Dumbledore: "Now, it's great that you've been saving the school and all Harry, but unfortunately your grades have been a tad low, and, well... perhaps Gandalf could explain it better... hit it, Gandalf!
Syl watched as Jerry lunged forward. He moved forward as well, fully intending to grab his shoulder, but he was too slow, and the sword made an impact. He focused a glare on Jerry, but he heard Brian use a voice that sounded distinctly non-groaning and snapped to look at him. Brian had taken off his headgear, revealing that his eyes sockets held white, glowing orbs instead of the usual eyeballs. Syl stood, and narrowed his eyes.
"A god? Don't be ridiculous. My guess is you have some sort of tissue-repairing equipment, maybe a healing potion or two," said Jerry trying to keep his voice level, hoping that he was right. He didn't want them to know he was maybe a tad scared. Deities weren't real in his world, but that didn't mean they weren't real in other worlds.
"Also, if you're talking, does that mean all zombies can talk?" he asked after a moment's thought.
Dumbledore: "Now, it's great that you've been saving the school and all Harry, but unfortunately your grades have been a tad low, and, well... perhaps Gandalf could explain it better... hit it, Gandalf!
"It means he's a fast healer and a fucking god, jackass," the ineloquent and bad-with-words, Ms. Kate said with a certain gravelly tone, like a rabid tiger about to pounce on her prey.
Connery pursed his lips, "You cannot be a god," he announced gloriously, "Gods can't be infected," he gave Kate a very subtle look, "Therefore you're mortal, like anyone else. You just have a convenient and unusual immunity to the disease which you have so foolishly contracted."
"Your dead body is right over there, Connery," Kate said, clearly in such reverent awe of his analysis and his points that she sought to tear him down for the spite of it all.
Brian narrowed his eyes - Steve wasn't sure if he was getting more upset with Jerry or Connery's assumption. Either way, he knew it wouldn't end well if the two of them kept protesting.
"I'm a god," he said, this time with a little more emphasis and force than before. "Don't you see the eyes? I'm the god of darkness - one of the world's creators."
"...I'm starting to think we might be dealing with people from another world," Steve interjected. He had been thinking that for awhile, but he hadn't really gotten a chance to voice that idea until now. "I don't think they know who you are, Herobrine."
Herobrine looked a little put-out at that. "...They don't know who my brother is, either?"
"Probably not," Alex replied.
Herobrine straightened. "That's good, then," he said. "I'd take being forgotten if everyone else forgot him, too."
He turned back to Connery. "And I can get infected. I can get stabbed, and burned, and punched and get hurt from it - I just need to heal afterwards. Like right now."
He gestured down at where he had been stabbed.
"See?" he said, giving it a little pat. "All gone."
"I think the reason he can talk is because he's a god," Steve hesitantly added. "Now that he was fully infected for a bit, his body's fully healing."
"...Or something like that," Alex said.
Steve nodded.
Herobrine's eyes suddenly started to grow brighter, and a smile began to dance across his lips. Steve resisted the urge to groan; he knew exactly what that look meant. "If my body started healing after I got hurt," he said, "I'll heal faster if you hurt me."
"I don't think-"
"You should set me on fire," Herobrine added - clearly already too into this. "If you set me on fire, you can kill all of my body in one go."
"We are not setting you on fire," Steve said.
He glanced over at Alex - who suspiciously hadn't spoken out against Herobrine's idea.
"What?" she said. "I think he's onto something. He heals faster after he's injured; we've seen him do it before."
Dumbledore: "Now, it's great that you've been saving the school and all Harry, but unfortunately your grades have been a tad low, and, well... perhaps Gandalf could explain it better... hit it, Gandalf!
These were autumn mornings, the time of year when kings of old went forth to conquest; and I, never stirring from my little corner in Calcutta, would let my mind wander over the whole world. — Rabindranath Tagore, The Cabuliwallah
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