It has been a tad quick, perhaps. But nobody else has ever, ever, not run screaming from him. They’ve certainly never taken the trouble to sit Zack down and tell him things. Or explain them, or make him feel he's not worthless; or possibly most importantly for now, fed him. The slice of whatever it is under his nose is crippling in the best way imaginable, so he picks it up.

“I'd help your Sam. I wouldn't have before, but I would now. And I don't make dirt,” he says, matter-of-factly. he could be referring to the dust he's made of, the kind of dirt a non-housebroken dog might make, or mess in general. He actually means all of these.

Finally Zack bites into the pizza. It's like food of the gods. The molten cheese, the pepperoni, the tomato sauce, none of which he has names for, all make the most perfect combination imaginable.

Zack makes an uninhibited animal sound of raw pleasure; the kind that should only really ever be heard in the bedroom. It turns heads and raises even more eyebrows. Something primal in the apocalyptic spirit seems to rise inside him, his eyes turning completely white for a few moments.

“This,” he manages, growling between mouthfuls. “Gaia's tits, this is good.”