Setting
The Road Ahead
The Road Ahead is a post-apocalyptic survival roleplay heavily inspired by the tone and atmosphere of the popular game 'Days Gone', set six years after a global mutagenic pandemic that transformed millions of creatures - humans and animals alike - into animalistic, cannibalistic mutants known popularly in this universe as 'Freakers'.
The established power structures of human society have long since collapsed. Governments no longer exist, military organizations have fractured and the foundations of civilization have crumbled. What remains are just ruined cities, roads long abandoned, overgrown wilderness and the specs of humanity that survive in tiny pockets of the broken world in the form of survivor camps and militia enclaves have accepted the bitter truth that humans are no longer the apex predators on this planet.
Unlike the infected portrayed in most films and books, the mutants of this world are not slow-moving, decaying corpses that can simply be outrun. They are feral, aggressive predators that hunt primarily through sound, migrate in massive Hordes, and continue evolving in order to dominate this brutal new world where survival is dictated by the simples of rule - eat or be eaten.
Most survivors rely on foot or motorcycles to navigate the roads. Scavenging runs, bartering for supplies, and remaining hunkered down inside fortified camps after dusk have become the new normal - humanity's grim replacement for the good old "9-to-5".
And yet, the Freakers are not the only threat in this brutal, unforgiving world. Raider gangs prey on travelers and isolated camps, cultists worship the very core of the infection as humanity's next evolution, and ultra-authoritarian militias enforce their own inhumane laws in the absence of governments. In this world stripped of any semblance of order, desperation and the primal instinct to survive has turned many a man into monsters every bit as dangerous as the infected.
Play whatever you fancy - a hardened drifter, a merciless raider, a militia soldier on a mission or maybe a jaded scientist desperately searching for a cure. All I ask are the characters to be grounded with believable strengths and weaknesses with their own flaws, motivations and histories that has been shaped by this ruinous calamity. While action and combat are naturally present and always encouraged, you're also encouraged to create enthralling atmospheres, craft compelling bonds of relationships, and over everything - portray the sheer psychological toll of surviving in a world that grows more hostile with every passing day with no absolution in sight.
Freaker Types
Swarmers
The most common Freakers, Swarmers are fast, violent infected that hunt through sound and movement. They attack in packs, climb obstacles with ease, and become significantly more aggressive at night, making even small groups deadly in close quarters.
Hordes
Hordes are massive migrating swarms of Freakers numbering from hundreds to thousands. They move like a close knit almost 'living' ecosystem between feeding and nesting grounds, overwhelming anything in their path through sheer speed, numbers, and their unending hunger for flesh.
Bleachers
Bleachers are pale skinned Freakers adapted to underground dwellings, commonly found in caves, tunnels, and subway systems. Quieter and more coordinated than normal Swarmers, they rely on ambush tactics and thrive in darkness where their enhanced night vision gives them a major advantage.
Newts
Newts are infected children and adolescents that retain cautious, animalistic survival instincts. Smaller and faster than adult Freakers, they stalk rooftops and confined spaces, preferring to ambush isolated or weakened prey rather than charge directly.
Screamers
Screamers are rare mutations, typically feminine in origins, capable of producing piercing shrieks that disorient humans and attract nearby Freakers. While physically weaker than most infected, they can rapidly escalate their encounters into a catastrophic stampede of Swarmers if not killed immediately.
Breakers
Breakers are massive hyper-muscular Freakers evolved for brute force and endurance. Extremely aggressive and highly resistant to gunfire, they can smash through barricades, tear apart vehicles, and overpower armed survivors in direct combat.
Reachers
Reachers are rare apex predators among the infected, appearing unnervingly close to human at first glance. Intelligent, stealthy, and incredibly fast, they stalk prey patiently, avoid obvious traps, and attack with calculated precision rather than blind aggression.
Burrowers
Burrowers are subterranean Freakers adapted to collapsed tunnels, ruins, and underground nests. Sensitive to vibrations and nearly impossible to detect before they strike, they ambush prey from beneath floors, walls, or debris-filled crawlspaces. Burrowers are an advanced evolution of Bleachers.
Dreadwalkers
Dreadwalkers are advanced late-stage Freakers believed to retain fragments of human cognition. Unlike normal infected, they display strategic behavior, avoid traps, observe settlements from a distance, and sometimes manipulate smaller Freaker groups toward prey, fueling rumors that the infection is still evolving toward intelligence. Dreadwalkers are basically a more evolved version of Reachers.
Infected Animals:
Runners
Runners are infected wolves and dogs transformed into relentless pack hunters. Fast enough to pursue vehicles over short distances, they rely on scent tracking, speed, and coordinated attacks to ambush travelers crossing wilderness territory.
Ragers
Ragers are mutated infected bears twisted into enormous territorial monsters. Possessing immense strength and durability, they can destroy gates, vehicles, and small fortifications with ease, making them among the most feared creatures in the wild.
Carrion Crows
Carrion Crows are infected scavenger birds that gather in aggressive flocks around corpses, nests, and abandoned settlements. Easily startled into violent swarms, they can strip flesh within minutes and often alert nearby Freakers through their frenzied cawing.
Rotstags
Rotstags are infected deer mutated into erratic and highly aggressive creatures driven by panic and territorial instinct. Though not natural predators, their sharpened antlers, unnatural speed, and tendency to stampede make encounters with them unexpectedly lethal.
Mawhounds
Mawhounds are heavily mutated Runners believed to have evolved from prolonged exposure to Horde territory. More intelligent and durable than the standard mutated canines, they often hunt alone or lead smaller infected packs through wilderness regions.
Mirebacks
Mirebacks are grotesque amphibious mutations found in flooded swamps, rivers, and marshlands. Slow on land but extremely dangerous in water, they lurk beneath murky surfaces before violently dragging prey underwater.
Shriekbats
Shriekbats are nocturnal infected bats that roost in ruined buildings, caves, and tunnels. Though individually weak, large swarms can overwhelm survivors, spreading panic and infection through bites while their shrill cries can attract nearby Freakers.
Human Threats
Marauders
Violent scavenger gangs that prey on travelers, supply convoys, and isolated camps. They rely on ambushes, intimidation, and overwhelming numbers to steal fuel, weapons, and supplies from weaker survivors.
Rippers
A fanatical cult that worships the Freakers as humanity's next evolutionary step. Covered in ritual scars and often intentionally infected, the Rippers attack settlements in chaotic raids and believe resisting the infection is a sin against nature.
Drifters
Lone survivors or small roaming groups who spend their lives on the road between camps. Some are honest traders and mercenaries, while others become thieves, bounty hunters, or killers willing to betray anyone for their own survival.
Militia Enclaves
Heavily armed survivor factions formed from remnants of military organizations and private security groups. Most operate under strict authoritarian rule, enforcing brutal laws and harsh punishments in the name of maintaining order.
Slavers
Organized groups that capture survivors to use as labor, soldiers, or bargaining commodities between camps. Slavers often target refugees, isolated settlements, and wounded travelers unable to defend themselves.
Smugglers
Black-market traders who transport weapons, medicine, fuel, and contraband across dangerous territory between survivor camps. Many maintain uneasy relationships with raiders, militias, and camp leaders alike.
Camp Tyrants
Certain survivor camps have fallen under the control of ruthless leaders devoid of all senses of mortality who maintain power through fear, propaganda, and violence. Though some camps appear stable from the outside, many hide executions, disappearances, and internal purges.
Hunters
Professional trackers and bounty killers hired to eliminate dangerous targets ranging from rogue survivors to Freakers and deserters. Many are former soldiers or hardened drifters who know the wilderness better than anyone else alive.
Scavenger Crews
Groups specializing in looting abandoned cities, quarantine zones, and military checkpoints for valuable supplies. Competition between scavengers frequently turns violent when resources are scarce.
The Hollowed
Survivors psychologically broken by years of death, isolation, and fear. Some become cannibals, others obsessively study the Freakers, and a few willingly lure Hordes toward settlements simply to watch the destruction unfold.
His dreams didn't haunt him anymore. He didn't know the exact reason why, but could hazard a guess - when you're living a nightmare with eyes wide open, horrors conjured in the darkness of the subconscious somehow becomes trivial. Of course that didn't mean he slept well, but then again who would anymore? As if on cue, he heard a gentle snort to his right. The slumbering mutt waved its hindlegs and swatted at an imaginary fly before resuming his journey into the dream-world for dogs. Connor suppressed a chuckle and gently caressed its smooth fur.
He'd picked the pupper up on a cold morning a while ago when he was out foraging in an abandoned house on the outskirts of a town he no longer bothered to remember the name of. The mutt - a curious mix of beagle and what was most likely German Shepherd - had been cornered in what remained of the living room, yapping furiously at a thing that had once been human. The infected - a huge 'Freaker' according to whoever had creatively coined the term - was a mutated pile of flesh riddled with bullet holes, its limbs ruined beyond use. Someone had tried to kill it before Connor had arrived and while they did get damn close, they hadn't managed to finish the job. The mutilated torso had been dragging itself forward by raw persistence alone, inching closer to the terrified dog tied up and left behind, refusing to stop. He'd taken care of the problem by lighting it on fire with the help of some gasoline he'd managed to scavenge the day before. The gas hadn't been enough - he'd had to help the fire along by using all kinds of accelerants he'd managed to find in that house - cleaning agents, solvents, anything flammable tucked away in forgotten cabinets and storage rooms. He'd kept the fire going until the charred remains of flesh had completely stopped moving and only then had he managed to calm the pup down enough to get it settled.
Connor had never been much of a pet person. Oh he'd never bear them any ill will, but he'd had always preferred them at a distance, appreciating the adorableness as an observer and writing them off as too much responsibility and inevitable heartbreak when they died. But right then, in a world that had gone to shit and no longer made any sense, he found himself faced with a choice - accept or reject the small, four-legged mongrel trailing him with drooped ears and eyes full of hope. When it was time to move on, Connor discovered he was incapable of doing anything but open his arms and watch the furred bundle of drool and yips dash into his chest, crooning, tail wagging like a metronome on roids. The moment he felt its tongue slobber over his neck, panting with unrestrained happiness, Connor realized he had found his first true friend in the dreary remains of a screwed-up world. He named the dog Murdoch, and they had been together ever since.
Connor lifted himself off the makeshift bed he'd built for himself by putting together pieces of cushions scavenged from various places and immediately swore mentally at his eyes fell on the empty water bottle. He'd succumbed to laziness after securing a sealed five gallon water container from a corner-store a couple of days ago and hadn't stopped himself and Murdoch from gorging on the unexpected slice of heaven for a whole day afterwards. As a result, he was now left with the unforgiving task of gathering more water and food for the both of them. There was a large dark-brown duffel bag lying near his feet which he dug into and after a few seconds of rummaging around, his fingers wrapped around the handle of his faithful Swiss army knife - a gift from an ex-girlfriend, a fan of hiking, whose name was just a blur in his mind now. He stashed the knife deep inside the pockets of his black jeans and then proceeded to don one of his last few semi-clean shirts. His footsteps were light across the polished floor of the long abandoned office he'd taken temporary residence in, as he made his way to a large dark wood-stained desk which had a radio transmitter he'd rigged a week ago from parts he'd acquired from a run-down electronics store. He scanned several analogue channels but none of them were transmitting anything but static. He fiddled with it for a few minutes before giving up. He was well-stocked with batteries for the thing so he'd figured he'd keep at trying to get a signal until said batteries, or his patience ran out.
He'd picked the pupper up on a cold morning a while ago when he was out foraging in an abandoned house on the outskirts of a town he no longer bothered to remember the name of. The mutt - a curious mix of beagle and what was most likely German Shepherd - had been cornered in what remained of the living room, yapping furiously at a thing that had once been human. The infected - a huge 'Freaker' according to whoever had creatively coined the term - was a mutated pile of flesh riddled with bullet holes, its limbs ruined beyond use. Someone had tried to kill it before Connor had arrived and while they did get damn close, they hadn't managed to finish the job. The mutilated torso had been dragging itself forward by raw persistence alone, inching closer to the terrified dog tied up and left behind, refusing to stop. He'd taken care of the problem by lighting it on fire with the help of some gasoline he'd managed to scavenge the day before. The gas hadn't been enough - he'd had to help the fire along by using all kinds of accelerants he'd managed to find in that house - cleaning agents, solvents, anything flammable tucked away in forgotten cabinets and storage rooms. He'd kept the fire going until the charred remains of flesh had completely stopped moving and only then had he managed to calm the pup down enough to get it settled.
Connor had never been much of a pet person. Oh he'd never bear them any ill will, but he'd had always preferred them at a distance, appreciating the adorableness as an observer and writing them off as too much responsibility and inevitable heartbreak when they died. But right then, in a world that had gone to shit and no longer made any sense, he found himself faced with a choice - accept or reject the small, four-legged mongrel trailing him with drooped ears and eyes full of hope. When it was time to move on, Connor discovered he was incapable of doing anything but open his arms and watch the furred bundle of drool and yips dash into his chest, crooning, tail wagging like a metronome on roids. The moment he felt its tongue slobber over his neck, panting with unrestrained happiness, Connor realized he had found his first true friend in the dreary remains of a screwed-up world. He named the dog Murdoch, and they had been together ever since.
Connor lifted himself off the makeshift bed he'd built for himself by putting together pieces of cushions scavenged from various places and immediately swore mentally at his eyes fell on the empty water bottle. He'd succumbed to laziness after securing a sealed five gallon water container from a corner-store a couple of days ago and hadn't stopped himself and Murdoch from gorging on the unexpected slice of heaven for a whole day afterwards. As a result, he was now left with the unforgiving task of gathering more water and food for the both of them. There was a large dark-brown duffel bag lying near his feet which he dug into and after a few seconds of rummaging around, his fingers wrapped around the handle of his faithful Swiss army knife - a gift from an ex-girlfriend, a fan of hiking, whose name was just a blur in his mind now. He stashed the knife deep inside the pockets of his black jeans and then proceeded to don one of his last few semi-clean shirts. His footsteps were light across the polished floor of the long abandoned office he'd taken temporary residence in, as he made his way to a large dark wood-stained desk which had a radio transmitter he'd rigged a week ago from parts he'd acquired from a run-down electronics store. He scanned several analogue channels but none of them were transmitting anything but static. He fiddled with it for a few minutes before giving up. He was well-stocked with batteries for the thing so he'd figured he'd keep at trying to get a signal until said batteries, or his patience ran out.
*The man spot me, walking down the street, shotgun in hand.*
DOOM Slayer wrote:
*The man spot me, walking down the street, shotgun in hand.*
((Hello 4RTHURF0RD! Thank you for joining! Would you mind adding some brief descriptions of what your character looks like so me and anyone else jumping in the scene would be able to respond in an appropriate manner without making it difficult on your character?))
It had been tough but manageable time for the pair of cousins since the outbreak had begun. The pair had been living out in a cabin deep in the Utah mountains that Desmond’s late father had left him upon turning 18. Ironically the timing was perfect, since by the time he got the cabin and deer stand how he wanted it, everything went to hell. Contrary to what other survivors may think though, this wasn’t an easy life despite having most of what he needed to be self sufficient.
Much of the animals around were also infected out there, making him worried about eating the wrong meat and becoming infected himself. So Dez taught himself and his young cousin how to be extra cautious when it came to hunting game, and largely moved to bow hunting. Not only were bows much quieter, arrows could be made from things from the wild.
Today was one of those days where the pair biked down from the mountains and into town to look for supplies to keep their operation running smoothly. What they were looking for was any remaining nonperishables that hadn’t had their containers compromised. Then there was seeds and parts to keep their makeshift greenhouse up and running.
There was a sound that brought Dez pause as they passed an office building, what he thought was a little static. Stopping their ride to listen in closer, he indeed heard the faint sound of static right before it cut off. Dez shrugged and raised his .357, and leads the way inside to see just who they were dealing with. Their steps were light, with the lack of too much mess on the floor helped.
Dez whispered quietly, hoping to only catch the attention of the person. “Hey who’s home?”
Much of the animals around were also infected out there, making him worried about eating the wrong meat and becoming infected himself. So Dez taught himself and his young cousin how to be extra cautious when it came to hunting game, and largely moved to bow hunting. Not only were bows much quieter, arrows could be made from things from the wild.
Today was one of those days where the pair biked down from the mountains and into town to look for supplies to keep their operation running smoothly. What they were looking for was any remaining nonperishables that hadn’t had their containers compromised. Then there was seeds and parts to keep their makeshift greenhouse up and running.
There was a sound that brought Dez pause as they passed an office building, what he thought was a little static. Stopping their ride to listen in closer, he indeed heard the faint sound of static right before it cut off. Dez shrugged and raised his .357, and leads the way inside to see just who they were dealing with. Their steps were light, with the lack of too much mess on the floor helped.
Dez whispered quietly, hoping to only catch the attention of the person. “Hey who’s home?”
((Here's a short description of the slayer: The Doom Slayer is a towering, muscular warrior clad in iconic forest-green Praetor armor, characterized by a silent and stoic demeanor that masks an ocean of unbridled, focused fury. He is an unstoppable force of nature who speaks through brutal action rather than words, driven by a singular, relentless obsession with annihilating demonkind to protect humanity. Despite his terrifying reputation as a legendary engine of destruction, he possesses a rigid moral code and a deep-seated protective instinct for the innocent, making him a symbol of ultimate defiance against the forces of Hell.*
Setting the radio aside, Connor stood, letting out a tired yawn, stretching to limber up his joints. Almost immediately, he heard a small woof followed by the soft patter of footsteps. Connor turned back and caressed the neck of Murdoch, gently sighing at the sight of the panting mouth and dangling tongue. "I know buddy. We'll find something, I promise." Murdoch crooned and rubbed his nose against his legs. Connor wondered how far he'd need to travel today to secure water and food. His gaze shifted to the foot of the bed, where a jet-black Colt AR-15 lay within easy reach. He had cleaned it the night before and made sure a full magazine was seated before turning in.
He’d found the rifle, along with an entire bag of ammunition, stashed in the building’s guard office during an early sweep of the place they now called home. Connor had never received any formal firearms training, save for a handful of afternoons at gun ranges back in Ohio with his overenthusiastic prepper friend and a few like-minded buddies whose collections would probably have earned more than a little scrutiny if ATF had ever taken an interest in them. What he knew came from them - basic handling and maintenance tips and enough respect for the weapon to know it wasn’t something you took lightly. Connor had stripped every dwelling within a five-mile radius clean over the past few weeks, private homes and commercial buildings alike, taking anything that could still be eaten, burned, filtered, or traded - eventually, if he cared to socialize, that is if there's anyone even left to, around him.
The place they were holed up in now sat on the immediate outskirts of the nearest town, roughly three miles due west, part of a gated multi-office complex that had been quiet enough to risk. It hadn’t been empty when he first arrived. He’d run into a couple of Freakers while clearing the building - the first had been easy, caught unawares and dealt with quickly, but the last had come within a heartbeat of killing him. Connor had survived only because a fireman’s axe had been within arm’s reach, he’d gotten to it first, and the a desperate, unskilled swing had landed exactly where it needed to. Luck, mostly. It had taken three showers afterward to scrub the stench of blood and gore from his skin, and even then it had felt like it lingered.
Connor exhaled slowly and pushed the memories aside. Slinging the duffel over his shoulder, he strapped the rifle, making sure it was within easy reach, and gave Murdoch a short look. “Alright, boy. Let’s move.” Murdoch's ears perked instantly, tail giving a cautious wag as he fell into step beside him. After moving out of the office, Connor was securing the door behind carefully, when he saw his faithful canine's ear freeze from the corner of his eyes. That was quickly followed by a low grumble in his chest. Connor was on alert almost immediately - this was not how Murdoch would behave if he sensed a Freaker. No these were…Connor heard the footsteps - somewhere downstairs. Then he heard the voice drift upward through the stairwell. Its owner had clearly tried to keep it quiet, but Connor's ears had grown far too accustomed to listening for danger in the silence of dead buildings to miss it. He felt Murdoch slide next to his legs, taut with tension but being as smart as a whip (probably smarter, since Connor didn’t think a whip was all that smart, so the phrase never made much sense to him), not a single errant growl or huff escaped his snout apart from his initial reaction. His chest tightened. The voice belonged to someone young. A kid?
Human voices were rare, and those that actively enquired about others - Almost always armed…and dangerous. Connor gently swung his AR to a low-ready position and called out in a steady voice. "That depends. Who's asking?" He knew his voice would carry through the empty office floor so he didn't feel the need to raise it. Descending the stairs only partway, Connor stopped near the landing and his eyes drifted over to the two strangers. His gaze first caught the raised handgun and then on the second figure nearby. He was right - kids. Connor's demeanour was more tired than threatening, despite having a much stronger firearm in his position with a dog to boot. Murdoch sniffed the air, cautious eyes tracking the newcomers who'd stumbled upon his human's abode. "So…what brings you by kids? And you can put that down, I'm not a threat unless you're planning on robbing me. Which I hope you're not since I've got jack for you."
He’d found the rifle, along with an entire bag of ammunition, stashed in the building’s guard office during an early sweep of the place they now called home. Connor had never received any formal firearms training, save for a handful of afternoons at gun ranges back in Ohio with his overenthusiastic prepper friend and a few like-minded buddies whose collections would probably have earned more than a little scrutiny if ATF had ever taken an interest in them. What he knew came from them - basic handling and maintenance tips and enough respect for the weapon to know it wasn’t something you took lightly. Connor had stripped every dwelling within a five-mile radius clean over the past few weeks, private homes and commercial buildings alike, taking anything that could still be eaten, burned, filtered, or traded - eventually, if he cared to socialize, that is if there's anyone even left to, around him.
The place they were holed up in now sat on the immediate outskirts of the nearest town, roughly three miles due west, part of a gated multi-office complex that had been quiet enough to risk. It hadn’t been empty when he first arrived. He’d run into a couple of Freakers while clearing the building - the first had been easy, caught unawares and dealt with quickly, but the last had come within a heartbeat of killing him. Connor had survived only because a fireman’s axe had been within arm’s reach, he’d gotten to it first, and the a desperate, unskilled swing had landed exactly where it needed to. Luck, mostly. It had taken three showers afterward to scrub the stench of blood and gore from his skin, and even then it had felt like it lingered.
Connor exhaled slowly and pushed the memories aside. Slinging the duffel over his shoulder, he strapped the rifle, making sure it was within easy reach, and gave Murdoch a short look. “Alright, boy. Let’s move.” Murdoch's ears perked instantly, tail giving a cautious wag as he fell into step beside him. After moving out of the office, Connor was securing the door behind carefully, when he saw his faithful canine's ear freeze from the corner of his eyes. That was quickly followed by a low grumble in his chest. Connor was on alert almost immediately - this was not how Murdoch would behave if he sensed a Freaker. No these were…Connor heard the footsteps - somewhere downstairs. Then he heard the voice drift upward through the stairwell. Its owner had clearly tried to keep it quiet, but Connor's ears had grown far too accustomed to listening for danger in the silence of dead buildings to miss it. He felt Murdoch slide next to his legs, taut with tension but being as smart as a whip (probably smarter, since Connor didn’t think a whip was all that smart, so the phrase never made much sense to him), not a single errant growl or huff escaped his snout apart from his initial reaction. His chest tightened. The voice belonged to someone young. A kid?
Human voices were rare, and those that actively enquired about others - Almost always armed…and dangerous. Connor gently swung his AR to a low-ready position and called out in a steady voice. "That depends. Who's asking?" He knew his voice would carry through the empty office floor so he didn't feel the need to raise it. Descending the stairs only partway, Connor stopped near the landing and his eyes drifted over to the two strangers. His gaze first caught the raised handgun and then on the second figure nearby. He was right - kids. Connor's demeanour was more tired than threatening, despite having a much stronger firearm in his position with a dog to boot. Murdoch sniffed the air, cautious eyes tracking the newcomers who'd stumbled upon his human's abode. "So…what brings you by kids? And you can put that down, I'm not a threat unless you're planning on robbing me. Which I hope you're not since I've got jack for you."
DOOM Slayer wrote:
((Here's a short description of the slayer: The Doom Slayer is a towering, muscular warrior clad in iconic forest-green Praetor armor, characterized by a silent and stoic demeanor that masks an ocean of unbridled, focused fury. He is an unstoppable force of nature who speaks through brutal action rather than words, driven by a singular, relentless obsession with annihilating demonkind to protect humanity. Despite his terrifying reputation as a legendary engine of destruction, he possesses a rigid moral code and a deep-seated protective instinct for the innocent, making him a symbol of ultimate defiance against the forces of Hell.*
((
So...here's the thing. The character itself is cool, but a literal Doomslayer wouldn't really fit the tone or power scale of this setting. The RP's meant to be a kind of a grounded survival-focused apocalypse, so a near-invincible super soldier who kills demons kind of breaks the atmosphere and doesn't really fit the setting.
If you want you could absolutely rework the concept into something inspired by Doomslayer - maybe like a heavily traumatized ex-military drifter or a brutal Horde hunter, and you can also get yourself some repurposed SWAT gear or riot platings or something.
And lastly, if you could also please add a bit more detail to your posts, it'd help us all
Doesn't need to be super long or anything, but a little more description/thought process/actions gives the other writers a bit more to respond to and makes interactions flow better.))
The pair of them tensed much more when the sound of a dog upstairs. Dez came to distrust dogs when it came to this apocalyptic hellscape, since most hadn’t been smart enough to shut the hell up. At least whoever this was had one that wasn’t a yapper. They waited for whoever this person was to reach the landing, and peak their heads around to make eye contact with the man.
Dez relaxed and laughed when called a kid though, lowering his gun down to the bottom stair. “I’m flattered you think I’m young enough to be a kid.”
Putting a thumb over his shoulder to his armed cousin behind him while keeping his eyes on the man on the stairs. “Dude behind me is a kid though.”
Scanning the halls real quick, he relaxed and stood up straight seeing that nothing seemed to be suspicious at the moment. Most of the Freakers had probably moved on to hunt somewhere else at that point anyway, so long as they kept their voices down.
“Just seeing if this area is worth our time. We can move on if you’ve picked through it already.”
Dez cocked his head back to the main entrance door around the corner and down the hall. The man was honestly happy to see someone who didn’t tell them to **** off immediately, and hoped this person would at least want to talk for a while. Though he’d understand if they’d have to leave without so much as a normal conversation.
“Or you could have some company so you don’t go crazy. So long as you ain’t the robbing type yourself.”
Mato peaked his head a bit farther out from behind Dez, and then checked behind them again. He finally spoke up, quiet and with a hint of beginning to deepen like the elder of the pair. “We’re Mato and Dez.”
Dez relaxed and laughed when called a kid though, lowering his gun down to the bottom stair. “I’m flattered you think I’m young enough to be a kid.”
Putting a thumb over his shoulder to his armed cousin behind him while keeping his eyes on the man on the stairs. “Dude behind me is a kid though.”
Scanning the halls real quick, he relaxed and stood up straight seeing that nothing seemed to be suspicious at the moment. Most of the Freakers had probably moved on to hunt somewhere else at that point anyway, so long as they kept their voices down.
“Just seeing if this area is worth our time. We can move on if you’ve picked through it already.”
Dez cocked his head back to the main entrance door around the corner and down the hall. The man was honestly happy to see someone who didn’t tell them to **** off immediately, and hoped this person would at least want to talk for a while. Though he’d understand if they’d have to leave without so much as a normal conversation.
“Or you could have some company so you don’t go crazy. So long as you ain’t the robbing type yourself.”
Mato peaked his head a bit farther out from behind Dez, and then checked behind them again. He finally spoke up, quiet and with a hint of beginning to deepen like the elder of the pair. “We’re Mato and Dez.”
Connor studied the pair quietly for a few moments, taking in their weapons, posture, tone, and distance before mentally sorting them through his internal threat assessment that had been brutally sharpened over the years. For now, he decided to lower them into the category of 'Probably safe…for now'. Murdoch seemed to arrive at the same conclusion because his four-legged partner didn’t hesitate to loosen his posture and trot down the remaining steps ahead of him, circling the duo with a cautious but curious gaze before giving each of them a thorough sniff. Connor had no intention of stopping him - Murdoch tended to read people way better than he did anyway. After his dog had completed his scrutiny and given them both the pass - a fact made obvious in the way he casually stretched in front of them and let out a yawn - Connor descended the rest of the stairwell at an unhurried pace, adjusting the strap of the AR resting against his shoulder.
"You won't really find much left around here…" he admitted, gesturing vaguely toward the building around them. "I've been holed up here a while now. Most useful stuff was already picked clean before I even showed up. Same goes for this whole block really. But you're free to check if you don't believe me." His tone was matter-of-fact, without a hint of any territorial or possessive edge. "And no." he added after a moment, "I'm not really in the habit of robbing people. Regular people, anyway. You two seem alright enough so far."
Connor approached the duo with easy, unhurried steps before stopping at a respectable distance - both for his sake and theirs. A faint smile tugged briefly at the corner of his mouth as he nodded at the younger of the two who'd done the introduction on behalf of them. "Connor." He gave a small wave. As if remembering something mid-thought, he reached inside his pant pocket and fished out a slightly melted Mars bar he'd been saving for later. After a brief glance at it, he tossed it casually toward Dez. His gaze lingered on the older one of the two for another second. "And no offense about the kid comment.." he added dryly. "I've probably got at least a decade on you, and the last few years have probably aged me another twenty on top of that. I think I've earned the right."
Whether he would've continued his train of thought was interrupted by a soft whine from Murdoch followed by an impatient little woof. Connor glanced at him and snorting, knelt and gently rubbed him behind the years, eliciting an excited tail-thumping. "Yeah yeah…we're going. Thought you wanted to make friends?" He chuckled and glanced back at the two. "We were about to head out for a supply run. Since you offered company and haven't tried shooting me yet which honestly probably makes you Mother freaking Teresa as far as I'm concerned, you're welcome to tag along with us if you want."
"You won't really find much left around here…" he admitted, gesturing vaguely toward the building around them. "I've been holed up here a while now. Most useful stuff was already picked clean before I even showed up. Same goes for this whole block really. But you're free to check if you don't believe me." His tone was matter-of-fact, without a hint of any territorial or possessive edge. "And no." he added after a moment, "I'm not really in the habit of robbing people. Regular people, anyway. You two seem alright enough so far."
Connor approached the duo with easy, unhurried steps before stopping at a respectable distance - both for his sake and theirs. A faint smile tugged briefly at the corner of his mouth as he nodded at the younger of the two who'd done the introduction on behalf of them. "Connor." He gave a small wave. As if remembering something mid-thought, he reached inside his pant pocket and fished out a slightly melted Mars bar he'd been saving for later. After a brief glance at it, he tossed it casually toward Dez. His gaze lingered on the older one of the two for another second. "And no offense about the kid comment.." he added dryly. "I've probably got at least a decade on you, and the last few years have probably aged me another twenty on top of that. I think I've earned the right."
Whether he would've continued his train of thought was interrupted by a soft whine from Murdoch followed by an impatient little woof. Connor glanced at him and snorting, knelt and gently rubbed him behind the years, eliciting an excited tail-thumping. "Yeah yeah…we're going. Thought you wanted to make friends?" He chuckled and glanced back at the two. "We were about to head out for a supply run. Since you offered company and haven't tried shooting me yet which honestly probably makes you Mother freaking Teresa as far as I'm concerned, you're welcome to tag along with us if you want."
The seal of approval from the dog got the pair much more relaxed in this strangers presence. At least now it seemed like no attempts to stab one another in the back. Not that Dez wanted to put Mato in such a situation anyway, the kid had already seen too much.
Dez nodded curtly when the fact of this area being picked through was confirmed, having assumed as much already. They’d check anyways, wanting something only hardened survivors like themselves lived long enough to look for. Catching the candy with ease, and immediately passed to back to Mato, who wasted no time in opening the wrapper to see how stale it was.
“Nice to meet you and the dog Connor. I’m thinking we can keep an eye out for some stuff for each other. What exactly are you looking for? Cause we’re mostly grabbing a bag of fertilizer to get a new plot started.”
Mato sticks his now empty wrapper behind an old painting that still hung on the wall. Dez meanwhile pulled out a thermos of the stew they’d made with what they managed to grow at him. Holding it up to show it off, Dez holds it out.
“In the meantime, I’m gonna make you eat some stuff I know you haven’t seen in a long time. I know potatoes and carrots are a little funky with deer meat, but it’s better than what you’ll find in town nowadays.”
Mato spotted some decorative tray that held plastic flowers, and poured a little of his own stew into it for the dog.
Dez nodded curtly when the fact of this area being picked through was confirmed, having assumed as much already. They’d check anyways, wanting something only hardened survivors like themselves lived long enough to look for. Catching the candy with ease, and immediately passed to back to Mato, who wasted no time in opening the wrapper to see how stale it was.
“Nice to meet you and the dog Connor. I’m thinking we can keep an eye out for some stuff for each other. What exactly are you looking for? Cause we’re mostly grabbing a bag of fertilizer to get a new plot started.”
Mato sticks his now empty wrapper behind an old painting that still hung on the wall. Dez meanwhile pulled out a thermos of the stew they’d made with what they managed to grow at him. Holding it up to show it off, Dez holds it out.
“In the meantime, I’m gonna make you eat some stuff I know you haven’t seen in a long time. I know potatoes and carrots are a little funky with deer meat, but it’s better than what you’ll find in town nowadays.”
Mato spotted some decorative tray that held plastic flowers, and poured a little of his own stew into it for the dog.
Connor gave the older of the two - Dez, he assumed, the smaller of the two doing the introduction wasn’t clear who was who - an openly incredulous look at the mention of fertilizer. Out of all the things people usually scavenged for these days - canned food, ammunition, antibiotics, fuel, hell, even stuff for entertainment like a working handheld for gaming or some other toys that runs on batteries - fertilizer had not even remotely crossed his mind. "That's... surprisingly optimistic…" he admitted dryly. "Guessing you've got somewhere secure enough to actually start growing things?" There was no mockery in his voice. If anything, he sounded, and was, fairly impressed.
Connor paused for a moment at the question directed back toward him, absently adjusting the strap of the rifle against his shoulder. "I don't know if I'm looking for anything specific outside of drinking water but I'll take whatever I can get." His eyes drifted briefly toward Mato just in time to catch the kid stuffing the empty Mars wrapper behind an old, dirty painting. For the briefest moment, an almost painfully normal instinct surfaced in Connor's head - the urge to tell him not to litter and point him toward a trashcan like the world still worked that way. The thought died quickly in his head. Ants behind a painting in an abandoned office building he was technically squatting in barely even qualified as a problem anymore. Connor felt exhausted with the realization and sighed.
His attention shifted back as the older kid held up the thermos to his face. The level of insistence the kid was offering it to him - Connor would have felt apprehensive at the aggression if he didn’t see it being paired with genuine kindness - a trait he wasn't entirely unfamiliar with, growing up in the mid-west. He eyed the thermos and chuckled wryly. "How'd you know what I've not seen, pal? For all you know, I could have had a genuine steak dinner yesterday with taters and beans on the side." Before Connor could take a sip out of the thermos, he heard a loud slurp from Murdoch and turned to see him already midway through his own portion which the small guy had poured for him generously. "Whatever happened to asking first, huh?" Connor called out in mock-irritation, knowing that Murdoch would never have approached the tray under other circumstances, not without his express approval. He must have really felt at home with this duo to let his guard down like this. Shaking his head and laughing, Connor followed suit, pouring a bit of the 'stew' in a sturdy bowl he'd fished out of his backpack. Without bothering for any cutleries, he chugged it straight from the bowl, his eyes going round as he felt actual flavour hit his mouth and run amok amidst his dormant taste buds. Before he realized what'd happened, he'd already inhaled what was in the bowl. Smacking his lips appreciatively, Connor pushed down the temptation of getting a second serving and handed the thermos back. "Well genius…I take that back. Turns out you actually did know what I haven't had in a long damn time. Thank for you that." He rolled his eyes at Murdoch who'd already cleaned the plate and was giving eager puppy eyes to the little one for more. "Come on buddy, stop being greedy." He whistled once to get his pupper's attention, and then lifted his backpack over his shoulders again. "A'ight. You boys ready?"
Connor paused for a moment at the question directed back toward him, absently adjusting the strap of the rifle against his shoulder. "I don't know if I'm looking for anything specific outside of drinking water but I'll take whatever I can get." His eyes drifted briefly toward Mato just in time to catch the kid stuffing the empty Mars wrapper behind an old, dirty painting. For the briefest moment, an almost painfully normal instinct surfaced in Connor's head - the urge to tell him not to litter and point him toward a trashcan like the world still worked that way. The thought died quickly in his head. Ants behind a painting in an abandoned office building he was technically squatting in barely even qualified as a problem anymore. Connor felt exhausted with the realization and sighed.
His attention shifted back as the older kid held up the thermos to his face. The level of insistence the kid was offering it to him - Connor would have felt apprehensive at the aggression if he didn’t see it being paired with genuine kindness - a trait he wasn't entirely unfamiliar with, growing up in the mid-west. He eyed the thermos and chuckled wryly. "How'd you know what I've not seen, pal? For all you know, I could have had a genuine steak dinner yesterday with taters and beans on the side." Before Connor could take a sip out of the thermos, he heard a loud slurp from Murdoch and turned to see him already midway through his own portion which the small guy had poured for him generously. "Whatever happened to asking first, huh?" Connor called out in mock-irritation, knowing that Murdoch would never have approached the tray under other circumstances, not without his express approval. He must have really felt at home with this duo to let his guard down like this. Shaking his head and laughing, Connor followed suit, pouring a bit of the 'stew' in a sturdy bowl he'd fished out of his backpack. Without bothering for any cutleries, he chugged it straight from the bowl, his eyes going round as he felt actual flavour hit his mouth and run amok amidst his dormant taste buds. Before he realized what'd happened, he'd already inhaled what was in the bowl. Smacking his lips appreciatively, Connor pushed down the temptation of getting a second serving and handed the thermos back. "Well genius…I take that back. Turns out you actually did know what I haven't had in a long damn time. Thank for you that." He rolled his eyes at Murdoch who'd already cleaned the plate and was giving eager puppy eyes to the little one for more. "Come on buddy, stop being greedy." He whistled once to get his pupper's attention, and then lifted his backpack over his shoulders again. "A'ight. You boys ready?"
Dez raised a finger, having been halfway through his own portion of the stew. “One sec my man. Gonna finish this off.” The pair made quick work of finishing off the stew, the bike ride down having been several miles down the mountain. Of course it would be much more taxing going uphill with a heavy fertilizer bag on their back.
Finishing up and putting their stuff away in their small packs, Dez nodded and slung the pack back over his shoulders.
“Alright let’s get to it. We’ll keep an eye open for a bike for you. If you keep acting like a decent guy, we might take you with us. Cause we do have a place to grow stuff, so might as well check the hardware place just in case some fertilizer got left.”
Heading back out the way they came in, Dez and Mato checked up and down the street with guns raised. They wanted to make sure there was no suspicious sounds around that might be these Freakers. For now, the block seemed to just be ambient noise of a light breeze.
The pair walked to their bikes that were left against the poles of the entrance, hopping on and were ready to head to the hardware store first. They doubted anything would be left for them at this point, knowing plenty of other people had to have been optimistic like them.
“Might have to check a bunch of sheds if we find nothing. Cause how thorough have you been around here?”
Finishing up and putting their stuff away in their small packs, Dez nodded and slung the pack back over his shoulders.
“Alright let’s get to it. We’ll keep an eye open for a bike for you. If you keep acting like a decent guy, we might take you with us. Cause we do have a place to grow stuff, so might as well check the hardware place just in case some fertilizer got left.”
Heading back out the way they came in, Dez and Mato checked up and down the street with guns raised. They wanted to make sure there was no suspicious sounds around that might be these Freakers. For now, the block seemed to just be ambient noise of a light breeze.
The pair walked to their bikes that were left against the poles of the entrance, hopping on and were ready to head to the hardware store first. They doubted anything would be left for them at this point, knowing plenty of other people had to have been optimistic like them.
“Might have to check a bunch of sheds if we find nothing. Cause how thorough have you been around here?”
Connor shouldered his rifle and gave the boys a nod as they finished off their meals and prepared to move out again. At the mention of a bike, he winced almost imperceptibly. Whether with pedals or engines, Connor understood and could do the 'basics' well enough - balancing, generating momentum, steering around bends, braking before planting his face to the pavement…that's all you needed, right? Unfortunately, as reality dictated, understanding and being able to garner success under 'ideal' conditions and executing the same in 'real scenarios' - the kind he was up against for the last few years - were drastically different, and not at all in his favour. The few times he'd managed to get his hands on a usable bike - motorized or otherwise - the experience had usually ended with him stalling it, dropping it, clipping something that should have been avoidable on hindsight, or somehow putting the damn thing sideways while trying to negotiate a terrain that someone else (obviously a far better rider than him) probably would have only been mildly inconvenienced with. Except for that one time when he'd run head-first into the side of a laundromat, five minutes in. He would maintain, until the day he died, that the curb had appeared out of nowhere. At least Murdoch hadn't judged, he'd run up to him panting, concern etched on his face and in his woofs. He was truly the goodest boy ever.
Regardless, Connor wasn't about to admit any of that to the boys, obviously. As the group moved out of the office building he just decided to not make any comment at their promise of getting him a bike, instead choosing to focus on the second part of their statement - which was much more intriguing anyway. "I'm really impressed that you guys are able to grow crops. Is it a settlement or did the two of you find somewhere just to yourselves?" As they mounted up on their bicycles - which he realized would explain why he hadn't heard them approach the building earlier - Connor frowned at their comment. "Like I mentioned before, I've been living here for a while. While I'm not saying I would never miss a bag of compost or whatever, I feel like you lot are still going to be disappointed." Then he shrugged and briefly reaching down to signal Murdoch to follow the duo on their bikes to get a bit of exercise in. "That being said, no harm in looking. Fresh pairs of eyes and all that."
Regardless, Connor wasn't about to admit any of that to the boys, obviously. As the group moved out of the office building he just decided to not make any comment at their promise of getting him a bike, instead choosing to focus on the second part of their statement - which was much more intriguing anyway. "I'm really impressed that you guys are able to grow crops. Is it a settlement or did the two of you find somewhere just to yourselves?" As they mounted up on their bicycles - which he realized would explain why he hadn't heard them approach the building earlier - Connor frowned at their comment. "Like I mentioned before, I've been living here for a while. While I'm not saying I would never miss a bag of compost or whatever, I feel like you lot are still going to be disappointed." Then he shrugged and briefly reaching down to signal Murdoch to follow the duo on their bikes to get a bit of exercise in. "That being said, no harm in looking. Fresh pairs of eyes and all that."
Dez debated on being honest about being alone or not, not yet trusting this man yet. Mostly judging the man’s choice of home, which seemed among the least useful places to hide out. Sure it would be picked through less, but had no practical value beyond that in his mind. He’d have to throw that aside though now that he actually found someone who’s first thought was to take advantage of them.
“Just us two for now. Still don’t trust you enough to tell you where it is yet. So tell me a little more about how you’ve been surviving out here. Have you seen any regular people recently, and how have you handled them if you have?”
Dez rested a hand on the gun that was back in his holster at that point, wanting to ensure this was an honest man. He knew he didn’t know how to gauge it properly though. It had just been too long seen he’d met someone he could trust. “I want to make sure I can trust you with our location.”
“Just us two for now. Still don’t trust you enough to tell you where it is yet. So tell me a little more about how you’ve been surviving out here. Have you seen any regular people recently, and how have you handled them if you have?”
Dez rested a hand on the gun that was back in his holster at that point, wanting to ensure this was an honest man. He knew he didn’t know how to gauge it properly though. It had just been too long seen he’d met someone he could trust. “I want to make sure I can trust you with our location.”
Connor didn’t begrudge the youth his apprehension but the constant deflection was starting to feel just a little off-putting. Of course, given that they'd met each other not even an hour ago and trust was one of the priciest commodities in this 'new' world, he wasn’t going to let his expressions betray his true feelings. But trust being a two-way street, he wasn’t about to open up to this duo beyond what's absolutely necessary. For now, he just scoffed wryly at the question directed at him by the bigger of the two.
"Wouldn’t be camping here if I wanted to be around what you call regular people. But to your question…nope. Only a couple of Freakers when I arrived and everything else'd been already picked clean like I'd said."
The moment his hand shifted to the gun to his side, Murdoch went from being a goofy, playful pupper to an alert and sharply focused canine within the blink of an eye. Not a single threatening growl or annoyed woof slipped from his mouth - owning to his excellent training - but his ears pinned forward, his body stiffened, and he trotted…almost casually…half a step closer to Connor's leg. It was subtle enough that a stranger, or a less attentive person might miss it. Connor reached down and brushed a finger lightly against Murdoch's head, just an assurance that he was alright and there was no need to take protective measures…at least not yet. "Easy, buddy." He whispered, eyes returning back to Dez.
"Just so we're clear…putting your hand near your gun while asking a guy whether he's trustworthy doesn’t exactly make the guy want to start sharing childhood memories." His tone was dry, still devoid of hostility, more a matter-of-fact than anything else. "You don't want to tell me where you're holed up at? Fine. I get that. I respect it. I wouldn’t tell me either, in your place. But don’t ask me to prove that I'm not a problem while giving every indication…" He gestured at the holstered firearm at Dez's hip with his eyes. "…that you can become one."
With all that said, Connor still didn’t make any move to indicate that he was about to reach for his own firearm. He was fairly certain this posturing was without any true malice…Murdoch wouldn’t have let it stand otherwise, and would have nipped it in the bud…quite ferociously. No, this was likely just two scared brothers…or cousins - Connor realized he actually didn’t know how they were related to each other just yet - trying to appear dangerous out of protectiveness more than anything. In that moment, Connor knew that Dez was simply trying to be the 'big brother' protecting his own…even though he'd gone at it in a manner that - the way this world was now - would just see him dead, rather than simply telling him off for being needlessly cavalier with his gun. He exhaled - a tired sigh - and then rubbed his eyes.
"Look…Dez. Murdoch and I…we've survived by staying out of people's ways. We don't raid camps. We don’t jump travelers. Heck, we never even shoot first unless we're absolutely certain what we're shooting at is going to get us killed if we don’t act. When I find people…unless absolutely necessary for our survival, we tend to avoid them. It's just how I am, and Murdoch…he has his own issues. This guy was left for dead, about to be eaten by the corpse-bags, had I not been there. So yeah…we don't trust easy. The point of me saying all this is really just to say…we get it. We really do." He paused briefly to glance around, a frown appearing unbidden on his face at the realization that they'd been out in the open for longer than he was comfortable with. He had to hurry this along. He nodded towards the street ahead.
"And that's why, you have every right to not trust me with your camp…spot…whatever. I wasn’t really asking for it, it was mostly me making conversation with two kids who didn’t turn out to be immediate pieces of shit the moment they laid eyes on another fellow survivor. Keep your secrets if you must. But now, I suggest we really get going. We can hit the hardware place, check a few sheds, maybe we'll find something for your plants. And I need my water too. And then…" he paused again only to kneel again and pat Murdoch on his back a couple of times, signaling that it was time to move out. The overt gesture was not necessary - but it served its purpose of providing an indicative non-threatening gesture - a man petting his dog.
~Has to be a dog, not a cat. A man petting his cat in the middle of a tense conversation could only be an evil overlord - Connor's inner voice chuckled at the stray thought, resulting in the barest of twitch at the corner of his lips.~
"And then…" he continued, straightening again, "…we part ways. You two ride back to your place, and I'll head back here. I'm comfortable where I'm at, and neither of us has any interest in encroaching on your space."
Connor shifted the strap of his rifle more comfortably against his shoulder and gave the street another quick scan. "So... we going? We've lingered out here in the open long enough, and I'd like us to be finished with this run before daylight starts fading."
"Wouldn’t be camping here if I wanted to be around what you call regular people. But to your question…nope. Only a couple of Freakers when I arrived and everything else'd been already picked clean like I'd said."
The moment his hand shifted to the gun to his side, Murdoch went from being a goofy, playful pupper to an alert and sharply focused canine within the blink of an eye. Not a single threatening growl or annoyed woof slipped from his mouth - owning to his excellent training - but his ears pinned forward, his body stiffened, and he trotted…almost casually…half a step closer to Connor's leg. It was subtle enough that a stranger, or a less attentive person might miss it. Connor reached down and brushed a finger lightly against Murdoch's head, just an assurance that he was alright and there was no need to take protective measures…at least not yet. "Easy, buddy." He whispered, eyes returning back to Dez.
"Just so we're clear…putting your hand near your gun while asking a guy whether he's trustworthy doesn’t exactly make the guy want to start sharing childhood memories." His tone was dry, still devoid of hostility, more a matter-of-fact than anything else. "You don't want to tell me where you're holed up at? Fine. I get that. I respect it. I wouldn’t tell me either, in your place. But don’t ask me to prove that I'm not a problem while giving every indication…" He gestured at the holstered firearm at Dez's hip with his eyes. "…that you can become one."
With all that said, Connor still didn’t make any move to indicate that he was about to reach for his own firearm. He was fairly certain this posturing was without any true malice…Murdoch wouldn’t have let it stand otherwise, and would have nipped it in the bud…quite ferociously. No, this was likely just two scared brothers…or cousins - Connor realized he actually didn’t know how they were related to each other just yet - trying to appear dangerous out of protectiveness more than anything. In that moment, Connor knew that Dez was simply trying to be the 'big brother' protecting his own…even though he'd gone at it in a manner that - the way this world was now - would just see him dead, rather than simply telling him off for being needlessly cavalier with his gun. He exhaled - a tired sigh - and then rubbed his eyes.
"Look…Dez. Murdoch and I…we've survived by staying out of people's ways. We don't raid camps. We don’t jump travelers. Heck, we never even shoot first unless we're absolutely certain what we're shooting at is going to get us killed if we don’t act. When I find people…unless absolutely necessary for our survival, we tend to avoid them. It's just how I am, and Murdoch…he has his own issues. This guy was left for dead, about to be eaten by the corpse-bags, had I not been there. So yeah…we don't trust easy. The point of me saying all this is really just to say…we get it. We really do." He paused briefly to glance around, a frown appearing unbidden on his face at the realization that they'd been out in the open for longer than he was comfortable with. He had to hurry this along. He nodded towards the street ahead.
"And that's why, you have every right to not trust me with your camp…spot…whatever. I wasn’t really asking for it, it was mostly me making conversation with two kids who didn’t turn out to be immediate pieces of shit the moment they laid eyes on another fellow survivor. Keep your secrets if you must. But now, I suggest we really get going. We can hit the hardware place, check a few sheds, maybe we'll find something for your plants. And I need my water too. And then…" he paused again only to kneel again and pat Murdoch on his back a couple of times, signaling that it was time to move out. The overt gesture was not necessary - but it served its purpose of providing an indicative non-threatening gesture - a man petting his dog.
~Has to be a dog, not a cat. A man petting his cat in the middle of a tense conversation could only be an evil overlord - Connor's inner voice chuckled at the stray thought, resulting in the barest of twitch at the corner of his lips.~
"And then…" he continued, straightening again, "…we part ways. You two ride back to your place, and I'll head back here. I'm comfortable where I'm at, and neither of us has any interest in encroaching on your space."
Connor shifted the strap of his rifle more comfortably against his shoulder and gave the street another quick scan. "So... we going? We've lingered out here in the open long enough, and I'd like us to be finished with this run before daylight starts fading."
The instinct that told the tallest of the newly-formed, although likely temporary, group that they had been lingering in the open for too long was all too correct. Eyes were upon them, and had been for some time.
Some distance away from the office complex, just a bit closer to town, stood an ancient church building with a bell tower, flanked by what used to be a gas station and one other unidentifiable structure that had long ago collapsed due to some former catastrophe.
At the top of the bell tower she was kneeling in her patched cargo pants that didn't fit quite right--it was impossible to find practical clothing in a woman's proportions--with one eye pressed against an optic. The barrel of her rifle rested snugly upon a couple of rags placed on the ledge of the bell tower, the optic itself covered partially with another rag to reduce the chance of it catching the light of the rising sun so that it hopefully won't flash the observed. Fabric from old shirts somewhat light in color were wrapped around the matte-black of the barrel, a temporary solution to prevent the black from standing out against the lighter color of the building. The half of her auburn-haired head that was visible above the ledge was shrouded in shadow.
Slender fingers held the rifle like a familiar friend, the forefinger of her right hand resting straight and flat above the trigger guard, having no intention of pulling it. The shirt she wore was a dirt-spattered dark-blue button-up she'd ripped the sleeves from at one point weeks ago when she'd needed some material. Several buttons near the top were undone in order to enjoy the cooler morning air before the sun was strong enough to beat down on everything like it had yesterday.
Jacqueline had spotted the two well-fed young men on bicycles whizzing down the road when she'd been looking for something else. When they entered the compound, leaving their bikes, she waited patiently for them to come back out. Three of them--and a dog--emerging from the gated place, the woman looked on in earnest. Uninfected dogs were rare in her experience. Even more rare than other lone female survivors, who didn't usually last long on their own. Unless they were incredibly stealthy or could get their hands on plenty of ammunition, they were easy pickings for slavers.
It almost seemed like the small group had known one another already, until she saw the older of the two black-haired young men rest his hand pointedly on his holstered gun. Long accustomed to observing the behavior of drifters, she waited to hear the gunfire begin. But there was none. The only thing the tall one did in response was pat his dog and probably say a few words. Even from where she was, with the optic she could see that his posture remained calm, yet not afraid. That, or the guy was a great actor. Either options were uncommon traits.
Not a muscle twitched in the woman's body when the drifter peered down the road at one point, so close to which her church building stood. Not moving was one of the best ways to not be noticed. Besides, most people didn't ever look up, and those who did were usually too late. Her little setup so high off the ground wouldn't be easy to spot from their vantage point, anyway. But then again, some people only survived as long as they did because they could notice things that others didn't.
Completely still, barely breathing, Jacqueline watched on.
Some distance away from the office complex, just a bit closer to town, stood an ancient church building with a bell tower, flanked by what used to be a gas station and one other unidentifiable structure that had long ago collapsed due to some former catastrophe.
At the top of the bell tower she was kneeling in her patched cargo pants that didn't fit quite right--it was impossible to find practical clothing in a woman's proportions--with one eye pressed against an optic. The barrel of her rifle rested snugly upon a couple of rags placed on the ledge of the bell tower, the optic itself covered partially with another rag to reduce the chance of it catching the light of the rising sun so that it hopefully won't flash the observed. Fabric from old shirts somewhat light in color were wrapped around the matte-black of the barrel, a temporary solution to prevent the black from standing out against the lighter color of the building. The half of her auburn-haired head that was visible above the ledge was shrouded in shadow.
Slender fingers held the rifle like a familiar friend, the forefinger of her right hand resting straight and flat above the trigger guard, having no intention of pulling it. The shirt she wore was a dirt-spattered dark-blue button-up she'd ripped the sleeves from at one point weeks ago when she'd needed some material. Several buttons near the top were undone in order to enjoy the cooler morning air before the sun was strong enough to beat down on everything like it had yesterday.
Jacqueline had spotted the two well-fed young men on bicycles whizzing down the road when she'd been looking for something else. When they entered the compound, leaving their bikes, she waited patiently for them to come back out. Three of them--and a dog--emerging from the gated place, the woman looked on in earnest. Uninfected dogs were rare in her experience. Even more rare than other lone female survivors, who didn't usually last long on their own. Unless they were incredibly stealthy or could get their hands on plenty of ammunition, they were easy pickings for slavers.
It almost seemed like the small group had known one another already, until she saw the older of the two black-haired young men rest his hand pointedly on his holstered gun. Long accustomed to observing the behavior of drifters, she waited to hear the gunfire begin. But there was none. The only thing the tall one did in response was pat his dog and probably say a few words. Even from where she was, with the optic she could see that his posture remained calm, yet not afraid. That, or the guy was a great actor. Either options were uncommon traits.
Not a muscle twitched in the woman's body when the drifter peered down the road at one point, so close to which her church building stood. Not moving was one of the best ways to not be noticed. Besides, most people didn't ever look up, and those who did were usually too late. Her little setup so high off the ground wouldn't be easy to spot from their vantage point, anyway. But then again, some people only survived as long as they did because they could notice things that others didn't.
Completely still, barely breathing, Jacqueline watched on.
((hello. I'm back. I think I have a better character to use. His name is Odysseus. Here's a short description: Odysseus is famously a "short king" in Homeric epic—standing a head shorter than Agamemnon but commanding respect through his exceptionally broad chest and powerful shoulders. His rugged appearance features thick, curly hair, a full beard, and a weathered physique marked by a famous hunting scar on his thigh. Characterized by his legendary cunning (metis), he is an intellectual chameleon who survives supernatural dangers through deception, disguises, and quick wit rather than brute force. While driven by a fierce, sometimes reckless pride (hubris), his ultimate motivation is a deep, compassionate loyalty to his family and his yearning to return home to Ithaca.))
(Can I bring in my Marine and his wife?)
Adrian Hawthorne wrote:
(Can I bring in my Marine and his wife?)
((Yes of course, by all means!))
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