.]