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Realistic or Modern Fallen Angels M.C. | In the Zombie Apocalypse

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The afternoon air was heavy with an eerie silence, broken only by the buzz of insects and the soft rustling of tall grass. A crow landed on a weathered fence by the dirt path. Its keen eyes observed the surroundings as it ejected an occasional caw that cut through the stillness.

The vast, open meadows on one side of the road stretched out until they met the forest by the horizon. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long, dark shadows of a few lone trees across the field.

The wind picked up, blowing through the grass and the leafy crowns like a ghostly whisper. And then, like a distant drumbeat, the sound, coming deep from the heart of the woods filtered through the clearing.

At first it was low and idle, like a train passing through the prairie. But it swelled to a rumble, growing louder. The tree tops swayed as a flock of birds took flight. The beat of their hefty wings and occasional complaints were muffled by the amplifying drone of the oncoming threat.

The horde spilled from the shadows like a flood. Undead humans stumbled and limped at a slow pace, waiting for the trigger of sound or smell of flesh to boost their decaying bodies to limits with a single goal lodged at the stem of their brains.

To feed.



Matt “Fish” Fischer



“The secret to playing a good game of pool is to remain confident in what you’re doing,” Fish rambled on as if he was an expert in this as the club’s prospects looked on, gathered around the pool table. Some listened as if this was an important life lesson from a wise elder. Others simply looked amused because Fish was back on his bullshit again. Fish was chalking up the end of a pool cue as he spoke.

“Take your time lining up your shot. Consider all possible outcomes. Which one earns you the most points? Which are you most likely to succeed in making? Is it worth taking the risk of a long shot that you might not sink?” Fish leaned over the pool table, pool cue expertly propped between his fingers. They had managed to find the two missing pool balls while cleaning up the bar, and now members were eager to play during their brief downtimes. It was a good way to take people’s minds off the shit going on around them. Fish was lining up a shot that would sink a ball neatly in a corner pocket. Nothing tricky, nothing fancy. A safe shot, easy points. Better that he gets it rather than an opponent.

“Fish, sometimes you don’t got time to sit there and meditate on shit. You just gotta act. Go big, yannow?” One of the prospects in front piped up, a young cocky dumbass Fish couldn’t remember the name of and was vaguely surprised hadn’t been killed yet for some stupid reason or another. It drew a few laughs from his prospect-buddies of equal levels of bravado.

“So you’d rather pass up a solid win, even if small, at a chance for something bigger?” Fish looked up from the shot he had perfectly lined up, a guaranteed win, and raised an eyebrow at the prospect. When the prospect nodded, Fish adjusted his stance and aimed the pool cue at a set of two balls that could, with the right luck of physics, wind up in the corner pocket right in front of the challenging prospect. The others gathered at the table leaned in and scooted a little closer, waiting to see what would happen if someone challenged Fish’s Way of Thinking, which was generally not advisable as a prospect.

Fish lined up the shot, made a little show of dragging it on, carefully considered his aim, all while the very tip of his tongue poked out from between his lips as he concentrated. Finally, he took the shot.

Fish struck the first pool ball with such force that it hit one ball, which caused it to fly towards the corner pocket - only to hit the edge of the pool table, angle upwards, and strike that prospect squarely in the nuts. The whole table erupted in laughter as the man stumbled back and grabbed himself, cussing and groaning as he doubled over. The prospects at the table were laughing too hard to notice the second pool ball roll into the corner pocket. Fish made both shots, apparently.

The bravado thoroughly taken out of his sails for now, the prospect’s buddies helped him limp away from the table to go curl up and recover closer to the bar counter. Without needing to be asked for it, Lila pulled out an ice pack from the mini-freezer under the bar and slid it across the counter at the group of young men. The injured one among them took it meekly and without comment. She’d seen Fish pull that trick at least four times now on different prospects. You’d think they’d pay attention by now. Idiots. Sighing, she returned to her task of washing glasses.

The club had spent a considerable amount of time and energy cleaning the abandoned bar up - sweeping out debris, mopping and wiping down tables and chairs, beating the dust out of the couches, restuffing and recovering the cushions that had been ruined by pests, and otherwise making the building habitable again. It was a lot of work, but it was a welcome change from being on the road, moving from one abandoned structure to another. Those were a hard few months. Everybody had lost something, or someone, along the way.

The prospects remaining at the pool table had a good chuckle out of this spectacle, for which Fish took an exaggerated bow before handing his pool cue off to someone else so the ‘kids’ could play if they wanted to. Fish instead wandered up to the bar, letting any prospects trail after him if they didn’t feel like playing pool.

“Lila. Sunshine. Darling.” Fish put his elbows on the bar counter as he took a seat, leaning closer. “Make sure when he’s done, you put that ballsack-flavored melted ice into his next drink.” Fish grinned.

Lila looked up at him, frown in full force, and gave him a look. He *always* came up with some stupid little pet name to call her, but Sunshine seemed to be his favorite. It didn’t stick well. She was most definitely not a ray of sunshine. A storm cloud, maybe.

“Fish, no way in hell am I-” Lila was interrupted by a round of whooping and cheering in the back of the bar, followed by the sweet sound of music. Country music, to be precise - great news for anyone who liked it, or simply wanted some music back into their life. Terrible news for anyone that couldn’t handle it. Someone turned the volume up a little - not blaring - and there was high-fiving all around.

Someone had managed to fix the jukebox again after the last time it went on the fritz. Icing on top of the cake, it really was starting to feel like the bar could become home. In here, it was easy to forget what the outside world was like.
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Madison "Connor" Jones
The Hunter

The smooth black asphalt ribbon had long since gotten a bit brittle around the edges, but for Connor and her scuffed-up forty-eight, it would do. It would do fine.

Her last stop had been successful, as such things could be counted, and she was still alive and uninfected, the sun syrup-thick and low in the sky, melting into golden and green fields. It had been a good day. Music was too risky to blare on her bike, but Connor still hummed some behind her visor.

The cars were sparse, and the occasional sedan would either be flat out of fuel and empty, thanks to overzealous drivers that overestimated just how far a tank of gas would get them, or...... not. The not-empties usually had a few precious drops in the tank and a jack-in-the-box surprise on the inside, belted in (if she was lucky). Still, one more dead zombie was one more dead zombie, and so long as it wasn't a stupid risk, it was worth it. Oddly, a lot of the zed-heads in cars for the last handful of miles had already been dispatched. That was promising. That meant there was someone (or many someones) who had taken the time. Fallen Angels? Random people? No way to know, but promising nonetheless.

She was suited up on her journey, a backpack and pair of saddlebags on her bike the only concessions to personal property. Connor hadn't always driven around in her z-ready leathers, but one close call too many had scratched up her ride and inspired the girl to be a little more safety conscious.

A receptive hill brought Madison to a halt. As she did every so often, she stopped her bike, withdrew a pair of binoculars, and scanned the horizon. The vantage point was good, and nobody had been tailing. A movement drew her eye at the edge of distant woods opening onto a grassy clearing, crows taking to the sky as heralds of the hungry damned. A gaggle (A murder? A flock? A pod?) of zombies shuffled in the distance. There was no need to bother with the heat scope; that many bodies in one place wouldn't have been anything but the dead. Upper hundreds. Maybe...... maybe a thousand at a stretch. It was hard to tell.

Normally, Connor would have paid them no mind and gone a different direction; plenty of room between here and there to steer clear. Swarms of that magnitude were less than ideal for a fight and a hard pass out in the open. Too hard to pick them off one at a time, no way to guide them to a choke point because there was no choke point to be had. They could be fought, over the course of weeks, but not here and sure as shit not like this. Normally, the woman would have noped right off..... but while sweeping the binoculars around, looking for what had attracted the swarm in the first place, she spied a tangle of RV's with a building at the center. Four, maybe four and a half miles away from the hungry dead. Chain......yeah, chain link fence.

And.... people.

Living, honest to God people.

Connor's gaze swept back east towards the threat.

Well, fuckles.

With her lips pressed into a hard line, Madison "Connor" Jones rode her mega-muffled forty-eight until she stood astride her bike, a little ways outside the fence. In one smooth notion, she lifted the helmet from her head and called out the tritest thing imaginable: "Hey! Take me to your leader! There's a swarm flocking this way."

Madison was fully intent on following where the people inside might lead her.... Or fucking right off if they told her to hit the road.

♡design by beyonddandy, coded by uxie♡
Kallie Weston

Kallie leaned her back-side against the pool table, slightly turned to the side to listen in on another one of Fish's notorious "isms" across from her. With a half-cocked smirk she shook her head, not buying his bull-shit excuse to boast his skills at pool. To her his "advice" just came off as pretentious ramblings, but when she looked around the room it seemed to be working for the other prospects. Maybe it was because she was pretty darn good at pool herself, and the competitiveness in her just wanted to call him out, or, maybe it was 'cause her pride said he simply needed to be humbled. She jumped away from the table when a pool ball hurled passed her and hit its mark into the crotch of a prospect who didn't know when to keep his mouth shut.

Kallie took his pool cue when he finished his monologue. Finally, she could play a round now that the billiard junkie had his fix. "One of these days you're gonna have your ass handed to you, old man," she commented playfully before the cue was handed off and he wandered over to the bar with some other members. "Alright then," she tucked the stick underneath her armpit and pulled out a cigarette from one of her back pockets. She lit it with a rusted metal lighter and tucked it back in her pocket right after. A cloud of smoke wisped from her nostrils, "Who wants to play?"

Kallie reached across the table to gather up each colorful ball and rack them up, "You don't need fancy tricks to win a game of pool," she gave a curt nod when another bystanding prospect stepped up to the plate to play, then she continued,"Just know your angles." She gestured for the opposing prospect to start first, and the match took off.

Interactions: Namazu Namazu

(Sorry but codes confuse me ;-; and im on mobile at work lol)
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Mason C. "Wess" Weston

The thundering staccato of a muffler roared up the road to the clubhouse. Wess had also spotted the mass of undead heading toward the club grounds. On his own race back to the rest of the MC he was unaware that a stranger was already one step ahead of him with the warning. From a distance Wess could see the glint of another bike pulling up to the rear fence of the encampment. With a flick of his wrist on the throttle, Wess quickened his pace to catch up to this potential intruder. As far as he knew, no one else left the grounds but him.

As he slowed to a halt behind the rider standing beside their bike, he kept his eyes locked on the wanderer and his hand on the concealed pistol tucked in his waist band behind him. The engine puttered before it shut off and Wess kicked his leg back to climb off his own seat. His worn cowboy boots kicked up dirt as he took a few steps closer, dragging his heeled slightly, as was his natural gait. He made sure to keep his shoulders relaxed and his voice neutral when he spoke up, "Whoa there," Wess took note of the rifle slung to her bike and almost choked when he saw the sawed off shotgun staring back at him on her back. She was nicely armed, he had to admit. When he realized at this distance it was no competition for him, he released his grip on the pommel of his own gun and raised both hands to chest level to ease any tension she may have with someone coming up behind her, "Is there somethin' we can help you with?" His tone accent was stern but sincere, slicked up with his Texan accent. He had no intention of wasting bullets if he didn't have to, they were a rare commodity now days. However, he wanted to get this encounter over with, that mob was coming closer with no intention to wait around for them to wrap things up. He had to get inside and sound the alarm before they had no chance to stand for themselves. If it was up to him he'd tie her up and lock her in a room, just for the time being, just until they took care of the problem that was looming closer. Priorities. But it wasn't up to him, and if he could settle this with out a death and send her on her way, he'd give it a shot. Tying her up will be plan B....

Interaction(s): Tool Tool
The roaring bike coming up behind made no secret of the man's arrival and Connor was simultaneously envious of the sound and grateful for her own, quieter ride. She twisted in her seat to watch him as he set the motorcycle in place and got off to approach her as one might approach a wild animal, all soothing tones and palms-out. Connor's gaze took him in from toe to tip; worn boots, pale jeans, black leather jacket, and a rapidly sketched profile of scruffy dark hair and deep eyes. With the multitudinous layers of sports padding and leather over her proper clothes and her army-style boots, Connor was far better protected than her greeter and also far, far warmer. Oh, for the days of tank tops and shorts, when the only thing lurking in nearby greenery was a cloud of midges among fluffy, untrimmed poplars.

At the guy's words, Madison shrugged. "No idea. Swarm of zombies between four and five miles East-North-East of here. Saw this compound from the hillside. Wanted to warn whoever lived here. Upper hundreds, maybe as many as a thousand. Hard to tell." Tiredly, Connor's free hand ran through her hair in an attempt to air out her scalp a little, much to her relief. Small pleasures, even if the crystal certainty in her regard never wavered; the enjoyment of an errant breeze could be compartmentalized as surely as everything else, and the enemy on the move took precedent over almost everything else.

"Be here in an hour, probably a little more. Less if they catch sight of prey."

Though it split her attention, Connor turned her face towards the compound, though the term was a generous one for a bunch of RV's, random vehicles, chain fence, and bar. A few hundred dead with some motivation would surround this place easily, if the tender living could be seen. If these people were lucky, that fence was stronger than it looked. At this distance, it didn't appear as though the windows had been bricked, and the front door looked.....normal. Like a door.

Less 'compound', more 'smorgasbord under glass'.

So...... that was great.

Man, she hoped she was wrong and this place was more fortified than it looked at first glance.

A glimpse of gleaming bikes made one of her eyebrows head skywards and a thread of hope and excitement perfumed her tone. "You ride? I mean, more than just you?" Madison's face turned towards Texas Scruff and she gestured with her helmet towards the iron horses.

"How many? You any good? Wait..... is this a motorcycle club?" The woman looked down ever so slightly and noticed Harley Harry wasn't just wearing a jacket; he was wearing a biker cut with a pair of patches.

"I'm an idiot. This is a motorcycle club."

Brilliant. Awesome first impression. Slicker than snot. Connor sighed and shook her head before trying again.

"Look, my patch is in my bag. I was with the Elkin chapter of the Fallen Angels for....... I was one of them. I'm happy to help or leave you to it if you've got good plans in place for this."

Please, please say they had plans in place.


Casey Guidry

Vice President


“Keep your hands out of that bag,” an order came from inside the gate. It was distant, but the heavy footsteps that followed suggested authority. Distressed brown boots clashed against the creaking wooden steps leading out of the clubhouse and into the gravel that covered the rest of the compound. A pair of black jeans strode towards the gate and their unexpected guest. A scowl grew into sight under the rising sun, leather gleaming over the shoulders of its keeper as the wings patched to his back made him seem bigger than life itself.

“We were told everyone in Elkin was dead…” the man questioned - the title of vice president beaming out of his chest with assurance through the loops in the gate that separated him and his unannounced guest. Two goons - also known as Prospects - stood behind him, armed and ready to lay waste to the girl in question. “.., so how did you survive?” his inquiry came as cold as his glare.

Casey Guidry, Vice President of the Fallen Angels had no intentions of letting this stranger in. He was certain that the information he had was true, that everyone in the Elkin charter had died and this girl was a fake. Looking over at Weston he gestured, wanting him to take the girl’s bag and check it for himself to decipher the truth from lies. He looked over his shoulder to his prospects. “Open the gate and bring that bike in.”

He turned back to the girl. “We’ll hold on to that for now so you don’t get any ideas.” Opening the gate, one prospect led with his rifle aimed at the girl. The other one looked her up and down as he closed in on her motorcycle, admiring both. He pulled the clutch and put the machine in neutral, letting him handle the bike back through the gate.

Casey stepped out of their safe haven, eyeing the girl and how she carried herself. He didn’t know her or recognize her at all. He knew some of the guys in the Elkin charter, but this girl wasn’t one of them. Casey put his hands on his pants pockets and looked at her sideways. “Where is this horde? Did you lead them here?”

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♡design by beyonddandy, coded by uxie♡
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Connor looked at the man barking orders who seemed to have a neon, flashing sign atop his forehead that said: 'I am an asshole and would very much like the opportunity to prove it'. He reminded her of lots of the boys in blue, full of their own self-importance and itching to prove it. She grit her teeth, but succeeded in not snapping at Big Britches, albeit just barely.

"I'm not giving you my bike." She replied, her voice calm and sure.

"Lot harder to survive out there without a ride. Got it from my uncle when I hit eighteen. Lots of sentimental value. You feel you got a right to it anyhow, you'd better put a bullet in my brain and take it."

Line in the figurative sand drawn, Connor didn't budge off the bike, even when Asshat's men approached. She wasn't about to make this some kind of fru-fru stand off, so she kept her hands from her guns; if they wanted to beat her bloody or come at the back of her head with a sap, she wouldn't fight them. Let them beat on a girl who wasn't fighting back; she knew she was outnumbered, and very few people with a pulse were her enemy to begin with. A busted nose wasn't worth a life, hers or anyone else's.

There were, as evidenced by the end of the world, worse ways to die.

"I came from the west, horde's walking from east-north-east. I wager Texas here can vouch where I rode from or didn't. William Jones was my Uncle Bill, and yeah, everybody else at the Elkin charter is dead. Infected who didn't fess up, or didn't know. Uncle Bill told me to run. So I ran. I'm Madison Connor Jones, and it's not my problem your intel didn't include me."

Those brown eyes got sharp, though her voice stayed stock-steady. "You can take the bag if you want to look for my patch. Rest of what's in it is replaceable, and if this chapter of the Fallen Angels have taken it to mind to threaten someone 'cause they wouldn't give up their ride..... Well, Uncle Bill always told me 'could be dead in five minutes'. Maybe this here's my fiver."

Admittedly, life got a lot easier when there wasn't anything left to lose except one's own integrity.
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Mason C. Weston

"Yeah, I saw 'em too," he assured her, "Pretty nasty number of 'em too". A small part of him questioned whether that was her truth though. He knew the horde was coming, in that regard she was being truthful, but In this dog-eat-dog world -- or more accurately, man-eat-man -- who would take their time to go out of their way and warn others? Either theres more to the story, or some part of her is an altruist. Knowing that any strangers you come across these days are more dangerous than the dead wandering around, why take the risk? She's either as naive as they get or shes just that confident in her ability to put up a fight if needed. Her arsenal could pack a mean punch, maybe she just lets the guns do the talking so no one would even get the idea to try anything.

"You ride? I mean, more than just you?"

"Oh, so you noticed?" He looked at the same line of bikes she spotted, "What, surprised you ain't the only one on a bike in the apocalypse?" One corner of his lips pulled in to give a sideways grin.

She tossed more questions at him, but in doing so realized what, or who, she stumbled upon. Wess chuckled, "Now we're gettin' it." He expected her to at least look a little shaken up but when she had this brief look of....relief? Is that what you'd call it? Wess' smile faded quickly, "Elkin?" Dark brown eyes searched the ground for a memory. Elkin was another charter of the MC, but before things went really dark, right after the start of this whole mess, they got word that charter was done for. "No, Elkins gone, sweetheart." His skepticism for her went from 50% to 100% now. Nevertheless, and now more than ever, he took her up on her offer in searching her bag for the truth. Her truth. He slowly approached the bag, hands still visible and tried to keep tensions at a minimum by changing the subject to something a little more neutral. Wess jerked his chin forward and darted his eyes to her bike, "This all yer things? Or are we holed up some place near by?"

Before she could even take in what was asked of her their small talk was cut short by the sudden presence of the VP. Wess complied, slowly lowering his hands with a, "Yessir," taking a few steps back and crossing his arms. No need for tip toeing around her anymore now that hes got someone else to handle this. The late cowboy shut his mouth and let his superior take it from there. He was just happy he didn't have to stall too long before running out of things to say and keep her engaged, he was cold, tired and hungry. A recipe for thinning patience.

Casey, getting straight to the point and skipping the niceties of decent conversation, asked the question Wess wanted to hear answers from. How did she survive? A whole charter...gone...but with a sole survivor? Did she tuck her tail and leave them? With out waiting for a shred of explanation Casey barked at some prospects that followed him to open the gate. The doubt that might as well been tattooed on his forehead, caused him to toss her claim aside like it was nothing. He didn't even entertain the thought of her being honest. The VP okayed taking her bag once more and Wess was quick to act on it this time. "I'm sorry ma'am," his voice was low and hushed. He reached behind him again and pulled out the pistol he had on him and cocked its hammer back, "This is just a formality, and I want it to stay that way, so no fussin'." Wess took his aim with one hand. His free hand extended out toward her and he curled two fingers to prompt her for her bag, "Hand it over," he commanded sternly, and added a gentle, "Please," with a shrug. The two prospects came in for her bike shortly after, as instructed. Connor wasn't happy about that...at all.... Which is understandable, and expected.

When the girl snapped back at Casey and firmly stood her ground, Wess found himself a little amused. He hid a smile with a tight twist of his lips and looked up at his VP. She was polite but firm, and damn did she have balls to talk the way she did, almost encouraging them to fuck-around-and-find-out. She knew she was easily outnumbered but she was warning that she wasn't going down with out a fight. Like a cornered animal baring teeth. Wess recollected himself and raised his eyebrows at Casey, a non-verbal ask for "what should we do with her?" Connor continued her case, wrangling Wess into it now. The cowboy frowned, he didn't want to get involved, but for the sake of giving her a fair chance in this he nodded, "At least that part is true, theres a whole lot of 'em makin' their way as we speak. It's why I came back," he admitted. Wess looked down at Connor and tilted his head toward an opening in the fence, "C'mon now," he flexed his hand, asking once again for the bag, he didn't want this getting violent if it didn't need to. Another bullet spared is another saved for the undead. Especially if she was indeed from another Charter. He waited for her move and hoped it would result in her coming in quietly...

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Kit had been enjoying the old hippie's lessons, though he was familiar with pool already, he always got a kick out of Fish's antics. He wasn't disappointed, very narrowly dodging the ball crushing billiard that ricocheted at the smartass that sassed him. His hasty dodge resulted in him spilling his drink all over himself, soaking into his jacket. He was thankful he had just gone for water as he broke into raucous laughter.
"Nice shot!" He whooped after Fish, still giggling as he pulled off his vest. He hung it over a chair, placing his now mostly empty glass on the table beside it.

Kallie's challenge caught his attention, and he rushed back to the table to announce his participation, snatching a cue from the wall on his way.
"You look like a girl who knows her angles. I'm playing for fun, so you'd better win." He teased, smirking like a cat with a canary. He leaned over the table, lining up his cue to break. Just as he had his shot lined up, the sudden roar of country music had him jump, losing his aim and breaking the triangle without so much as a single ball sunk. "Mother of fuck." He growled, playing up his dismay for the fun of it. "That is by far the worst thing that has ever happened to me." He sighed dramatically before grinning again. "Go easy on me Kal, I'm at a disadvantage." He whined, backing a few steps away so she could shoot.

In contrast to the punk rock prospect, the country music managed to ignite a small smile on Beau's face as he nursed his third or fourth beer. It was almost like nothing had happened at all, a familiar kind of chaos that comforted him like nothing had in a while. He didn't mind being a wall flower, in fact he enjoyed people-watching while he drank. He could almost pretend he was close to them, a bandaid over his bruised and lonely heart. Fish's approach to the bar had him a little tense, as much as he didn't mind the hippy, he didn't want Bruno chasing after him and ruining his mood. 'Course, that's just the thing. Mind yerself Beau, it's yer day off, ya don't need to be lettin' anybody ruin it fer ya.' His inner monologue reminded him as he finished the bottle. He'd need a few more if he wanted to get drunk, the more he drank the less it seemed to affect him. This was a worrying trend, but he ignored the nagging. It was his day off after all, he didn't need to let himself ruin it either.

Interaction with Fluffy-Kat Fluffy-Kat
Indirect with Namazu Namazu


cristiano ronaldo

the joker


The residents lounged around on the couches and chairs. Some chatting, others playing cards or pool. The music pouring out of the speaker filled the space with twangy guitars and heartfelt lyrics. The mood was light and relaxed. Cris wondered if it wasn't partially because the President was away, along with the asshole Jenkins. Cristiano often enjoyed that man's antics but sometimes he was a pain in the Prospect's ass.

Cris held his little girl, barely four years old, in his arms. He swayed them back and forth to the beat of the music. Her giggles were infectious and he kept laughing along, grinning as he twirled her in the air. "Whooo!"

She squealed when he dipped her low and then back up so she could hop right into her father's arms and hold to his neck.

"Daddy, daddy, play another song!"

Cris's eyebrows shot up. "Say what?!" His mouth curled up in a permanent smile whenever he watched his child's happy face. "You gon' get me broke now, little lady." But he was already on his way to the jukebox.

"What do you wanna hear now, my lil DJ?" He held her to his side while fishing around his pants' pocket to retrieve another dime. "There you go." He passed it to her diminutive fingers and leaned over so she could put the coin into the slot and press the button.

He couldn't help but gaze at her face, screwed up in concentration, before she clumsily pushed one of the buttons. "This!"

Are you one of them girls
That peels off the Bud Light label
Just might run a pool table
Roll your eyes if I call you an angel, ain't you
One of them girls
Ask you to dance, you say no
Just to see how far I'll go
Your song comes on and your eyes close
That's when I know, yeah

She looked at Cris with big eyes like she was surprised with the tune that flowed along the clubhouse.

"It's my favorite!" She squealed and Cris made wide eyes at her even though he knew she had a new favorite every day.

He turned the volume up and silly dancing with her in his arms he moved towards Kallie who watched Kal take his shot at the pool table. Cris got to her personal space with his little, giggling mess and sang off sync.

"And you're one of them girls, that ain't tryna meet nobody! You're just here for the paaaarty. if I'm wrong, then stop me, yeeeeeaah!" Country was certainly not his choice of music but all of them knew most of the jukebox songs by heart at that point. They really needed to find a way to have more selection.

♡design by beyonddandy, coded by uxie♡


Auguste spent the better part of the morning as he had each day since they had arrived at the clubhouse. He woke up early and headed out to walk the perimeter of the fence line and back and sides of the building clearing out any dead stragglers that were there and moving bodies further away from where they slept. He wasn't an expert but he was fairly certain dead bodies, reanimated or not, weren't great for their health. He took pride in their new home, even if it was falling apart, the roof was leaking and had questionable stains. It was somewhere safe for them to stay, at least for now, and hopefully longer if they maintained it.

He knew the tasks that he performed; clearing the dead, and fixing what needed to be repaired (to the best of his abilities) could and likely should be done by lower ranking members and prospects but if something was missed and someone was hurt, he wouldn't be able to stand the guilt. It was his duty to maintain security and protect the members of his club and in this new world, that included anyone that traveled the road with them.

Auguste had been on watch, or at least watching those on watch when the woman approached to warn them about the horde. Her demeanor irked him some, mostly because of the disrespect for officers but he’d leave that to Casey to handle as he felt necessary. As the tense standoff continued Auguste’s attention was drawn back to the clubhouse as the not-so-subtle thumps from the jukebox could suddenly be heard outside the walls. He frowned, turning on his heel to march back towards the club.

He paused inside the doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the light and just what the fuck was going on when he spotted the likely culprit: Cris. He could shout, could call him out and tell him to turn down the music on his own but it would take time to get their attention and get them into action. Instead, he made his way through the tables to the jukebox and did it himself, not turning it off entirely, but enough that he could be heard over it. “Let’s not bring down the roof over our heads, yea?” While the statement was made to everyone present, he pointedly looked at Cris.

Auguste considered briefly warning them of what he’d heard, but not everyone present was a club member, and spotting Santina present, he squashed the idea altogether. “Just keep it down, don’t need to alert anyone or anything to us being here.”



Alejandra lounged in her and Casey's trailer during the heat of the day, she told everyone it was for Bullet's benefit, the dog needed to be kept cool for her own health and calm for her stability but truth was, some days Ally couldn't handle all of them. She truly appreciated her found family, Casey had brought her out of the darkest time in her life and introduced her to the roughest but kindest family she might ever know. But there were days, like today, when she couldn't cope with the banter and noise.

Instead, she rose early, before the sun was up, and carefully crawled out of bed. She took care to not disturb Casey as she dressed and took Bullet out into the cool air. They jogged, as much as they could within the confines of the small yard and dim light. The morning watch didn't seem to mind her being there. She followed up her cardio with basic calisthenics and then showered the best she could before joining Lila in the kitchen.

This part of her day was her favorite, not the cooking for the club - something she was certainly not required to do, but hanging out with Lila solo. She was a different girl when the club wasn't around, for very good reasons. Lila reminded her of herself at that age, wild and full of herself. How she was before she was deployed, before … everything else.

Ally bolted up at the sound of the long-range radio cracking, first just noise then very clearly Hank's voice, calling for Casey. She swung her legs over the bed to sit up and stretched to reach for the radio on the small kitchen counter not far away. "Hank, I'm here. Everything okay?"


She scrambled to get her prosthetic on and out the door, Bullet at her side the entire time. She needed to find Casey and luckily enough he wasn't far. She jogged to where he was, ignoring whatever was happening with the new person and the other club members. "Hey, Hank's called." She leaned in enough to speak to him, only. "Says there's a horde headed this way. They're on their way back."



Matt “Fish” Fischer



“I welcome anyone to try getting their hands on my ass to begin with!” Fish called back to Kallie, turning slightly in his seat and giving her a grin at her comment. At least his little trick got the most obnoxious of the prospects away from the pool table, so the rest of them could enjoy themselves. Spotting Kit taking up the other pool cue to challenge Kallie, he gave both of them a thumbs up. They were decent enough people, and it was nice to see the others getting along more now. All that time on the road occasionally had people getting on each other’s nerves - or worse, trading blows - from the stress and hardship alone. It was mostly the prospects that had the worst time not throttling the guy next to him, but he had to admit - even some patched members had been reaching their limits. At least some people - like Cris' daughter - were easy to please. Fish gave the child a wave and stuck his tongue at her when she looked her way, which made her laugh and giggle. 'Uncle Fishy' always found some way to entertain her.

Lightly tapping his fingers on the counter, Fish avoided looking at the shelf of booze behind the bar, focusing instead on people. Without asking, Lila had handed him a mug and was pouring some strong, black coffee for him. No sugar, no cream, nothing but a caffeine-flavored smack in the face.

Fish cradled his mug between his hands once his drink was poured. The coffee was just the perfect temperature - not too hot, not too cold - and he took a moment to savor it in silence. It tasted awful, bitter, and cheap, but he didn’t care. Someday, there might not be any coffee left. Hell, maybe someday, nobody would be left to drink it. So, for now, it was the best goddamn stuff he had.

He peered over at Beau, who for once had a small smile on his face. What was it? The music? The drink? The fact he’s been sitting here with a good view of Lila’s tits for awhile now? Who knows.

“Take it easy on that stuff.” Fish motioned with his head at the bottle in front of Beau. It was a nonjudgmental comment, neither mocking nor angry. He didn’t really want to preach to Beau, again, for the upteenth time, when it was their time to kick back and relax. Fish waited until Lila had moved away from the bar, going into one of the back storage closets for something, and leaned over a bit closer to Beau, turning in his stool as if to stand.

“If you ever got shit you need to deal with, it’s usually better to deal with it head-on instead of running, or to talk it out instead of bottle it up. Just a little advice.” He patted Beau on the shoulder, knowing damn well the guy didn’t want to do either of those. Not here, not now, not with or around him. And that was perfectly fine.

Sliding off his stool and taking his mug with him - Lila never cared and only asked that stuff be returned in one piece at some point - he wandered over to Auguste, who was currently in the process of killing the vibe in here by turning the music down.

“Auggie! C’mon, man - ah fine, we’ll behave.” He offered Auguste a grin for as long as any of the prospects were looking at them, but as soon as everyone was done grumbling and had turned back to their games and conversations, the grin on Fish’s face disappeared - like a light switch and turned off - and he gave Auguste a more serious look. Fish was mentally taking off the ‘Fish-Hat’ and putting on the responsible adult hat, for now.

“Everything okay?” Auguste’s comment about anyone or anything hearing them was a little on the suspicious side. But now, with the jukebox turned down, he swore he heard something outside. He paced over to the front of the bar, lifting the faded curtain off the small window next to the door and peering outside.

A small crowd had gathered at the front gates. Casey, Wess, Ally - and someone on a bike? Someone that wasn’t one of them. Now that was a rare occurrence. Glancing back at Auguste and motioning with his head towards the door, indicating what he was about to do, in case Auguste wanted to follow, Fish clunked his quarter-full mug down on the nearest table and stepped out of the clubhouse.

Fish ambled over closer to the crowd at the gates, one eyebrow raised. It was then he realized Wess had his iron out. Casey’s broad frame was blocking Fish’s line of sight from where he stood, so he didn’t immediately see who was on the bike - but he did hear her voice. He also heard enough to know this confrontation wasn’t going great. He wasn’t about to get involved if this was going downhill - besides, Casey could handle it fine, and Wess was plenty good as backup. Still, he scooted a bit closer, like a curious cat, to see who they were talking to.

Fish probably looked like he didn’t completely belong here. Yes, he wore the same patch as everyone else on his black leather vest, and his black leather vaguely-military-style biker boots were as utilitarian as anyone else’s around here. Just as dusty, too. But everything else? Depending on the mood of who you asked, Fish either looked like a fashion disaster, or the love child of the sixties and seventies who got left in an alley behind a bar. He wore a long-sleeve orange vaguely paisley-print shirt under his vest, which was only buttoned up half-way, exposing his chest and the several necklaces that hung from his neck. His sleeves were haphazardly pushed up his arms, revealing a multitude of leather and metal bracelets on each wrist, in addition to a few rings on his fingers - he probably had more jewelry on him than some of the women in the camp. His belt was a mix of green, beige, orange, and brown leather and fabric woven together, tied at the side to keep his boot-cut jeans from sliding off his narrow hips. It contrasted wildly with the modern black holster at his hip, securing his firearm within easy reach. So much for peace and love. Bohemia called; they wanted their clothes back.

Running a hand through his long hair that hung down to his shoulders, Fish stared at the woman, jaw dropping for a moment in surprise. Recognition propelled him closer.

“Holy shit! You’re - oh shit!” He pointed at Connor a moment, then snapped his fingers, his lightly-chemically-fried brain taking a hot second to recall the name and association that was on the tip of his tongue. He sighed, pressing a palm to his forehead a second as he motioned at Wess to keep his gun lowered.

“Bill’s. Not his kid, but he showed me pictures of you from when you were younger. You obviously got taller.” He motioned vaguely at her, up and down, then it came to him.

“Connor! Yes!” He laughed, running a hand through his hair a second time. “Goddamn, I figured you were dead!” A quick glance around confirmed she was probably here alone.

“Bill’s not so lucky, is he?”


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Lila Adkins



Another day. Up just after sunrise, a quick excuse for a shower, clothes thrown on, and out to the bar she goes. There was a full-sized kitchen in the back that had become her domain these days, and if she wasn’t in here cooking, or out behind the bar serving drinks or washing dishes, she was probably out back doing laundry. Attempting to do other people’s laundry by hand generally just pissed her off, so she much preferred being in the kitchen. It was almost funny - before the dead started walking, she pretty much only microwaved her meals, or ate whatever her mother made. These days? She was whipping up meals to feed dozens upon dozens of full grown men, women, and even a few kids. It also gave her a reason to spend time with Ally. Even if the woman was still One Of Them, she was at least a bit more pleasant. Sometimes they chit-chatted, and sometimes they just worked in peaceful silence. It was one of the few times where silence wasn’t scary.

Granted, the extent of Lila’s cooking was mostly throwing together stews and heating up whatever canned stuff they had, but it was still a bit of a leap from before. Maybe it was because expectations were low and people were desperate, but she even got compliments on her cooking.

The compliments didn’t make up for anything else these bastards had put her through. Murderers, every last one of them - either directly or indirectly. She’d been chased, threatened at gunpoint, threatened with knives, hit, stared at, cat-called, and a few ballsy bastards had even tried to grope her. Thankfully after a few bitten hands or noses, and some harsh words from those men’s superiors, the men mostly kept their hands off her. Their eyes still roamed too much.

As she stood at the deep industrial sink, wiping off a large soup spoon, she imagined using it to dig out eyeballs of the last drunk asshole that tried to snake his hand up her shirt. Auguste had stopped him, and that’s the only reason the man still had his eyesight.

The only innocents here were the kids too young to know better.

Putting away the last of the morning’s dishes, Lila exited the kitchen and returned to the bar. The inside of the clubhouse had filled up fast, with people seeking shelter from the sun and from boredom. The familiar tunes from the jukebox were getting old and tiring - and worst yet, it was country music.

How flammable was a jukebox?

At least the two men sitting at the bar were some of the more tolerable ones, though the bar was pretty low here. Beau didn’t ever seem to do anything but drink himself two steps closer to liver failure and an early grave, and Fish was… well… who the hell knew what Fish’s deal even was. The guy was smarter than he let on, observant and slick with people, and one of the few sober guys around here. He was one of the few people she sort of tolerated. She’d never admit she liked anyone here, no. That would be too much to ask of her. But some people were more tolerable than the others.

Lila had quickly picked up on the fact Fish didn’t drink booze. Ever. He wouldn’t even touch a bottle or a glass full of the stuff. She hadn’t known him all that long, but she was smart enough to put two and two together to figure out he probably had drinking problems in the past. Judging by the way he acted like he was deathly allergic to alcohol, she figured it must have been pretty bad. The fact he was able to come into the bar at all to socialize was probably a masterful feat of self-control all by itself, let alone put up with the constant drinking around him all the time. It was actually rather ridiculous that anyone would expect Fish to show up here.

Snorting quietly at the loud-mouthed prospect nursing his bruised balls off in the corner, Lila poured Fish his usual cup of coffee, slid it over to him, then leaned on the bar closer to Beau and put on her best slutty-barmaid voice for him. Yet another act to get her through the day.

“What’s the matter? Would you like your beer a little more room temperature?”

She caught sight of Auguste entering, and it put a grin on her face that he mercifully turned down the volume of the shitty music. If she could catch his gaze, she'd be sure to give him a wink.


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Madison "Connor" Jones
The Hunter

Taking a biker's ride so they didn't get any "ideas" was a threat, a literally deadly one that Connor recognized instantly, and the expression on her face showed nothing less. Exactly what "ideas" would inspire the need for a rapid escape? None of the possibilities that came to mind spoke well about her chances. Gods....her old chapter wouldn't do this. Her mates had been rough around the edges, but if someone had rolled up to their gates and warned of coming danger....... the Fallen Angels she knew might be suspicious, might not let said person in, might have told them where to shove their warning (depending), but demand the bike? So the stranger didn't get any ideas?

That sounded dangerously like what less scrupulous folk might demand from a solitary woman on the road.

Something flashed in Connor's eyes, clearly visible to any who knew what they were looking for; she'd assumed these people were Fallen Angels because of the patch and bikes, had been looking for Fallen Angels in the hopes of finding solidarity, the brotherhood she'd lost. This? Taking prisoners in all but name? Elkin's Angels might have fallen..... but not this far. Bikes were inviolate to her old brothers.

Not great.

"Please be reasonable. I haven't threatened anybody's safety. I didn't ask for refuge. I did the opposite, actually. You, any of you, could have told me to get lost and I'd have gone without a fuss. I'm happy to do so now." The girl looked around and a certain dry rue crossed her features, set up camp, pitched a tent somewhere between her eyebrows, and rolled out the sleeping bags.

"My old chapter's bylaws had plenty of 'show respect to your brothers', not so much 'we'll take your bike so don't get no ideas'. Guys I came from weren't thrilled with authority, if I'm being honest, and they believed a man's bike was sacred. They wouldn't have demanded anybody's ride who hadn't done anything except...... exist. I've asked nothing of you and yours, any of you. I haven't threatened anybody. I haven't done 'nything besides talk. I came here to do me a good deed, so..... it figures."

Connor looked at Texas in those deep eyes, giving him a slow nod to show an understanding of his position. The gun in her face wasn't personal. He was...... just following orders...... which didn't speak well for anybody. Without a word in his direction, the woman handed over the saddlebag, still calm, still polite.

"The way this is going, I'd rather take my chances on the road, no offense. That is, if you'll let me leav-"

A woman came up behind Big Britches, speaking to him in low, urgent tones. The presence of another woman beyond that chain-link wasn't a guarantee against funny business, but it made it less likely. A tension Madison hadn't known she was holding eased a little.

Madison looked at the Man in Charge as the lady bent in, and Madison simply looked tired. His reaction to an unfamiliar someone who hadn't shown anything in the way of an active threat was far, far beyond what was necessary, and the way in which Top Dog expressed himself was concerning, from not wanting people to get 'ideas' to the implication that she herself had led the horde to their doorstep and decided to warn the compound for....... who knew what. Some Machiavellian-level bullshittery, probably.

There were way, way easier ways to take out a compound like this and leave it 'clean' for the picking, later. None of those included letting presumed prey in on the danger. Connor hadn't killed many living humans, comparatively speaking, but the few she'd dispatched had earned the privilege and 'ambulance chasers' of the undead kind were definitely on her shit list.

The officer was well accustomed to people accusing others of crimes that they, themselves were richly capable of committing. Puffy Chest over there was worrying, if he was in charge. Whether or not anybody else realized it, Madison would wager the guy was dangerous, and not in a 'protect your brothers' way.

While Curly spoke to her boss, another person joined the growing crowd, and much to Connor's surprise, seemed to recognize her, had known Bill and even seen that dumbass picture of her Uncle Bill kept around to embarrass her. Considering 'Maddie' had been gap-toothed and gawky as a new fawn, it was easy pickings. Boho Biker's words sliced right to Connor's bones, and the expression on her face became a raw wound....... before she closed her eyes and forced the emotion from her features. This time, when her eyes opened, she addressed the newest member of the peanut gallery; "No. No, he's not."

She sighed, the memory of those days, of that day, was a ghost behind chestnut eyes, ever ready for a highlight-reel of could'ves and should'ves and if only's. There were, in Connor's experience, two kinds of guilt. The first was a rot on the inside, a churning weight that would gradually hollow someone right out, leaving nothing behind but ghosts, howling inside an empty skin suit. The second could be used as a makeshift signpost of the soul, a marker that said Go No Further. Tread not, no matter how righteous or good the cause might seem, no matter how desperate the need. Those days, that day, was a little of both, though Connor did her best to turn one into the other.

Uncle Bill deserved nothing less.

"He died a little over a year ago, I think. Hard to track, these days. Good man." That last was quieter than the rest had been.

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Beau Montaire

Tail Gunner


Beau kept his eyes on the bar, his smile fading as he responded with a simple "Hm." to Fish's comment on the beer. He was not going to take his advice by any stretch of the imagination, in fact, he would probably be shitfaced by the end of the night. He glanced at the other man for a moment before turning his attention back to his bottle, his dull blue-gray eyes staring blankly at the condensation. His words reminded him of what the medic had told him not a week before. His hand absentmindedly traveled to the bandaged wound on his shoulder, hidden beneath the sleeves of his plaid button-up. Kit had been blunt, mentioning all kinds of symptoms he was bound to develop sooner rather than later. Impotence first, not a huge concern since he didn't imagine anyone would touch him with a ten foot pole. Of course, then he'd continued, Heart disease, high blood pressure, liver disease, memory problems, cancer. 'who cares?' as long as he didn't drag anyone else down with him, it shouldn't be a big deal. He finished off the beer, assuming Fish was standing up. He was caught off guard by his words, tensing as Fish touched his shoulder. 'I ain't running from anything' he insisted to himself, but that nagging voice started up again despite his efforts. 'Don't lie to yourself stupid, you run like a rabbit from a coonhound. If you weren't such a little bitch you wouldn't need the liquor. What would your father say? Your wife? You're a useless drunk, the sooner you die the better.'

He didn't express any of this outwardly, of course, just giving a nod to the other club member as he left. He pushed his bottle to the side and ran a hand through his hair in a slight attempt to remove the stray locks from his face, but they just fell back into place, obscuring the wood of the bar with strands of ebony. He looked up to flag down Lila for another beer but was shocked to find her leaning almost directly in front of him. He quickly moved his gaze upwards to her face, staring her down as he moved his bar stool just a little bit backward. He gave an awkward cough, hoping she didn't notice his relatively rude approach to her being so close to him, and turned his attention to the wall. He studied it with a level of focus typically reserved for his guns, suddenly finding avoiding eye contact at the top of his list of priorities. " 's fine the way it is, thank ya, ma'am." he floundered with the words. "I could use another when ya get the chance, don't hurry on my behalf." he requested after a slight pause. He hated that kind of tone from Miss Lila, she reminded him too much of his younger sister. If she'd have brought home a man his age at her age, he would've shot him before he could open his mouth. Of course, she was entitled to whatever she wanted to do; it was far from his place to say anything. Maybe he was just too traditional, it wasn't his business. Auguste's statement pulled him from his thoughts. He was right, this would be his last beer, just in case. maybe. probably not.

The presence of Cris and his daughter had him thinking about Em, not an uncommon occurrence all things considered. He hoped she was well. She surely was, she could handle herself just fine. She was probably with a better man than he would ever be. Maybe she'd started a family, rebuilding society and all that. If he'd played his cards better she'd be beside him now, maybe they'd be corralling little ones too. Probably not, Em wouldn't have them around a bunch of drunk men. Unless of course, he was the only one drinking, which was pathetic. He didn't deserve her then and he didn't now, she'd be disgusted just looking at him.

"Make that two please if you can Miss Lila, or something stronger." He spoke up a little, hoping she hadn't gone too far. 'you're hopeless.' his head reminded him. Alas, he'd give anything to make it stop.

Namazu Namazu

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Casey Guidry

Vice President


From experience, Casey understood Madison’s pleads. She was correct, the MC was not always the way they presented themselves today. They originated under family fundamentals, protecting their brothers and sisters no matter the charter or the obstacle. Though when the dead rose to bury the living, everything changed. Casey and his club have worked their ass off to keep their home safe and weren’t going to allow this girl to put it in jeopardy, Angel or not. He was informed the Elkin charter was dead, so wouldn’t stick his neck out for anyone until he was certain her words were true.

“Your old bylaws don’t matter. Now don’t make this harder than it has to be.” Casey asserted, nodding to his men to continue the process of removing the bike from under her - hoping Madison would comply if she knew what was good for her. His prospects proceeded, asking her to please get off and reassuring that they didn’t want to have to hurt her. That’s when a sudden hand clasped onto Casey’s left shoulder, forcing his attention to his wife Alejandra who had joined the fray with imposing news.

He gave her his ear, listening to her whispers and information that came. Hank was returning from his meeting with Edgar and caught a glimpse of the horde Madison mentioned. Maybe her words held some truth, but Casey still had doubts. He put his hands behind his back in thought and leaned into his wife’s shoulder so only she could hear him. “She says she’s an Angel,” he revealed, catching her up on the unfolding events with that simple statement.

Alejandra was a good wife but an even better friend. Casey fell in love with her for her tenacity and fascinating brain. He valued her thoughts and ideas above anyone else’s. Despite not being bound by leather, her opinions mattered to the VP. He didn’t always act on what she said and sometimes went against her out of necessity, but praised her input on any matter. Unexpectedly, an array of ‘Conners’ from Fish caught Casey’s attention. He appeared to know Madison or at least, of her. This brought some humanity to their guest.

Casey turned to Fish, holding his right arm out to stop him from getting any closer to the gate. He heard him out, then looked back at Madison. It was becoming clear that the girl had affiliation with the Angels. One way or another, she ended up on their doorstep to warn them of the incoming herd. Be it out of the goodness of her heart or a personal vendetta - the unknown however made Casey very uneasy and he would not change his commands.

“I’m sorry about your Uncle Bill. I’m sure he was a really good guy, but please don't make me out to be someone I’m not. If you really are an Angel then you understand the meaning of this,” he started, pointing to the Vice President patch weeded to his chest. For all the talk of rules she was failing to follow a fundamental one, authority. “Know your place.” He looked over to Wess and his prospects who stood outside the gates. “Check, clear and bring her inside. Keep your eyes on her until Hank gets here. We have to get ready for the dead.”

He was done with this situation and needed to prepare for the incoming storm. Not sure what was in the air and why his guys were overly friendly all of a sudden, but there needed to be urgency. He gave his back to the crowd and turned towards Fish. “You may know of her, but you don’t know her. Be careful with that one,” Casey said before he started back towards the clubhouse with his wife.

He found himself stopped in his tracks when he reached the first step of the entrance. A thought he just couldn’t let go of forcing him still. It appeared he forgot to finish what he wanted to say to Fish and decided to return to him for one last note. “And Fish…don’t ever tell my guys to drop their guns.” With that he returned to his wife's side and walked to the door of the clubhouse, where he stopped and took one last look over towards Madison. “What do you think?” He asked Alejandra.

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Madison "Connor" Jones
The Hunter

Connor had heard it all before. The old ways don't matter, what is 'morality' anyway, why does it matter how things used to be, and all of the other ways people would excuse the terrible things they did in service to what they wanted, now that consequences were light and there was no reason to restrain anyone's baser inclinations. Considering everything those bylaws detailed, from 'Pay Your Debts' to 'Brothers, All' and 'Keep Your Promises'...... Connor wasn't keen on crumpling them up and throwing them aside.

Know your place. The irony of Biggus Dickus dismissing old laws while simultaneously pulling rank wasn't lost on the girl. If someone who committed gluttony was a glutton, and someone who committed a felony was a felon.... then God was an Iron. With a final order to force her inside rattling in her ears, Madison Jones knew that no, she wasn't going to be allowed to leave, and for better or worse, she'd functionally signed away her freedom (and maybe her life) the moment she'd tried to warn this place of the swarm of hungry dead, shuffling this way.

Fucking figured she'd get done in by some jackass on a power trip than by her actual enemy. If they cooked and ate her, she hoped Vice Prick choked. They weren't AS likely to rape her to death with a woman around..... but who knew. Ladies could be douchebags, too.

"Look, you don't HAVE to do this. This isn't right. Fallen Angels aren't supposed to BE like th-" And, for the second time in as many minutes, Connor's words were cut off, this time by the handle of a riffle, bludgeoning her in the back of the head. Almost instantly, the girl's knees buckled and the dark came for her like warm black snow in summer.

Satisfied that they'd done as directed, the men caught the bike and lifted the woman off of it, stripping her of all her belongings and most of her clothes. There were an absurd number of layers and weapons. When they found the badge, tucked in the innermost breast pocket of her shirt, above her heart, the bikers took a bit of personal enjoyment in manhandling her more than might otherwise be necessary on their way to the club proper. She was attractive, as such things went, and a little grope'n'feel never hurt anybody. Besides, unconscious girls couldn't say no, and they had the weight of their VP's orders to buoy them out of any guilt. They left her the dignity of a sports bra, black button up, and white undies, but little else.

More than one of them suggested she be used as bait, if this whole horde thing proved true.

She was, after all, a pig.

For her part, Connor's limp body was littered with scars, both fine and not, most of them within-the-past-year fresh, excepting the singular bullet mark along her collarbone. If the paler pains of survival were the roadmap of one's life, Connor's was more dog-eared than most. Unceremoniously, the men dumped her in a heap, deep inside the club's back rooms, away from anyone else.

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Alejandro had no expectations Casey would respond to what she told him, at least no thanks or praise. In this situation, outside in front of his club she was a subordinate - hell - she wasn’t even part of the club, hardly an authority over other family members and she understood and accepted this fact. It was part of life within the club and while this Casey wouldn’t thank her, or truly acknowledge her, she knew her Casey loved and appreciated her. The duality of his life she understood well, her life in the military making the transition between the two Caseys; one husband and best friend, the other the Vice President, easy for her to accept. She had rank-and-file friends who she served under, while on base they were chatty and friendly but the moment the uniform was on, the chatter was done and work started.

She glanced at Fish as he swaggered over to join the growing group of people confronting the stranger; she didn’t know who this was or why they were here but clearly, it was a standoff, one the strange woman wasn’t going to win. He seemed to know who this was, even if Casey doubted it and she was surprised to hear Fish tell Casey’s men to stand down, though she didn’t let the expression reach her face. Perhaps she missed something before but she stood aside and waited, wanting to know where this went, truthfully.

Sadly, as Ally expected, the strange woman resisted the request - orders - to relinquish the bike and she winced seeing her get knocked out by the butt of a rifle. That’s going to suck later. She turned to walk with Casey back towards the clubhouse, looking away as he scolded Fish for interjecting. She liked Fish, the most aside from her husband, he seemed the easiest to get along with and one of the few in the club that treated her like a member, when she most certainly was not.

Ally looked back at Casey as he asked about the woman, she let her eyes turn back to the prospects clearly having a moment of triumph over the woman that had defied their VP. “Fish seems to know her and I’d trust that instinct. He’s the secretary for a reason, knowing people is his job.” She frowned slightly at the blatant man handling she was being subjected to. “She’s got a patch.” She shrugged, looking back at Casey. “She wouldn’t come here and risk her ass to the club without reason. But we’ve heard of places falling from inside jobs.” Ally inhaled deeply, considering. “I’d bring her in but keep her on notice.” She paused, almost hesitating, before speaking again. “Can they give her back her clothes now? Point’s been made.” Ally didn’t want to point out the obvious but she hated seeing people disrespect the ranks. With the woman’s identity confirmed, a patched member outranked prospects. It only proved to her further she had no interest in joining the club at any time.




Auguste knew that those who knew him well knew that he didn’t speak often and chose his words carefully. The officers and members of the club would receive his intended message, that being quite was for the best at this time. He’d never been particularly chatty - friendly, certainly, when someone else engaged him in conversation but he rarely was the one to start, not unless there was an incredible amount of alcohol involved.

He waited by the jukebox as Fish meandered his way from the bar towards him, asking about what was happening but then didn’t stick around to wait to find out, instead continuing his rambling walk out the door to find out himself. Auguste swore, if he didn’t know Fish as well as he did, he’d think he was always low-key drunk. A functioning alcoholic. He glanced around the clubhouse, it seemed the prospects and members were settling when he happened to glance at Lila and certainly did not miss her not-so-subtle wink.

Auguste was very certain Lila would be the eventual death of him. If he had his preference, that death would involve her on top of him in the best possible way. But he fully acknowledged that if he didn’t have bad luck, he wouldn’t have any luck at all.

Shaking the thought from his head, he headed to the bar, dropping onto a stool a seat away from Beau. “Water, s’il vous plait.” He asked Lila before speaking to the Tail Gunner. “Busy morning, Montey?” Beau looked a little further into the drink than he would have liked for this part of the day, certainly knowing what might be headed their way.

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Kallie & Mason Weston

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Wess ran up to catch Connor as best as he could until one of the prospects took hold of her from him. His voice was as loud now as it was deep. Rarely ever raising his voice, this time Wess felt like he had every right to. The other prospect earned a forceful shove to the chest from the cowboy's forearm, "C'mon now, look what you did!" The rough treatment was irksome, unnecessary by his standards. These idiots were just trying to impress the VP, that much was visible. But you don't get hard by trying to be hard, no, that comes with experience...and seeing some shit. Casey's orders, however, he could understand, and thoroughly agreed with despite Connor's protest. Times were different. Things didn't run the way they did in the old days. It was competitive now, fight to survive and protect what you got. Then, when the world was still spinning, most folk only fought for things like status, money, or power to get ahead in life. Now, you fight for basic necessities and the chance to survive. People you thought were your friends wont think twice about leaving you high and dry in this world, or leaving you for dead. The MC could only trust their own, it's the reason they've come this far. Sister charter or not, they needed to be cautious and cover all bases. Wess whistled for another bystanding prospect to walk his bike in through the gates. He slung Connor's bag over his shoulder and tucked his piece into the inner pocket of his jacket and let out an exasperated sigh, "She ain't goin' no where now, I guess."

Back in the bar Kallie was prepping for her turn at pool. Kit struck first....with no luck. In fact with terrible luck. Poor guy. "Go easy?" Kallie circled around him before taking her place infront of the cue ball, "I don't exactly do easy," she mirrored the same michevious smirk that he flashed her earlier, "Not my style." Kallie wasn't just being a smart ass, there was truth in her words. She was stubborn, firey, and ruthless. Always doing things how she wants, despite the countless times shes been reprimanded for her mouth or reckless choices. Easy wasn't in her vocabulary. Zeroing in on her shot, Kallie tucked her cigarette between her lips (for safe keeping) and craned over the green felt to plant her cue stick in position. With a couple push and pulls of the stick she finally struck her shot. The cue ball hurled itself between two striped balls, which, with enough force, sent both balls flying in opposite directions. Each ball fell into their own appropriate pocket with a clunk. Kallie, wearing a smug face, stood back up and took one puff of her cigarette. A cloud of smoke swirled around her when he gave a curt bow of her head, "Your turn, Kitty Cat." She raised an eyebrow, eager for a remark, when she noticed her brother's silhouette enter through the bar doors behind him.

Wess dragged his feet through the doors as Fish passed by him, he could hear him talking to Casey and the others about their new "friend" behind him. Clutching Connor's bag tightly with one hand, he used the other to the rub the back of his neck. As of telepathy were a thing, the siblings' eyes met eachother. Kallie watched as Wess' chest deflated with a big sigh, he looked at her brown under his brows, his head tilted down slightly, and gave a short shake. He looked....troubled. Kallie pressed her lips tightly together, forming a thin line. She knew that look, and it wasn't good. Something was up. A sudden bump against her back caused her take a step forward and bump her hips against the table before her. Her head spun as quickly as her temper, "Jesus!" She watched as Cris waltzed around with his daughter, unaware of his boundries with others. Well he was gonna learn today, "Watch it Cris! Some of us are trying to play over here! Theres plenty of space any where else, twinkle toes. If you mess up my shot, my foot will be so far up your ass, you wont be able to take a shit till Christmas!" Kallie tried to meet eyes with her brother again, but he seemed a little... preoccupied.

Wess approached an empty table and plopped the bag on top of it. His hands rummaged through quite the assortment of belongings which include:

  • a small notebook, tattered and weathered, with nothing but tally marks, from what Wess could see when he thumbed through the pages. What were they? Kills? Days? An inventory of ammo?
  • 2 photos that have seen better days, one was of a scruffy old man with with an impressive beard. Wess cocked his head back when he muttered to himself the name scribbled on the back, "Uncle Bill?" The other photo was of a woman with a scarf neatly wrapped around her head standing beside a very serious older man. Tilting his head to the side, Wess thought the woman resembled Connor.
  • Some toiletries that consisted of anti-perspirant (a rare commodity) and a toothbrush with a cover snapped over it. "Hm, tidy," he scoffed to himself.
  • A small beanie baby of a lobster. A curious choice to keep with oneself but nevertheless earned a little chuckle from the cowboy
  • A pair of sunglasses
  • A half-used pack of wet-wipes. Real tidy.
  • Bug spray. Practical.
  • A multitool.
  • Some medical supplies like an opened jar of vapor rub, and 2 boxes of Amoxicillin with the names and prescription labels rubbing off, and a roll of bandages.
  • An old chocolate chip cookie....ew... Wess took the liberty of tossing that out for her.
  • More than enough ammo for herself, packed in boxes.
  • A map, which Wess curiously opened to find her route and journey all the way from Elkin. He looked closely at the few "HELL NO"s or "FUCK NO"s that were haphazardly written over some locations.
  • A larger notebook that, when Wess flicked through some pages, appeared to house the ramblings of a madman...er...woman.
  • AND FINALLY....what he was searching for to begin with. Proof of her truth, that she was indeed from a sister club: an MC patch
Wess gripped the sides of the table to lean over it. His heart felt heavier now that the claim was confirmed. A member of the MC shouldn't have been treated that way, but he had to remind himself that precautions needed to be taken. Either way, theres more pressing matters at hand...like the massive hoarde coming straight for them. Wess took a look around the room, watching everyone obliviously go about their business, for a moment forgetting what kind of world they lived in. What their reality was like now. He looked at Casey through the window, he had to show him the patch. Wess took his arm and oh-so-carefully (not) sweeped the contents sprawled on the table-top back into the bag. Perhaps the matter of Connor and her patch had to wait, the club had to strap themselves in for what was to come. Wess threw the bag over his shoulder again and bee-lined for the door.

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Beau was oblivious to the obvious flirting right beside him, still focused on regretting every decision he'd ever made. He glanced at Auguste before turning his attention back to his new drink, thanking Lila quietly. He ignored his question for the time, instead sipping his beer. "Did I ever tell ya I had an aunt in Louisiana? She knew French too." He commented absently, his voice a deep southern drawl with all the enthusiasm of murky, still pond water. "Her husband, my uncle, had a' couple o' fingers missing. When I was little he'd tell me it was a gator, but I found out from my pops that it was a circular saw." He explained, pausing to sip his beer again. "Sure kept me away from the water, I figure that was his point. Can't have yer little ones runnin' round the swamps, gators got about as much mercy as the dead." He rambled. "I reckon they'd eat zombies too... Might be worth getting a gator for the club." He grinned, if no one else, at least he thought he was funny. He finally circled back around to the question. "It's my day off, guns are clean, I'm not runnin' today, figure I'll take the opportunity to enjoy myself. Ain't no tellin' how long I got left." He said this as if cracking another joke, but internally, he was dead serious. "What's with you? I've seen cottonmouths in a better mood." He commented, looking back toward the older man. He didn't seem happy, especially considering he'd turned off the music. It put a cold feeling in his gut.

"It ain't bad news, is it?" He asked, glancing towards the doors in time to see Wess with a bag he didn't recognize. It was starting to look like bad news more and more.


Kit watched her shoot with a mixture of disappointment and awe. "I lined that one up for you" He insisted before her words registered in his head. "Kitty cat?!" He asked, almost flabbergasted. He felt the heat rise to his face, a fact that made him all the grumpier. He couldn't quite come up with a comeback as he leaned over the table again to line up his next shot. "I'm easy but I'm not that easy babe, you'll at least need to buy me a drink first." He retorted though it was mostly a flustered grumble. "Not that I'm not already getting fucked." He added under his breath. Thankfully, he hadn't taken the shot when Kal bumped the table and was able to readjust this time, though he was ever so distracted by her fury. He took the opportunity to line up his shot, knocking a solid into one of the corner pockets and setting up Kallie in the middle of a group of solid balls. He shot her a shit-eating grin, pleased to at least make her shot difficult. "Hope you've got another one of those fancy tricks Miss Kallie" He teased, tossing his hair out of his face. He wandered a few feet from the table to finish his drink before getting back to it, resting his hands on the sides and watching Kallie with a similar expression to a cat watching a bug. "Don't fuck up" He offered helpfully, his tone innocent. "Sorry about the language Cris" He added a little louder. "Don't repeat any of what Miss Kallie and Mr. Kit say little lady, I don't wanna get my ass kicked by your dad." He added, oblivious to the curseword he'd just used himself. It registered after another minute. "Ah fuck, sorry again Cris."

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cristiano ronaldo

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Santina giggled at Kallie's antics. "You say poop!" She squeezed herself to her daddy, hiding her face in his neck, embarrassed by her own words.

Cris wasn't turned off by Kallie's blatant dismissiveness of his silly approach. It wasn't his first attempt at flirting. The world ended and there weren't many entertainments or people you could share them with. Cris wasn't prude nor picky but he was oddly drawn to that particular lady.

Kit made him laugh a little uneasily. His homies kept cursing around Santina since she was a baby, same with her mother and her boyfriends. If the kid didn't end up swearing like a sailor he'd be lucky.

Ronaldo looked over to the jukebox when the patched member turned down the music. "Sorry Daddy!" Cris bared a grin at the man, always enjoying calling him that questionable nickname.

But his smile faltered when the door swung in and other Prospects entered along with Wess. There was a woman with them and he didn't like the fact she was stripped to her underwear.

"Who is that, papa…?" Little girl sounded apprehensive, watching the men carry the unconscious female to the back rooms. Cris turned to watch, brows furrowed.

"I don't know sweetpea. But it looks like she had too much to drink." He lied, recognizing the patch of wet crimson in the woman's hair.

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