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Realistic or Modern LL: The Samaritans

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Crono

The Guy
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Was it worth it?

The words sneered in his face by one of the enforcers still rung in his head. Split by the pounding headache at the back of his skull where they knocked him out. Andrew combed his grizzled hair with a trembling hand, feeling the wet, thin strands and the sticky touch of blood where it hurt the most. But he couldn't see red on his fingers in the pitch-black cell. Not a splinter of light braving through the thick, metal door.

The muffled roar broke the silence, ripped through the concrete somewhere from above. Another fallen man hit the battleground, stained by sweat, blood, and tears of those before him.

Andrew shuffled closer to the corner, his broken mind seeking shelter in the dark confinement. He shivered when his bare skin brushed the mold covered walls, all they offered was a cold cradle that his chilled body couldn't stand. He leaned away with a shaky breath filled with despair.

Was it worth it? The man licked his chapped lips and swallowed hard against sore throat, unable to answer. But he knew that no matter the consequences, what he did, was the right thing to do.

Rhythmic thuds from above picked up his heart rate. Like an army marching in one place, their hammering feet punching dust off the ceiling. Andrew drew his limbs closer, hands fisting, whole body braced. He knew that chanting. Demand heard in the hundreds of voices. The blood sport. And God, for what, for human entertainment. But they've been there already, for centuries. Societies feeding the population with gore and pain of their unlucky brothers and sisters. Didn't they evolve by now? Did the end of days so easily push mankind back to dark ages? Were they this hopeless.

The heavy mechanism of the solitary cell released the door with a clunk. Andrew dug his nails into curled palms, shutting his eyes tight for a few heartbeats. Bracing shattered soul for what was to come.

On your feet soldier. His own order reverberated in his head and the man sprung up despite the burn in his joints.

Gunnery Sergeant's dog tags clinked as his naked body, wrapped only in the fabric around his groin, erected with the last shards of dignity and pride. Chin up high even though his eyelids fluttered closed at the sting of the dim light flooding the tiny space. Rough hands grabbed him from both sides, and the nameless men dragged him out of the ward.

Andrew staggered, blinded when they pushed him into the brightly lit cage. Thunder in his ears chased the rabbiting heart, his gaze momentarily dropping to the stains of blood on the filthy ground. Vivid, still fresh. Then he lifted it and spun around in the search of a single kind face. Jeering of corrupt souls enveloping the bullpen with a tight cordon was deafening. The asymmetry of the organic body of the crowd breathed and waved in the murk, vibrating the foot-thick walls like low bass in the club. Their stinking heat pervaded the room up to the tall ceiling. He could smell the familiar blend of fear, anticipation, and lust. Lust for violence.

Andrew stopped but his pulse quivered when he watched another person in the shadows, escorted by two guards. His opponent. His fate… Because that night, only one of them would get out of the cage alive.



Six weeks earlier…



 
Wesley Emmett

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Scene One
The Marines

The late afternoon sun was just beginning to dip, bathing the fields, hills, and distant treeline in a sickly orange glow. It was still more than enough light that it didn't make Wesley's job any more difficult... or that of his partner. He gave the horizon a slow, wide scan with the spotting scope -- making sure to pay special attention to the vegetation and any dips or rises in the lay of the land. The area surrounding Lincoln State Correctional Center had been kept relatively well-maintained once upon a time, but following the outbreak landscaping had been the least of anyone's priorities. Underbrush and even several young trees had begun to sprout and spread inward, encroaching steadily toward the facility and creating "blind spots". Wesley had raised this concerns about this potential security issue with King, hoping to have some of LSCC's "staff" sent out on work details in order to clear-cut the perimeter, but to no avail thus far.

Satisfied with his scan, Wesley backed off the scope to glance over at his partner -- and student -- seated next to him in the tower, rifle gripped in his hand as he glanced through the attached telescopic sight. The young man's name was Kenny and Wes had taken it upon himself to tutor him, as he was now part of King's -- and by extension, Wesley's -- cadre of guards. His diminutive frame and what seemed to be an easygoing streak (from the brief time Wes had spent with him) made him a poor fit as an enforcer amongst the general population... but he was handy with a long gun. Kenny had mentioned growing up hunting and he seemed willing to learn. Wes could work with that, even if he wasn't holding his breath one way or the other.

"Keep both eyes open. Don't squint," Wes remarked gruffly as he gave the young man a sideways glance. "And make sure you don't spend all your time on the scope, especially at max magnification. Take some time to glance around at your surroundings off the gun so you don't miss the big picture. The last thing you want to get is tunnel vision... and it'll save you from eye fatigue after a few hours staring through glass."

Wesley's radio crackled to life. "Control to Tower One. Your presence is requested inside, over."

He keyed the device, bringing it to his mouth. "10-4, I'm headed in."

Wesley turned back towards the horizon just as he finished speaking, pausing as something caught his attention. Immediately he leaned down toward the spotting scope, bringing it to bear on what looked to be hint of light reflecting on glass, along with a cloud of dust. His jaw clenched as he tapped Kenny's shoulder and pointed in the direction of the road before reaching for his radio again. "Tower One to Patrol. I have a vehicle approaching the northern perimeter from the road at a high rate of speed. About... one klick out and closing. Looks like they're alone, but be careful when you intercept. I'm leaving the Tower, but keep me updated, over."

Wesley stood up from his seat, his legs creaking in protest from having sat down for so long. He looked to Kenny with a stern glare. "I gotta go update the boss. You keep an eye on that damn car and everything that happens. Send rounds if you have to... but not unless someone else starts firing first. Remember, this part isn't like shooting a deer." With that, gave the young man a nod before collecting his own gear and making his way out of the Tower, heading hastily down the stairs and hurrying across the walkway back toward the main facility to be buzzed back in. Once inside, he made his way toward the living quarters to the sound of his boots pounding against the slick cement floor.


 
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Jamie & Jax
Scene One
The Marines

Today marked the 462nd (and a half, it was midday after all) day of the apocalypse. That made just about 15 grueling months of near-death experiences, non-stop walking, and questionably hygienic canned beans.

Jamie never thought he would make it a year, much less a month, into the apocalypse, and he’s supposed to be the optimist of his group. He liked to be honest with himself, and he honestly pictured himself as the kind of guy that died first in any given situation. To him, 462 days (and a half) was a mind-blowing accomplishment. He just liked to count himself lucky whenever he lived to see each new sunrise.

At least, he thought it was 462 days (and a half). He lost his watch a month ago, so he couldn’t really be sure it was midday. He lost his calendar even farther back as well, so he couldn’t even be sure he lost his watch a month ago either.

A particularly violent bump over a pothole rocked the truck, bouncing Jamie on the bed of the truck and snapping him back into reality. If he were any smaller, he likely would have achieved unaided flight and flown right over the side of the truck bed. Grumbling, he crawled to the truck cab and tapped on the window.

“Watch the roads, Blake! You’ve got fragile cargo back here!” Jamie called through the glass before sitting himself against the cab.

The truck did have enough seats for everyone, but after six hours of sitting on his ass in the cramped middle seat between Jax and Eugene, he’d gotten restless and tried to start a singalong. He’d promptly been kicked out onto the truck bed to ‘think about what he did'. He thought he had a fantastic singing voice, but apparently, that sentiment wasn’t shared. His rendition of Take On Me lulled Packer to sleep, which he chose to take as a compliment.

Jamie liked it better in the truck bed anyway, humming idly as he took in the views rolling past the truck. The sights were nothing to gawk at, seeing as they were in Ohio, but Jamie did anyway. It was either he looked interested at every derelict hiking trail bathroom they passed by or did nothing at all for the time it took them to run out of gas.

Thankfully, the roads had become unusually clear lately. It felt like he’d spent the majority of the first half of the road trip pushing away burnt-out cars blocking the road, but the latest leg didn’t look to have any roadblocks whatsoever. They’d driven by dozens of cars pushed off onto the side of the road over the last few miles, each clearly moved off the road by other people. That in itself wasn’t so strange though. It really wasn’t a leap in logic to assume another group with a car came through the area a while ago and shoved away from the roadblocks before passing on. Other than the cars, he hadn’t seen any real evidence to another group occupying the area. There wasn’t any reason to stray the course.

The vehicle came to a halt and the stocky blonde climbed out of the seat next to the driver. Hand wrapped around the handguard of his standard-issue M27 before he lazily slung the rifle to his back. Their buddies didn't go for the Chinese fire drill he jokingly suggested so he just stepped to the side of the road, facing away from the car. Buzz of the cicadas muffled the sound of the zipper and the man’s yawn as he idly watched the area. Only half cautious because he knew humans wouldn't try to ambush them in the middle of nowhere. And biters? Those walking corpses were not most discreet in their advances.

"How are you doing back there, fly-kid?" Jax peeked over his shoulder at Jamie, not looking down at the string of piss shimmering in the slanted sunshine. The late afternoon glare brought color to man's naturally sensitive, half beard-covered cheeks. "Learnt your lesson yet?"

“All I’ve learned is that you can’t appreciate quality entertainment,”
Jamie began, indignant. “My voice is an art form! You should just count yourselves lucky I have every ABBA song memorized, word for word, right up here”. Jamie tapped his head for emphasis. It was a shame he couldn’t remember the right pitch though. Or volume. Or rhythm.

Jax chuckled, putting himself back after the usual ritual. "Your singing is worse than the sounds Hughes makes with his ass, son." He cleared the phlegm off his throat when turning and spat into the tall grass while walking towards the back of the vehicle.

“Every word that comes out of your mouth is pure poetry,” Jamie drawled, unimpressed, “how do you do it?”

"Got it from my Papa."
After hours of driving in the front seat, he felt like stretching his legs so he hopped up the dual tire and over the bedside. His boots hit the 16 gauge steel floor and his gear rattled against the panel as the thirty years old Marine settled down with an old man sigh. He left the rifle in his lap and pulled out a well-used pack of Camels filled with a mix of brand and hand-rolled cigarettes.

Jamie sat up from where he was lying on his own gear, his submachine gun lying by his side. “Where do you keep getting Tobacco for these things?” Jamie sniffed then, scrunching up his face, “…or is that weed?”

"Your Mamma."
The blonde tapped one out when the car pulled off, gaining speed. "Huey!" The guy banged his elbow on the rear panel, speaking with the cigarette in his lips. "Let me light it, dammmit!" He patted his pouches, searching, of course, he had to lose his lighter now.

Jamie groaned, slumping into his pack. There was no good comeback to that, all he could do was roll over and accept his defeat. Every. God. Damn. Time. He was a good sport though, which was why he reached into his flight jacket’s breast pocket and tossed Jax his dented zippo lighter that MAYBE, hard emphasis on the maybe, had some fuel left.

"Thanks." The other tried it but Hughes apparently didn't like to be told what to do because the machine swerved just when the weakest flame tried to last. "Mother-" He tried again. "Fucker!" Didn't work. He gave up and tossed the thing back to Jamie. Then he carefully climbed to his feet, swaying left and right, and grabbing the mounted lights with one hand he slammed the other against the roof. He was about to yell at his friend to slow down when he caught a flash of something far away.

Too late.

Written With: Bullyboy Squad Bullyboy Squad
Other: Crono Crono The Cat Man The Cat Man Safton Safton spottednewt spottednewt
 
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Kenneth Parker



CH.1 - SCENE #1
"The Marines"

FINE | GUILTY
Chief Wes ( Safton Safton ) | Intruders ( Bullyboy Squad Bullyboy Squad Togy Togy Crono Crono )
( spottednewt spottednewt )

A yawn built up from remaining in a somewhat uncomfortable position and of experiencing the stagnancy of staring at wildlife with almost no movement and purpose to be seen was held back as Kenny shakily sighed, who was finding trouble in being a responsible sniper dude due to the sheer lack of shit going on. There's just nothing to do here! Kenneth wished he was just chilling somewhere else right now, whether it be reading a forgotten magazine he got his hands on or watching two buff guys beat each other up or literally ANYTHING else! Kenny thought he'd at least be playing target practice, not sightseeing the exciting plant life of a repurposed prison, though calling it plant life is kind of a stretch.

And that's not even considering the constant reminder of the pecking order looming over his shoulder as Wesley reprimands him again for squinting and furthermore advising the sniper on handling aiming, the feeling of having a head attached to his body stopping Kenny from snapping back in irritation as a grunt of guilty acknowledgement sounded from the young boy, who readjusted his eyes readily. He was genuinely glad he found a way to be useful once he was escalated for this job, being useful means he's just important enough to stick around for a good time without worrying for his life, Kenneth really wanted to do a good impression on the LITERAL CHIEF ENFORCER drilling him. He's very tense already, and as bored as he is, self preservation screams louder than the desire for some entertainment, not wanting to get on the bad side of someone like fucking Wesley... He's not that bad though, at least in first look, Kenny just knows there's probably a reason he's up there and he does NOT want to experience that, officer or prisoner, it means jackshit once the punch reaches anyway...
Though he could get his own first rifle! There's something to be excited about!

...
His slightly more pessimistic thoughts were interrupted by a heavy pat on his shoulder, Kenny's head reflexively looked at his mentor and where he was pointing, not really paying attention to whatever it was that he talked about with that walkie-talkie but his heartbeat must've skipped once in a small scare on a preconception of a mistake, his inexperience with keeping his eyes to the background was foretold once he was properly pointed to the arriving targets, it was a little embarrassing but maybe it was small enough to be forgiven in his eyes, spotter-sniper and such...
However, FINALLY, something's fucking happening! Let's do this! Get your shit ready, Chief Wes! Dad didn't say I got his genes just from looks!

"...W-Wait, wh-!" Kenny could only stutter all over himself when he desperately turned his gaze back to his partner, only to meet nothingness. And just like that, all his excitement made from proving himself was flushed down into cowardice, responsibility was placed upon him in a blink of an eye, and he's already questioning himself if he can really do it.
Wes just said it's not like hunting, this is different, what the fuck is he supposed to do?! Of course he doesn't know what to do! How would he even get what's supposed to be done?!

"Fuckin'... URGH, god damnit! Shit, fuck, fuck!" In a barrage of curse words directed to his own abstract figure of a distinct lack of confidence, Kenny could do nothing more but return to position and watch what's up, with nothing but a weak-willed determination and some shot-up instincts, he's not ready at all.

And Kenny makes another mistake, witnessing a briefly stopped truck start over again, he struggled a bit to follow suit, a little lost on following a speeding vehicle, especially on a zoomed vision like this...

It's a little funny.
Kenny was just told it wasn't like shooting a deer.
...But he can't help but remember a deer once he saw that familiar gaze of pure helplessness as the scope finally took something in it's lens.
Two deers locked in each other's headlights, despite the stark difference in their apparent fates, it was like time had stopped, and all Kenneth could do was think, completely dazed to even act.
He was pleading, hoping that somehow, despite the impossibility of this selfish childish begging ever reaching the target's ears, that just maybe, it would come true.
The boy desperately pleaded for this man to just look away from him.








º º code by ditto º º
 
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Dutchess



Chapter One - Scene Two
Home Sweet Home

Dutchess meandered down the dusty gravel and dirt trail leading back to the ranch. It had long since become overgrown with lack of vehicles traveling down it; the most she’d seen in the weeks she’d spent infiltrating the ranch and it’s denizen had been a horse and wagon and that had only been, once when she and Santiago had taken it out to bring back their haul from a scavenger trip. She knew better to drag her heels and take too long; while the Ranch didn’t attract too much in the way of shamblers, dawdling out in the open certainly would.

She passed through the iron gates, closing the latch behind her, waving and smiling at the ranch hand watching the fence line for the morning shift, then wandered back to the storehouse to turn in her findings from the night before; not much beyond a few cans of meat, some bandages and a bottle of aspirin. In the storehouse she recorded on the inventory list what she brought it and then signed out a bottle of olive oil and jar of honey. It always amused her the difference between security here and at the prison; if she’d been back at the prison returning from a run she would have had to been interrogated by an Enforcer on where she’d been, what she’d seen, what she was bringing in and just how long she’d been gone. Her bags and pockets would have been turned out and then she would have been off to wait for Sergio for a debriefing. Both places were surviving, she dare say thriving and yet they were polar opposites of one another.

On a typical day she would wander out into the fields or the gardens or the pens to help out the farm hands in their work after getting back; Santiago never once asked her, or Anthony for that matter, to contribute more than what they did but to keep up appearances and to feel like she had value she often would do far more than what was expected of her. After all - she was here to lull the Ranch into ease so the Samaritans could come and take what they needed.

She knew today was the day: Cabrera and his team were probably already posted out surrounding the Ranch ready to dive in at the designated time and while she was sure today of all days she should have kept up her appearances and manners around the Ranch she just wasn’t in the mood. She stuffed the two jars of goods into her personal pack and made her way around the back of the storage shed to the back part of the Ranch. It was secluded here, only a derelict shed she hadn’t seen anyone go near the entire time she’d been rambling around the Ranch. She came here often in the early days; unable to trust anyone at the Ranch while she slept she’d climb onto the roof of the shed to catch some sleep under the open sky.

Dutchess dragged a half broken pallet and leaned it up against the side of the shed, using it as a ladder to climb up onto the roof. She sat with the sun at her back, planting her bag between her knees, ready to get to work on a special project. In the time she’d been out of the prison and at the Ranch she hadn’t had the opportunity to head back to her stashes and get some amenities she enjoyed, one of which she was in dire need of: bleach. She hadn’t been a brunette since her pre-teens and she did not intend on returning to the prison looking ragged and so, she grabbed an empty bottle and poured half the olive oil and half the honey into it before shaking the contents well and dousing it over her showing roots. A few hours in the sun and she would be as blond as ever.

She settled back on the sloped roof, spreading her damp hair out for the sun when she heard rustling at the side of the shed and to no surprise Anthony’s head popped over the edge; a grin on his lips and a joint between his lips. She rolled her eyes but scooted over to make room for him to join her, fishing a bic lighter out of her pocket and held it out to him as he settled in beside her. “What’s new, brother.”
Mentions: Bullyboy Squad Bullyboy Squad - Sergio / Cabrera, arthur morgan. arthur morgan. - Santiago
Interactions: The Cat Man The Cat Man - Anthony




code by ditto
 
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He could feel the grit in his teeth, breathing hot air that even there on the vantage point tasted like smoke and metal. His prone body remained pressed to the hard, heated ground for two baked hours when the sun was at its peak. Wet under the armor and fatigues that blended in with the central Iraqi plains. At least he wasn't freezing like throughout the night.

Cabrera turned his head, biting the plastic tube over his shoulder and sucking on it. The professionally cleansed Tigris water was shit after sitting in the bladder too long. Lukewarm, tasted like plastic. But he still welcomed how it sloshed down his desert dry throat and spread in his chest.

Static-cracked words disrupted the drone of the wind in his ears, "Sucking like a champ, Cuddles." Cabrera recognized his best friend took position and observed him and the rest of their team from afar. The comment made him smirk against the Camelback's straw before he retorted.

"Can't take your eyes off of me, Conejito?" Tasting sweat on wet lips he put his tired eye back to the scoped rifle. The horizon sizzled in his lens, distorted by the heat and dotted with the scattered buildings of a stray village. Dirt billowing where the desert met sky drew his attention and his tone instantly shifted. "Devil 5, this is Pitbull 36. I have a visual on the convoy, over."



Ignacio caught red hair in the corner of his eye and he pulled away from the memory as well as from the rifle he was leaning over. Meeting the freckled face framed by braids that glistened in the warm rays of the lowering sun. "Thanks, kiddo." He took the batteries from Penny's pale hand and casting one last glance at the Ranch down the scope he sat up. Still obscured by the tall vegetation at the crest of the hill, the man puffed and waved at the swarm of tiny flies. Their miniature wings flickering like glitter before his face.

"I don't know who had the last shift in the armory," where all their gear was maintained and prepared, not just the weaponry, "but whoever it was they're going to be cleaning shitters for a month." Cabrera announced while replacing the batteries in the small, black device that should have been working faultlessly. "Let's test it again." He looked at Jenkins', set up a few good yards away from his spot, then pressed the transmission button and the humor flavored words rolled off his tongue. "Test test, checking the frequency only sarcastic bitches can hear." His mouth curled on the side.

The leader waited for the woman's response before refocusing on the house below. The whole ranch was flooded by the tangerine flare that would die come evening. Pretty damn spectacular if not for the fact the sun was getting into their eyes with their current position. Not like there was a better one from the elevated Eastside that they set their post on. All other directions were just flat terrain and woodlands. The conditions weren't perfect but for now, all they had to do was wait.

When dusk coated the area with its ashen hues, Cabrera finally told them to get ready. "It's time." To call their scouts, the ones infiltrating the Ranch for a few weeks now. The man changed the channels on the radio and cleared his throat. Pulling the mouthpiece close to his lips he pressed the button, waited a few moments, and then he asked. "Rascal One, this is Daddy, are you there?" Not the phrase he'd use a million times before when speaking over comms to his military brothers. But those times were over. "Rascal One, are you ready?" Cabrera was no longer one of the dogs guarding sheep. Now, he was one of the wolves.




 
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Anthony North



CH.1 - SCENE #2
"Home Sweet Home"

FINE | RELAXED
'Sis' ( NanLia NanLia )
'A certain someone.' ( arthur morgan. arthur morgan. )
( Bullyboy Squad Bullyboy Squad )
Anthony was, surprisingly enough, not shirtless and was keeping his boastful attitude to a 2 from the usual 100 back in the jails, the guy's maintaining his real asshole persona undercover as best as he can and it was working well so far, evidenced by him not getting kicked out by these chumps and being welcomed with open arms... It was VERY annoying to play kumbaya with these people though, North's already looking forward to getting back to his throne and getting the treatment he deserves, he's gonna need one hell of a good fight to get rid of the cow refuse stink glued onto his scent.

He doesn't even get WHY he's here, sure, he can play happy family for a while and a security guy, but the Jersey Devil isn't a fucking ranch helper for some depressed jackasses or a bouncer for a celebrity! Maybe it's good to spread out the eyes from outside to inside, from scavenging to farm aid, he can kinda see that... But come on! This isn't North's place! His place is in a fight beating the next guy up!

...Thankfully, 'big sis' thought ahead and got some good shit to calm his nerves down, at least for the time being. Far from his favorites, but not like he can't appreciate a good chillax. At least his buddy was someone he can actually tolerate, Dutchess is reliable AND resilient, he can see a fighter when he sees one... Whether he respects it or not, well, that was always in the air, left for the magazines' speculation... But thinking about THAT makes his blood boil, and maybe he wants to save that type of energy for the right time...
Shit's gonna go down sooner or later, better rest up til then, and, well, Anthony's far from the only to think that, given the sight of the infamous scavenger in front of him.

After flashing his classic grin, something he may like doing a bit too much, North casually took his place laying down beside his fellow spy and briefly borrowed her offering to light up his little medicine for the day... Smoke blew amongst the solemn air, his hand lazily playing with the scorching paper. "Oh, you know, the fucking usual. Seems blondes just aren't that popular around here, unfortunately!" That's another whole can of worms Anthony got forced with, and, he's a little notorious for taking things a little too personally when it comes to pride...
Perhaps he's got some words to say to a certain someone once this is all under control.

"All I wanna say is that tonight's gonna be especially wild, hear the Devil's going mad... But hey, not too worried about it, all's well ends well, right?" A proud laugh soon followed suit ending with a smirk, looking towards his partner for the time being. "As for work, let's say I know who's who and what's what, yadda yadda, nothing you haven't heard." He briefly waved his hands, passing through North's own recon, who knew carrying heavy things could get you some important small talk? "And how 'bout my dear sis? How's life with the corpses out there? Does the ranch air actually make their skin younger or some shit? Any word on, uh, the skies out there?" He carelessly and sarcastically asked towards the one and only sibling via mission objective with a grinning smirk, truly lounging around despite the dark circumstances around their presence and their true function.
Just two imps waiting for their brigade.








º º code by ditto º º
 
Scene One
Hughes

Hughes sat behind the wheel of the large ford truck, one hand on the wheel while the other hovered near his knee. Mind drifting away from his current location, leaving him in a light daze. The group of five had been travelling for months, all with goals to search for the families they hadn't seen since before the world went to hell. Hughes was no different, it was just complicated. He'd gotten his stop recently, but still lacked answers. They couldn't stay however, James' stop was next and it wasn't too far in comparison to the distance they'd travelled. The truck hit a pothole, causing a bit of a shake, one that he hadn't noticed. It shook him from his preoccupied thoughts, glancing at the rear-view mirror to check on those in the back. A light apologetic smile on his face at Jamie's words.

“Watch the roads, Blake! You’ve got fragile cargo back here!”

"You'll live!" He called back to the other man, hand adjusting on the steering wheel as he pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind for the time being.

Jax laughed when they heard Jamie complaining from the bed of the moving truck. He couldn't make out the words but he could tell the guy was unhappy about the bumpy ride. His idle gaze set on the bobbing figurine attached to the dash. Faded greens and reds swayed before them with the hula dancer trembling in place. "These things… Looks like she's having a seizure, who buys that shit."

Blake's jaw set with Jax's words, trying not to shoot off the first words that came to mind to avoid a possible argument. Jax was a good guy, but damn if Blake didn't wish he'd really think before opening his mouth sometimes. He did however glance towards his passenger with a warning, "You always gotta be judging people."

Jax had to look at the other to check if he was serious. Right... He knew who that truck belonged to. Or at least he thought he knew. It belonged to the family of someone from their past. He saw the framed pictures on the fireplace once they entered the three story house, finding the vehicle tucked away in the garage. But they were all gone now. So that didn't stop him from saying. "Sorry if I hurt your feelings, snowflake."

Blake simply took in a deep breath, then slowed the truck to a stop. "How about you take that piss break you were cryin' about earlier, and check on our boy back there while you're at it." It came out as a suggestion, but everybody in that truck knew it was basically an order. Hughes didn't like pulling rank in situations like this, but if it meant avoiding any further headaches he didn't mind sending Jax into a timeout with Jamie. Luckily the blonde exited the truck, Hughes turned his attention back to his side of the road. Staring at a wrecked vehicle off to the side of the road, now with more room in the cab the others shifted to get more comfortable.

Once Jax was in the bed with Jamie, Hughes wasted no time in driving off. He could vaguely hear the blonde marine in the back yelling something, and a look in his rear-view mirror spotted the man slapping the side of the truck in an attempt to garner attention. The other two marine's in the cab chuckled and Blake simply smiled before giving the wheel a nice turn to the right, then back to the left. Not enough force to cause any real problems, but enough to get back at Jax for the Hula girl comments.

Hughes nearly flinched at hearing the slam into the roof of the truck, he opened his mouth about to yell for the other man to cool it but the words were lost when he made out Jax's own words. "Sniper! Ten o'clock!!" Jax was a lot of things, but a liar wasn't one of them. "Get down and hold on!" He shouted loudly in an attempt for those in the back to hear, though he hadn't waited to say that and had already stepped on the gas. Hughes tried to focus on the road ahead of him, the truck gaining speed, but he found his eyes glancing at the direction Jax called out. Trying to get a gauge on what kind of position they had. Either way they were out in the open and practically sitting ducks at this distance. He had little choice to but to drive as fast as possible, all the while waiting for the impacts that would likely be aimed for him given he was the driver.

At the end of the road in the distance was cover, if he could just get them there then it would be fine. This was his thought process while his focus was split. Briefly he glanced in the rear view mirror to check on the two in the back, then back up ahead they had a bit of a block in the road. One that would be difficult to really get around without slowing, so instead Blake put them into the ditch of the road. This was rather bumpy, and he worried about those in the back, but tried to focus on the driving at hand. The vehicle was stirring up a lot of dust, making visibility through the windshield a little difficult. But the moment they were on the other side of the obstruction, he swerved them back onto the road. The marine coughed, waving a hand from in front of his, straining to see the road ahead. That's when he heard the explosion, the wind was knocked from his lungs while the world turned upside down, then everything went black.

Togy Togy Bullyboy Squad Bullyboy Squad The Cat Man The Cat Man spottednewt spottednewt Safton Safton
coded by reveriee.
 
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It was just a spark of light caught in his eye but Jax was a trained man, recognizing that was a glare off the two-inch round piece of glass fitted into a rifle scope. His reaction instantaneous, losing the cigarette he slammed his palm against the roof again. "Sniper! Ten o'clock!!" Hughes got the memo. The vehicle skewed left and right, and Jax held onto the roof lights like a cat stuck on a tree branch. There was a bend leading into a more wooded area, all they had to do was make it there before they got their engine block shot.

The wild ride sent the truck scaling dusty ditches, which threw dirt in the air and Jax had to duck his head, face to shoulder, to not get sand in his eyes as he did in his hair. When he looked up again something by the bend snapped his attention, triggering a memory like it was yesterday. Rumbly purr of the Humvee's V8 underneath the hood in front of him…. Rolling down the rutted dirt road… Watching stacks of litter on the sides for any signs of a— His breath froze as they rapidly approached what looked like an abandoned vehicle with a cable running down into the ground from its trunk.

Even if there was time to alert the others in the cab, which only God knew if there was, the blonde man followed his instinct. "GO!!" Dislodged from his throat as he threw himself in Jamie's direction, pushing the pilot over the side of the bed and making a leap for it himself. He would have made it… If his foot didn't catch to the gear left on the floor.

The deafening crack like a thousand shotguns rending the air followed by a whoosh of a sonic blast. It smacked the truck off the road, blowing the windows inward with a scorching wave of heat and ripping the metal on the passenger side open. Jerked around inside they rolled over in a flurry of debris, like a toy car chucked down the meadow and stopped upside down after losing momentum.

But the explosion was just a splinter in the overwhelming silence that came after the echoes rolled down the treetops, and the flocks of startled birds flew away.

The frame of pale lashes flickered on blue eyes. Face smeared with black residue and scraped red from gravel. Jax coughed, choking on the dust thick air. On his stomach in the dirt, like a sprawled rag doll trying to flip to his back after the blast flung him to the middle of the road. He whined in pain and sitting up he fixed on his right shin. The cracked bone sticking out of his torn, bloody pant leg.

Jax just watched it. Trembling. In some kind of shock.



 
DENVER



INFO
Denver,, 38,, Enforcer

LOCATION
Outside of the prison

MENTIONS

CURRENT



“I accept chaos, I'm not sure whether it accepts me.”
Bent over to prop his elbow on the trunk of a sprawling oak tree, retched - an involuntary effort that sent a wave of muscle spasms from his feet all the way to his mouth with yet another wave of black, tar-like vomit. Enlightenment came at a price. A price he'd be paying on and off for the entirety of the afternoon, one that had become so familiar to him, that he'd been known to pause in the middle of a conversation to eject what looked like stagnant bog water from his body into whatever catchment available to him with writhing convulsions from the very pit of his stomach, just to pick up right where he'd left off.

"...Yeah, looks like rain today...You talk in your sleep...Read anything good, recently?"

Patrolling was one of the grunt-work tasks Denver had always been the first to volunteer for. It was an on-call position that he took very seriously. He loved to spend the morning among the wooded areas surrounding their compound - close enough to their fences to keep ear shot, and far enough out to maintain a strategy. Denver had always been a patron to the art of the mind game, and since becoming a patrol leader, he'd developed a penchant for using the cover of what little brush the area had to make his squad of 3-5 look like double when travelers were granted passage by their snipers.

Today, he could tell by the full, crunching sound of the detonated IED, that he might not need any extra effort to keep his interest. That was a direct hit. Clasped around the hook to a heavy-duty towing chain that shrouded his shoulders, Denver drew his free first up to wipe the corner of his mouth as the radio at his hip crackled to life. The metallic clinking of the links mingled in the air with garbled dialogue that confirmed his prediction.

...One vehicle...rolled on impact...at least three heads...

"Hear that, ladies? Get your fishnets, it's showtime." Denver straightened as he flicked his tongue over his teeth for one final spit into the dirt by his feet; his now bark-patterned forearm running across the uneven surface for his hand to mimic something close to a caress on its way back down to his side. His gaze flittered over to the enforcer he'd been assigned with, shooting him a black-lined toothy grin as he made his way over to the clearing to survey the wreckage like he was looking out over Pride Rock. The handgun tucked into the back of his pants bobbed along with his sauntering gate, forgotten for the heavy, metal bonds that were known to announce his entrance before he did within the walls of the liberated prison.




coded by weldherwings.
 
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SCENE 2 - HOME SWEET HOME


Roje was sitting underneath a nearby tree, her forearm resting on her knee while she sat in thought. There wasn't much going on at the current moment other than watching the objective and checking up on it every so often. With her role, she was only able to keep watch and update the boss on any intel she could gather from her position. The waiting game is what she liked to call it. It felt like ages before anything would really happen, and the quiet really wasn't helping with passing the time. If anyone knew Roje on a deeper and personal level, they knew that she was not one of the best people for waiting games. There are times where she gets plenty of itches to do something, whether it be to move, to go for a jog, something to keep her itchy body moving. A sigh escaped the scout's lips as she brought the binoculars to her eyes to take a look at what was about to become theirs.

Suddenly she heard her walkie buzz in and what came from the speaker made her grin followed by a laugh. The woman reached for the black box on her hip while resting the binoculars down and pressing the button to reply into her walkie "Sarcastic Bitch can hear you loud and clear Daddy Nacho, over." she quipped back and released her finger from the button before getting up from her position. There was nothing that had come through after that and Roje could only assume that all he needed was that simple response. The hazel-eyed beauty stretched her limbs after waiting for a while and walking about, though trying to remain under cover to avoid being spotted. Just needed to get the jitters out for the moment, nothing more and nothing less.

After hearing the boss speak up, she decided to walk over and speak up "What's the status?" she asked, crossing her arms as she approached. It didn't take long for him to kick her foot making her roll her eyes and crouch down beside him "Of course they're not responding, how great. Hopefully their asses didn't get caught." she pulled the binoculars from her neck and lifted them to her face where she looked through, there was a sight of a dog rushing out of one building and towards another "There's a dog, boss. We may want to be careful with that one."

Bullyboy Squad Bullyboy Squad Noivian Noivian (since you're there too)​
 
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Zzzzeeep

"Mierda." Toni slapped the side of his neck, squashing the tiny insect against the tattoo of a devil skull. It got stuck to his palm with a small red stain. The man hated forests, rivers, lakes, and fucking mud puddles that crawled with the little bloodsuckers. Vega was raised in an urban jungle. Molded behind concrete walls and metal bars. He wasn't made for camping. Hell, he didn't even know how to make fire. Or how to swim.

The big boom zipping through the area made man's heart beat faster. The Chief of security sent them as a welcome party for the road trip trespassing the Samaritan turf. Now, after one of their IEDs exploded, Toni wondered if there was anyone left to welcome.

The enforcer wiped his mosquito soiled hand against gray cargo pants. Baggy but kept in place with a double prong buckle, concealed by a wife beater. With another, utility belt on top. It belonged to some dead correctional officer, now hanging loose over Toni's hip, weighted down by a holstered gun and sheathed machete. The walkie-talkie strapped on the other side woke up with a choppy transmission. Followed by his team leader's order.

Toni made a face at Denver's black-film-covered grin. "The fuck ya smiling at, mano." He chuckled and shook his head. "What did ya swallow, eh? Fuck it was, looks like it didn't want to be eaten." He kept joking as he headed in the same direction, keeping distance from the other so their group would be more spread among the trees. "Ya slurping that Spiderman cousin, no? What's his face, Venom, or some shit." He snorted a laugh.

Denver was a goddamn loco but the ex-gang member was amused by his antics. Always wary of his unstable fellow but appreciative of his brutal ways. Violence was familiar and comfortable, the language he spoke well compared to his half-broken English. Those were the prudes that unsettled Toni instead. Playing saints, sickeningly polite, smiling their pretty mugs. Those were the people Toni didn't trust. Fear, hate, respect, bloody knuckles - raw and real. But if some bastard was nice to you with no reason, they fucking wanted something.

At least that's how it worked in Vega's world. That's how it worked in his head.

The man unsheathed his broad blade, just in case there were any stray biters in the area, and he navigated through the greenery towards the cloud of fading smoke. The closer they got the more cautious and excited he became.





 
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BRIELLE MENZIE

feat. Robert Menzie and Jennifer Watson

Scene 2 - Home Sweet Home​

Location: Forest > Santiago's Ranch


A FEW HOURS EARLIER

"C'mon, Ed, I think I saw something up ahead yesterday."

Brielle called her brother and Mrs. Watson ("Jennifer, honey") in a hurried voice. They were face-to-face with a small pack of zombies that had separated itself from its horde and were still trying to escape, and Mrs. Watson fell behind. She wasn't a young woman anymore and, despite being forced to stay athletic during the End of Times™, she still didn't have the stamina of a 20-year-old any longer, nor that of a 30-year-old for that matter. She heard a scream and quickly stopped and turned around. The woman seemed to have been grabbed by one of the dead, and her brother had managed to free her but ended up being grabbed himself in the process. He was struggling to keep the zombie's face away from his own with one hand, and pushing his chest with the other to put as much distance as possible between them. The zombie scratched at his arms, trying for his neck and face, grabbing any place it could reach, but not leaving a single scratch. There was a reason Richard was wearing a heavy denim jacket in that weather and right then it was serving its purpose. The deep blue fabric was covered in dry brown leaves, telling Brielle he had hit the ground at some point.

Mrs. Watson had a considerable amount of strength in her arms before the apocalypse (being a trauma surgeon can get a bit tough), but even more so now. After all, each of them had to carry heavy bags and always be ready to run or climb on something at a moment's notice. The woman unsheathed her knife, tightly squeezing the aluminum handle while running back to Richard. Luckily the zombie wasn't completely decomposing, and she grabbed it by the hair, pulling the head back, and with a loud grunt and a squish she buried the knife into his eyes. She pulled the knife back out and swung it in the air with one quick motion to remove the excess blood. They had one gun and not enough bullets, but even if they had enough for all of them, the only thing it would've done is attract the rest of the dead in the surrounding area.

Brielle never got to a full stop, and when she saw the two had worked it out she kept running, holding the backpack strap with one hand and holding another bag with the other. A few days ago their car ran out of fuel, and every day they had been going a little further, scouting the surrounding area in search of abandoned cars or places to scavenge. Over the course of the months, Brielle got better and better at noticing if something was wrong, giving them an edge to react as fast as possible. That morning, while Robert slept and she and Mrs. Watson had breakfast over lowered voices, Brielle noticed something different. She hadn't noticed it before, but the birds suddenly stopped singing all at once, unusual for an early morning. It wasn't windy inside the forest, but the soft caress of a breeze brought with it the smell of putrefaction and death. If she hadn't picked up on it fast enough they either would've had to fight an entire horde of zombies or escape with their lives but lose all of their belongings.

A few more minutes and they made it to the edge of the forest. The trio stopped and looked around, seeing what they'd run into. They had lost the horde, but there was no way they'd stay out in the open with them still around, for they weren't old rotten ones, the ones coming in their direction had died recently and therefore were faster and stronger. Brielle saw what she had spotted the day before and walked towards it, opening the gate and walking the path to the ranch.

●・○・●・○・●​

PRESENT

Everyone at the farm seemed to be very hospitable, albeit cautious, even offering them something to eat and a place to clean up a little. It was a relief knowing they were safe, at least for the time being. Even while traveling in the car they never felt safe, there were so many things that could go wrong, like getting stuck in the middle of a crowd. But now she could finally lower her guard.

Deciding to explore the property a bit better, Brielle left her companions and walked around the terrain and buildings, everywhere she thought there wouldn't be a problem. There was a dog walking around. She smiled like a child. It had been so long since she interacted with a pet, with a domesticated animal. It was a little complicated to cuddle up with a feral swine in the wild. Carefully, she approached the dog, noticing then that it was carrying a radio in its mouth. She wondered who the thing belonged to and slowly approached her hand to take it from the dog, planning on giving it to Santiago, so he could give it to the proper owner while hoping not to get bitten.

"Rascal One, this is Daddy, are you there?" A voice suddenly came out of the object as Brielle attempted to get it. It was deep and intense, and despite the static, she understood what he was saying. "Rascal One, are you ready?"

"Good dog," she said, scratching behind its ear and seeing it wagging its tail. She straightened her back up again and risked answering. There was no way she could know if this was Santiago's or not or if the dog found it somewhere. She held the object firmly in her hand, and with her finger trembling over the button, she pressed it down. And then she didn't know what to say and just kept holding it for a few seconds, trying to think of something as fast as possible, worrying if they'd be friend or foe.

"Hello?"
 
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Scene One
The Marines

The back of Jamie's knee caught on the side of the truck bed when Jax shoved him off, sending him tumbling over the side at an odd angle. He barely had enough time to curse, hands scrabbling out towards Jax to take him over the edge with him before his feet were clear off the truck. He hit the rough gravel road shoulder first, his back slamming against it second, twisting and turning as the momentum carried him forward across the ground in a roll. His head and knees were jostled, the breath kicked out of him as small bits of dust kicked up and flew onto his clenched shut eyes.

The explosion ahead of him registered, but his world was spinning. Even as the truck rolled, much like him, he didn't get a good look. Mercifully, his momentum finally sputtered out, leaving him dazed, bruised, and groaning in the middle of the road. His vision was swimming and it was hard to focus on anything other than the thought of just how much it hurt to fall off the back of a truck, but he tried to take stock all the same. Everything hurt, but nothing felt broken.

Coughing up the bits of dust lingering around his crash site, he gingerly picked himself up the rugged gravel, head pounding in his hands. Any ill will he developed towards Jax in the one or two seconds it took him to hit the road when he threw him off faded at the sight of the truck. Flipped over on its head off the road, the glass was shattered and the driver's side door was missing. Jax might have just saved his life. If he'd been on the back of that when it started rolling, he'd be looking at a lot more than a headache and two sore knees.

The others must have bailed, too. Right? There wasn't a chance he was the only one to dodge the bullet. Jax had been right behind him after all. His eyes roved to the road ahead, but he didn't see the others dusting themselves off on the side of the road from where they'd jumped out, only Jax lying in the middle of the road.

Wheezing, he headed across the road towards his friend, wary of the sniper and any other roadside traps. His knees felt weird when he stood, even stranger when he ran, but he needed to get to his friend quickly.

"Jax!" Jamie shouted, coughing out a bit of dust as he ran. Why wasn't the other man moving? "Jax! Are you alright!?" sliding along the gravel to kneel next to the man, he ducked his head and grabbed Jax's shoulders. "C'mon, we need to get...to cover..." Jamie's voice trailed off, staring at Jax's leg in shock similar to their own.

Jackson's eyes were bloodshot, mouth ajar, and his chest moved with a scary tempo. But when the words finally registered, with delay, he blinked and his gaze shot up towards the distant nest of the sniper. No shots? Why? Because... Whoever it was, they were coming here for them. "Hughes..." He mumbled half coherently and a second later his head spun towards the wreck. "Shit. Go!" He shoved Jamie away. "Help them!" Jax would just drag himself along, rifle hanging off his back, at least he didn't lose it.

Jamie realized what Jax meant with no small amount of horror. They were still in the car. They hadn't bailed. They were still in the fucking car.

Jamie wanted to make a run for the truck, but he wasn't going to make Jax crawl for it. In the time it took him to get off the road the sniper could get a shot off on him. Hooking his arms under the man's armpits, he began dragging the man across the gravel and into the treeline, trying his damnedest not to let their bad leg drag against the ground. Despite his best efforts, the injured Marine let out a high-pitched groan when moved. Being lugged across uneven dirt and grass did no favors to his open fracture.

Setting him down near a bush, Jamie cursed up a storm, clearly panicking. This was the first time someone had ever tried to kill him. Not the first, really, but the first time he wasn't able to just fly away. He wasn't accustomed to this like the Marines were, and it showed.

Jax grabbed the pilot by the collar of his jacket, yanking on it so their faces leveled. "Calm the fuck down, Gunderson." His breaths were still harsh, eyes red-rimmed but filled with clear determination. "Keep your shit together, son." Jamie was all they got now…

Trying to calm his breathing, Jamie nodded shakily. Jax served as a much-needed slap to the face, he might not have had the experience he did, but that didn't matter. All that did was trying his best to stay calm and getting his friends out alive. Shooting Jax a quick 'Stay there!' he darted off across the grass and torn up turf towards the wreckage. "Huey, Eugene, Packer! You guys alright!?" Jamie asked, almost rhetorically. Of course they weren't alright, he'd be surprised if they were still alive, but he was trying his damnedest to stay hopeful. Eugene, at least, was stirring in the back, suspended in his upside-down seat, his seatbelt keeping the man from falling on his head in the turned-over car. Packer, on the other hand, was spread out across the roof-floor now, it seemed-of the truck, limp and surrounded by broken glass.

Jax got himself into a seated position and propping his hands he scooted towards one of the trees near the crash site. His fingers shook while he leaned against the bark, maneuvering his rifle to a usable position, trying to not look at his broken leg. "What do you se–" Jax's words caught in his throat, body instantly freezing at the sight of swaying fern and a flash of a human in between the trees. He pulled his muzzle up, ready to shoot. "We're not alone!"

Tags:
spottednewt spottednewt Bullyboy Squad Bullyboy Squad Crono Crono
 
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Marcus King
- Scene Three -

With every key, the pianist created a beautiful melody, his touch soothing the soul like a homemade dinner after a long day of work - luxuries that no longer existed in this new world. King basked in the rendition of the classical Claire De Lune, bobbing his head to the tune with closed eyes and a cigar burning between his fingers. The end of the song was followed by a quick chuckle and amused applause. King stood from his leather throne - an oxblood red leather club chair with gold trim - and approached the pianist who shone under the sunlight creeping through the warden’s office window.

“Breathtaking, Mr. Everett. Who knew you had such talents.”

“Yes sir. I was a music teacher at Ohio State University,” responded the pale older gentleman under a nervous breath. King stood right behind him, the man unwilling to turn and face him. He jumped as King’s hands came down over his shoulders. The leader chuckled at Everett’s reaction, explaining there was nothing to be afraid of as cigar smoke blew across the aged man’s nose.

“It wasn’t long ago when our roles would have been reversed. A black man would have sat on that stool as his owner enjoyed a glass of whiskey and forced his n*gga to play. Isn’t it beautiful how much has changed?”

Silence came after the question, Everett unsure whether to answer the rhetoric. King’s hands then went away as he motioned to the guard that stood by the front door in silence. “Take Mr. Everett back to his quarters and give him and his family an extra ration for his performance today,” he ordered, butting his cigar against the ashtray by his desk.

“Thank you, Mr. Everett, I will see you again next week.”

“Yes sir. Oh- Ummm…I was hoping to ask for a favor before I leave Mr. King…” Everett started with some newfound courage. It seemed the talk of extra rations made the man feel a bit more confident in his position. King proceeded to listen. “My son has been working compost for over a month now, he’s almost served his sentence and has been very obedient. Is there the possibility of having him back in laundry Mr. King?”

King chuckled and looked at the guard with a surprised expression. “Rules are rules, Mr. Everett. If there weren’t any there’d be no control. I created these rules to keep everyone safe, your son included. He went against my order and has to deal with the repercussions, no exceptions.”

“But-”

“Don’t make me repeat myself I'm uncultured. Get him out of here. I’ll see you next week.”
 
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Wesley Emmett

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Scene Three

Wesley double-timed his way through the prison's corridor toward King's office -- one he was well-acquainted with, seeing as it had once belonged to the warden. The same warden he had helped to overthrow months ago. It seemed like another lifetime. He shook the thoughts away as he neared the room and heard sounds of... music? Emmett rapped lightly at the door, which cracked open to reveal the face of one of his guards. The look he gave him prompted the man to admit him and he slipped inside, giving King an apologetic glance as he stood by, hands clasped in front of himself.

Wesley knew better than to interrupt, no matter how important his news was. He had forgotten the name of the man at the piano, though he recognized him as one of the prison's... "staff". Soon enough, the pianist finished and -- after nearly drawing King's wrath -- he was dismissed. "I'll take him," Emmett offered. He stepped forward, speaking in a hushed tone. "You should know, Boss: vehicle at the outer perimeter. Martinez's team is moving to intercept." He gave him a nod before stepping away, grasping Everett by the arm.

"C'mon." Wes led the way out into the corridor, his hard-soled boots pounding against the tiled floors. He began to reach for his radio in order to request a status report about the vehicle outside, but hesitated when he glanced at Everett to his side. Besides, he didn't want to distract Denver (or, god forbid, the kid up in the tower). As they neared the West cell block, the other civilians milling around gave the two of them a wide berth or watched them closely up until the moment Emmett looked back at which point they immediately averted their gaze. Finally Wes turned Everett loose back at his impromptu lodging. "Behave yourself. And for your own good, I wouldn't go asking for any special favors like that again. You're not a critical asset. You're the piano man," Wesley remarked gruffly under his breath. Everett turned, giving him a wide-eyed glance as if he couldn't believe the chief enforcer was speaking to him in anything more than one or two syllable commands at a time. Emmett ignored the gaze, simply shaking his head as he turned on his heel to depart.


 
SCENE 3 - THE RAT PROBLEM
Weston Samuel Jones, Jr.

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Jaw set firmly, mouth downturned in a frown, and a slowly-smoldering cigarette held between his lips, Weston looked pissed off as he stared off at the rolling grass below. Then again, he always looked pissed off, even when he wasn’t. His buddies used to call it a ‘severe case of resting bitch face’, back in the day. Those guys were all dead now; Weston tried his best not to think about them just in case his poker face slipped into - God forbid - any other emotion.

Weston was in his perch of choice - a guard tower at the corner of the perimeter. In front of him stretched rolling fields and green hills which eventually gave way to thick green trees. Behind him was the fenced-in yard, protected by the perimeter fence. This was his favorite tower because it afforded him an expansive view of both the compound and the surrounding area. Some days he’d come up here and watch the workers who were laboring outside, making sure things were ticking along according to plan and schedule. Other days he’d stare off at the distant trees. He never told anyone what exactly he was looking at, or for.

He could easily hear the sudden explosion from his perch when it went off. Turning around and lifting one hand to shield his eyes from the sun, he squinted off towards the sound. It was easy to find where it happened - the dust cloud reached high into the air, with heavier debris raining back down while lighter particles were still caught in the breeze. Taking a long final pull from his spent cigarette, he jammed it against the side of the metal railing to extinguish it, then flicked it off the edge of the guard tower to the dirt below. Grabbing onto the sides of the ladder, he descended from the tower in a hurry, heavy boots clunking against the rungs.

“Kaboom, motherfuckers, time to get back to work!” He barked at some of the laborers who had stopped what they were doing in order to mill about outside, staring up at the dust cloud in the distance. He pointed at the group that had knotted together, excitedly discussing what it could have been; as soon as they turned and saw Weston’s attention was on them, they apologized and skittered off back to their work. One looked scared shitless to have been noticed. As much as their underlings looked to him for support, he still couldn’t deny that a little bit of fear from the newest ones felt good from time to time. All it took was a little encouragement, blood, and putting the fear of God into them to get them all moving in lockstep.

It was not a common occurrence for things to blow up in their front yard, so he thought it might at least warrant his appearance. He tugged his walkie-talkie off his hip and raised it to his mouth, clicking it on. LT should be on that side of the prison right now, since Cabrera was off doing… whatever the fuck it was Cabrera does.

Nothing happened.

He stared down at the device and flicked the button a few times, but the telltale sound of it being ready to transmit was absent. He also didn’t hear any other transmissions, or even the hiss-and-pop of static either. The damn thing had gone totally dead on him at some point, and he had no idea when. Hopefully nobody had been trying to hail him - he’d just look like he was up there in his perch with his thumb up his ass.

“Fuckin’ figures.” He muttered to himself, picking up the pace of his jog. Weston made a beeline to the main building, through the halls up to his quarters. It would be faster to grab the backup battery out of his bedroom than sign something out of the supplies room - in and out, and he could pop it in on the way to the opposite perimeter.

Keys in hand as he approached the door, he shoved his keys into the lock and started to turn them - only to realize the door was already unlocked.

That wasn’t right. He always locked his quarters.

Shoving his keys into his pocket and un-holstering his handgun in the same motion, he flicked the safety off and kicked the door open - gun up, ready, and aimed immediately at the young man sitting in his chair.

“Hands up, and start talking, now!” Weston ordered. He recognized the kid, but couldn’t recall his name at the moment. He wasn’t anyone of any importance, and it only took his brain a split second to confirm it wasn’t King or any of the other higher-ups that may have a legitimate (or somewhat legitimate) reason for breaking into his room.


 








Chole Miller



No scene - Bar​

Chole stood in front of a cloudy mirror in the back store room of the bar. She looked over her reflection after tying her hair up in a high pony with one of the few hair elastics that were quickly going extinct in this new world. She made a mental note to call on Dutchess to ask for more, of course at the low low cost of free drinks. All the same, it was little things like that made edge the line between sanity and insanity.

She planted a smile on her lips and tugged open the plywood door to step out behind the bar. Her home wasn't much more than a cot amongst empty bottles and various brew stations but it was far better than the alternative: the cell block. At least here she had privacy and really didn't have to worry about unwanted visitors - they'd have to get past the bar, other staff members and the Enforcers there. Wes had promised that she was safe; the Leader had made his laws clear and rape was certainly frowned upon but she had lived in a world before the prison where the very same laws were in place and yet ...

"Chole! A beer!"

She nodded and reached beneath the bar to pull out a bottle, slipping the metal cap into the opener and pried it off with a hiss. "Here you are babe." She set the amber bottle in front of her patron. "Let me know what you think of that brew; it's new. Fewer hops and a bit more amaranth. She watched as he took a long swing and then finally nodded his content. "Good! Glad to hear I'm back on the right track!"

It was a quiet evening in the bar and she knew why, even if the general public didn't. She had swiftly become the prison's therapist and confidant. People came to her to unload their worries and sometimes those worries delivered details someone of her level should not be privy to. Now Chole was no fool and the words that were told to here were repeated to no one.

[Open to interactions to anyone still within the prison not actively part of a scene]




code by ditto (head empty go bonk)
 
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Temma Tation



No Scene - Temma & Derek's Private Quarters​

Temma rolled over onto his back breathlessly beside Derek on their overstuffed bed. He whistled between his teeth and laughed, patting Derek on the chest as he shifted to curl up alongside his husband, hooking a long leg across his thighs. “That was the stuff of a much younger man.” he teased, raising his hand to cup his husband's bearded cheek to plant a gentle kiss on his lips. “You will one day be the death of me, my love, and what a glorious death that will be.” he drawled.

As part of their daily routine Temma had met Derek after his morning chores and training and he got his hair and makeup done and dressed for the day in the cafeteria to pick up their lunch. They never ate their midday meal with the rest of the higher ups and leaders, preferring to bring their meals back to their private quarters for just this very reason: their midday roll in the hay.

A long standing tradition in their marriage of several years; Temma didn’t doubt it had started due to Derek’s possessiveness, his need to keep tabs on Temma’s whereabouts throughout the day but Temma never minded the extra attention. To the outside viewer it would appear that Derek was controlling and possessive and while both were true, Temma was equally an attention whore; he craved the attention.

In historic relationships Temma found his eyes and thoughts wandering to others. This partner likely didn’t deserve it: they were busy with work and personal lives with their family and carved out as much time as they could for Temma in a realistic sense but Temma needed more. And Derek provided.

“You excited to get Anthony back into training? He’s been gone ‘bout a month now.” While Temma didn’t have all the details of the goings on of the higher ups and their plans, he knew enough to note that Dutchess and Anthony had been away from the prison for a decent length of time. One could assume that they’d been cast out or killed for some sort of indiscretion or another however Temma was aware that Dutchess’s cell was off limits - the scavenger leaders belonging untouched and even protected from thievery. The only reason the Leader or any of the higher ups would bother would be because she was doing something big for the prison.
Bullyboy Squad Bullyboy Squad - Derek




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Scene 3
The Rat Problem
Written With Namazu Namazu

"Okay, okay, I can see why you'd be mad!"
The kid, a young man who couldn't have been older than 20, threw their hands up behind their head in an instant, falling to their knees with a clear look of panic and fear etched across his face. "This-This is definitely my fault! I just-The door was unlocked, and I-Well, I CLEARLY don't understand boundaries-"

The kid cut himself off with a gulp before lapsing into a hesitant silence. "...Cou-could you not shoot me? T-That would be really nice."

"Bullshit." Weston snapped at the kid. "That door was locked, it always is. What'd you do, pick it? Steal the spare?"

Keeping his gun trained on the kid's head as he fell to his knees, Weston circled around him to his nightstand. It was actually just two thick plastic crates stacked on top of each other and tied together, but it served its purpose well enough. The batteries he'd been after were sitting in plain sight inside. Weston kept his attention half on the kid and half on what he was doing with the walkie-talkie as he sat it on top of the nightstand. Using one hand, he slid off the battery cover and started to pry out the dead batteries.

"If you tell me what you were doing in here, I might not shoot you. Yank me around and I will though."

"It was unlocked, honest!" The kid insisted, not brave enough to turn around to face him. "I-I don't know why, but it was. I know I should've just...waited outside, b-but I just-I really wanted to talk to you about something."

It wasn't the easiest, doing this one-handed, but Weston did manage to get the old batteries out and the new ones popped back in. Leaving the battery compartment cover off, he quickly switched on the walkie-talkie. Thankfully, it hissed and crackled to life.

"Weston calling for backup - send someone to my quarters. We got us some breaking and entering." Weston took his thumb off the button, but then quickly pressed it again to add: "And fucking hustle."

"Uh huh,"
he replied, thumb off the button and waiting for a response. "And what did you want to talk to me about that was so damned important you couldn't just wait in the hall?"

What came out of the kid's mouth sounded something like a word before quickly shifting into a mix between an anxiety-ridden squeak, an uncertain 'eh?', and a whimper. They stared stock still at the gun in the man's hand like a deer caught in the headlights, with the nearest term that could describe the unadulterated look of fear he was producing being 'scared shitless'.

"You got a name, kid, or am I just gonna have to call you Squeaky?" Weston circled around the kid again, standing in front of the open door to make sure he couldn't run out on him. Lifting the walkie-talkie again, he clicked it on.

"Where the fuck is my backup?"

"A-AJ, I'm AJ" The kid, AJ apparently, stuttered out.

"Good job, Squeaky, you remembered how to talk. You're gonna do a whole lot more of that in a few minutes."
 
Scene Two
Mark

"Thanks Mrs. Richards." Mark spoke to an older woman, while giving her a wave as he passed her by. Having just asked her if she'd seen Kassandra, the German Shepherd and former police dog. Santiago had requested that Mark find her, so he'd set out to do just that. Eventually leading him to speak to Jill Richards while passing. The woman and her husband both lived on the ranch, and she had once been a guidance counselor at the local school back when he'd been a kid. Meanwhile her husband Paul had worked at the post office. A majority of those at the ranch were all that was left of the town he'd spent half of his life in. Anytime he thought about that though, he grew uncomfortable because it meant all of those faces he once recognized were gone. Mark rather spent his time being busy and helping out where he could rather than in his own head whenever possible. Hence his current task at hand to find Kassandra.

The young man was about to round a corner around one of the barns when he heard the crackle of static followed by a voice, one that wasn't familiar, though with the distortion it was difficult to say for sure. Still, he didn't halt in his step and rounded the corner of the building to see one of their newest arrivals standing with her back partially turned towards him along with Kass. It was possible if she focused on her peripheral's enough she'd spot him, but she gave no hint that she had. Instead he watched as she spoke back into the small radio, and the red flags and alarm bells really started ringing in his head. The woman had contact with someone outside, the small group wasn't alone like they claimed. Panic momentarily started to set in, and Mark slipped off the hunting rifle he had shouldered so that it was in his hands then gave a quick sharp whistle.

The German Shepherd reacted to the whistle by moving around Brielle and making her way over to stand at Mark's side. Mark held the hunting rifle up but wasn't pointing it directly at the woman, "Drop the radio!" He said, attempting to mask the discomfort in his voice and remain calm. How was he to know if she'd somehow smuggled in a weapon or not? Still he didn't point the weapon directly at her but held it up in an almost threatening way to prevent he from trying anything. Fact was he'd never had to point his weapon at a person before. Well, a living person. So, he was hoping to avoid doing so. "Mark?" The voice came from behind him, and he recognized it immediately. "Go get Santi please." He said simply, and heard the woman mutter her response after seeing over his shoulder before hearing her footfall's as the older woman left.

"How many of you are there really? What do you guys want?" The questions really came tumbling out nervously, while he was trying to figure out how to deal with the current situation. How long would it take for Mrs. Richards to find Santiago? Mark practically felt the beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

Processed Stardust Processed Stardust
arthur morgan. arthur morgan.

 
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The minutes trickled and dragged at the same time. Ignacio was patiently repeating himself now and then. "Rascal one, are you hearing this?" Only someone who knew him for a while would recognize the subtle signs of tension in the way his naturally easy expression drew in, brows furrowed. "Rascal one, are you there?" His chest expanded before he heavily exhaled, pausing.

Cabrera didn't look at the girl who settled beside him. But hearing Penny's suggestion about the radio on the other side being turned off, he considered it with an idle hum. "Or they had the same shitty Armorer maintaining their gear that we did." He joked half-heartedly, glancing over with a shade of a smile before lifting his gaze to Roje who joined them. "Get your ass down." He kicked her foot from his seated position. The foliage was dense and the trees plenty but it didn't mean they could walk around without keeping their heads down.

"I'm not sure." He replied to the woman's question about the situation on the Ranch below them. "They're not responding." He lowered his head and leaned into the scope again. "I didn't see any people outside for a while..." Acknowledging Roje's words, he scoped in on the dog that just popped up, only to be gone behind one of the buildings. Yeah, that dog could mean trouble.

He picked up the walkie-talkie again. "Rascal one, do you hear this?" He repeated again, a few more times, not expecting much. Feeling the tension swell in his gut. So it took him off guard when the fizzing noise of the radio was broken by a female "Hello?"

Who the hell was that…

At the same time, one of his men waved to alert his leader. After being nudged by one of the girls Ignacio split his attention and looked over at him, soon following the man's gesture indicating "2 o'clock". There. Cabrera saw a young man about to round the corner with a rifle at ready.

Shit.

His mind raced. Was it Duchess on the other side? Did the patchy transmission warp her voice? What the fuck was that kid planning to do with that rifle.

Ignacio made an on-the-spot decision and squeezed the device in his palm, hurriedly asking in a firm, serious tone a question that Duchess would know the answer to. "Who's your Daddy?"






 
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ㅤBRIELLE MENZIEㅤ
Scene 2: Home Sweet Home

Location: Santiago's Ranch
Interactions: Mark, Kass, Cabrera


It took her a few seconds to let go of the button after she spoke, her voice breaking, a clear sign of her nervosism. The radio might’ve been Santiago’s, but that doesn’t make it ok for her to use it, considering they don’t really know each other. All that was happening was a stranger showing some kindness. And she was repaying it by messing around with his things behind his back. She didn’t know what she was waiting was going to happen, if someone would answer immediately or not, but she was met with silence. There was a loud whistle around her, and like a child who shouldn’t be doing what they’re doing, fearing their parents’ punishment, Brielle jumped in startlement. The dog walked around her and looking at the same direction she saw a boy with a rifle.

”Drop the radio!” The boy didn’t exactly yell but his voice was dry and hard, if maybe a little too anxious. She met him earlier while they were talking to the other residents of the ranch but didn’t get a chance to interact with him herself; Santiago had said he was his son? She wasn’t sure at that point and was too damned nervous to stop and think about it.

The gun wasn’t being pointed directly at her, but he was holding it in a way that told her, “if you try anything I’ll blow your head off”, and she wasn’t eager for that to happen. The fear grew in her chest gradually, but fast, like a balloon being filled by an air machine. What. An. Idiot. Seriously, what was she thinking was going to happen? She would be suspicious too, there are too many idiots out there trying to fuck you up.

Not taking her eyes off the barrel of the gun, she lifted both hands and slowly squated to put the radio on the ground in front of her, giving it a light nudge so it would go towards the boy. It’s not because she was in trouble that she would ruin Santiago’s equipment; these things are precious and not easy to come by these days.

Her eyes quickly turned to the direction of the new voice, but once again fixed themselves on the rifle. ”How many of you are there really? What do you guys want?" It was clear the boy was nervous, speaking impulsively and with an anxious expression on his face, as if he himself was afraid.

”Uhm…” She swallowed hard, trying to contain her heart that beat faster every second. ”It really is just us. I saw the dog carrying that thing around, I thought maybe it was Santiago’s.” She explained truthfully, all those years of practice in acting like someone you’re not were her only advantage in situations like this. It’s better not to show too much fear. ”I couldn’t resist playing with it.”

She had been wondering all this time if it was a good thing that whoever was on the other side hadn’t talked anymore after she spoke, but she thanked the heavens when she heard it again as she was starting to talk more than she should, which would probably only make her look even guiltier.

”Who’s your Daddy?” A voice came out of the speaker. The static was present but not strong enough to not be able to recognize it as the same voice she’d heard earlier. Was that code? What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Brielle was confused, but she did her best not to let it show. Or at least she thought she did. Her eyes moved from the gun to the boy.

”Are you gonna get that?”




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arthur morgan. arthur morgan. Crono Crono Bullyboy Squad Bullyboy Squad

 
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Dutchess



Chapter One - Scene Two
Home Sweet Home

Dutchess rolled her eyes at Anthony’s commentary about blonds. “Speak for yourself.” She had certainly enjoyed her time at the ranch and the freedoms it came with she couldn’t look forward to at the prison. And as much as she would miss the ranch and likely the citizens of it, she wouldn’t turn down the opportunity to return to the prison and her role there. She had an opportunity to rise in ranks there, this mission was not only a test for Anthony, his loyalty and his trust for the Samaritans but an opportunity to be elevated to the coveted rank of privileged. Better housing, access to finer foods and entertainment, more trust within the organizations.

She’d spent plenty of years working her ass off inside the MC only to still be a second citizen. Now at the time she knew the rules and knew what she needed to do to keep herself well fed and well taken care of and the alternative to the MC and her husband was working. Like at a real job and paying real rent and dealing with the everyday monotony of real life. No thanks. The same could be said for the Ranch life. It would take years of hard work to gain ranks here and she’d never own the Ranch. She’d never be the leader of anything at the Ranch and while she might be loved and respected, what did that get you when it goes to shit?

Dutchess could practically feel the restlessness pouring off of Anthony as he continued to express this by calling himself The Devil, his fighting name. Their time spent together had led to the pair inevitably growing closer and sharing details and in Anthony’s case, sharing some grievances about just why he was even at the Ranch. She had explained, as delicately as possible, that it was a test of his worthiness to the Samaritans and not to take it too lightly and she was thankful that it was all coming to an end shortly. As the days drew out she had concerns he might get too … spicy for the Ranch and its people and she and he both could be cast out. But Anthony kept his cool and that was exactly what she planned on reporting back to the leaders when they returned.

"The corpses are just that. No signs of anything else, friend or foe.” She stared up at the sky and watched as it slowly darkened, the first hints of the brightest stars peeking out through the dusk. “I’m not sure what to make of it, really. I thought I’d find some sign of our friends today when I was out but nada.” She was concerned that maybe something had happened to the prison that would delay their plans and maybe even leave her and Anthony stuck here. Would she wander back on her own to find out? Did she dare risk a safe place to find that the prison had been overrun? Or worse yet the leader overthrown and she marked as one of his followers?

She glanced at the watch on her wrist, the last thing she had of her husband and the MC she had been a part of, idly wondering if any of them had survived. “Let’s head back to the farm, boss man should be reaching out soon.” Dutchess climbed down from the roof and reached back up for her pack, waiting for Anthony to join her before she hooked an arm into his and started their wander back towards the main portion of the ranch where the people gathered for the evening meals.

As she and Anthony rounded the side of the barn she stopped dead in her tracks, halting the fighter alongside her. She made quick work of the scene: Brielle, the newest of the people from the ranch clutching a radio - their radio - with Mark holding her at gunpoint, demanded that she drop it. She watched in horror as the nervous young man demanded answers from Brielle that Dutchess knew the girl couldn’t answer. She squeezed Anthony’s arm with the hope he’d understand to keep quiet and just watch.

She couldn’t keep her eyes off the radio as Brielle set it gently on the ground between herself and Mark and she resisted every urge to dash for it. But what happened next Dutchess couldn’t make up. Clear as a bell Cabrera’s voice squawked over the radio. “Who’s your Daddy?” If Dutchess hadn’t been terrified of derailing all of their plans she would have snort-laughed at the call sign. She glanced away from the radio to Brielle then Mark as the girl questioned if he’d answer it.

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