Futuristic The Bunker || Satanic Nightjar and TragicTrees

[Satanic Nightjar]

An alarm echoed through his quarters, shaking Dylan from his deep sleep. Though he was entirely accustomed to the sound at this point, it did not mean he found it any more pleasant than he had his very first days here. It had been the idea of one of his old school friends, who found the horrendous noise useful, giving them a sense of "routine and responsibility." Perhaps, though both of those things would prove utterly pointless if their eardrums burst in their sleep.

Regardless, it was time to get up. He detangled himself from the standard issue white sheets that were draped over a hard mattress. A uniform was laid out on the edge of his bed, not-so-neatly folded, and he sleepily grabbed it, pulling it on over his bare torso. It was from the months during which he had planned to serve in the army, and even planned to begin training, and though it was now rendered useless (what sort of man wears camo to go to war against a disease?), he still liked wearing it, if only to remind him that there was a purpose to what they were doing. The material of the outfit was worn but soft, fitted perfectly to his muscular form. The shoes were slightly too small but only enough to guarantee they'd never fall off during a drill. Locking on a leather belt that was far past it's retirement age and putting on a cap to conceal his mess of hair, he marched out the door and into the corridor.

The base was underground and primarily crafted out of recycled other structures, but he and the other builders had, over the years, tried their level best to make it as aesthetic as possible. The result was a vaguely sci-fi, straight-out-of-the-movies metal tunnel that looked a bit like the inside of a spaceship, except with doors that you might find at your grandma's house. At the end of the hall was an opening, the meeting room, which had entrances to the other three wings sprouting out of it in a symmetrical fashion. Already gathered there were his closest friends and colleagues, who'd he'd dragged out of the depths of Clearwater High, his old neighborhood, army friends, whoever he could persuade to join the cause.

"Morning, Dylan," mumbled one of the older guys distantly. Everyone else seemed too hyper-focused on something to even acknowledge his presence.

"G'morning, Alex, g'morning everyone, what's new in the apocalypse today?" He said, halfway genuinely cheerful and halfway sarcastic.

"Actually, something," replied a girl he knew as Jazz. "We got a radio from some nearby town. They're clean of the outbreak and managed to quarantine effectively everyone who has been potentially exposed, but they've run out of supplies. They're gonna escape the virus and die of starvation, ironically. They asked for us to send in some food and water, or really anything else."

"We've gotta help them," said a younger kid excitedly, ready for his first mission.

"No, it's too dangerous. We could be recognized, and besides, it's not like we've got anything to spare anyway," argued Alex.

"But-"

"EVERYONE, listen up!" Dylan exclaimed, shutting up everyone else. "You're both right. It's dangerous as hell, especially since we've been doing this a lot recently. But this right here is why we made this bunker in the first place. We can't turn down a mission just because we're scared, that's not how this works. I'll bring a different crew than usual, and hopefully we won't get recognized by anyone. I'll figure out who by tonight and we'll leave at 12 AM sharp." Everyone started at him. He was rarely this assertive, choosing to be more of an equal than a boss. He felt the awkwardness in the following silence and cleared his throat loudly. "Uhm, yeah. Everyone okay with that?"

Nods of assent went around the room but still no one verbally responded. Damn. Tough crowd.

He turned and left the room, not wanting to spend another second in there, mentally cursing himself and praising himself at the same time. Now what? A new crew? Sure, there were plenty of people here but no one he trusted enough to take with him, and though he loved to believe in the good in people he failed to see the good in giving a stranger the benefit of the doubt on something this important.

He rubbed his eyes with his palms, pressing them back into his head to relieve some of the pressure that was building up there, thinking about what on earth he was going to do, and...

Smack!

His body collided with something, hard, sending him stumbling whatever he ran into to the floor. Blinking rapidly to clear his vision, he looked down to find that the object he'd hit was not an object at all, but a boy.

He was short, maybe 5'5 or 5'6, with messy blond hair that's messiness was obviously not helped by being knocked to the ground, and when he looked up, clearly pissed, he made his striking blue eyes visible out from under it. Dylan stared at him for a brief, speechless moment before realized oh, I should probably help him up, and a bit of panic set in.

"Oh shit, I'm so sorry, are you okay, I'm really sorry, I didn't see you, my bad," he babbled out before extending both hands to the boy on the floor.

 

[elytra]

It was a big apocalypse.

Which was sort of a ridiculous to say. The world hadn't suddenly gotten bigger once zombies started roaming around it. That wasn't how it worked. It certainly felt like it, though; in the past (when a nomadic life wasn't the norm, when dead people stayed dead), he ran into people all the time and had overused 'it's a small world!' as a saying. Nowadays, he'd be lucky to find anyone he knew, especially alive, which meant the likelihood of finding specific people- people like his family -were slim to none.

At first, Charlie had thought it'd be easy. They couldn't have gotten far. It wasn't as if they had been separated for long when he'd started looking a few weeks back (or, possibly, months, but he wasn't exactly dedicating energy to keeping track). He'd apparently overestimated his tracking abilities, though, because they were nowhere to be found. Considering how long it'd been, there were a few options to what had happened: they had either left town, gone to a bunker, or had died, though the lack of familiar-looking zombies seemed to disprove the last option.

That left him with 'leaving town' and 'going to a bunker'. He would've liked to think they wouldn't leave without looking for him, but then again, he wouldn't put it past them. It wouldn't be surprising to find out they'd instantly assumed him dead and decided to move on. He did hold out hope anyway, and showed such by making his first stop an open bunker set up for survivors.

It had taken him a while to get there, seeing as the apocalypse was ongoing and he'd kept stopping in order to help people he met along the way. Sometimes it hadn't been the wisest of choices, but he didn't regret it. He did sort of regret going to the bunker in the first place, though; when he got there, he learned they weren't there, nor had they ever been. He wasn't aware of any other open safe havens in the area, which meant they were dead or had skipped town.

Both were detestable options, if he were going to be honest.

He'd been planning to head out again, to go try and find them again- because really, what else did he have to do? -but his plans had been waylaid when he had heard some yelling (or more accurately, loud talking) and had ended up running straight into someone and toppling over. He was admittedly already in a foul mood, and being run into didn't help, especially by....

His thought process screeched to a halt as he took a better look at who he'd run into. Brown hair, military uniform, and strikingly familiar. It didn't take much to place the face; he recognized this as someone who'd gone to his high school. Not someone he'd known personally, just someone he'd known of, but who had been around him all the same. One of the more popular kids, if he remembered right. Maybe it was a little unfair, but his immediate thought was that of all the people he happened to run into that he knew, he would've rather it be anyone else. He likely would later chalk up the reaction to how unpleasant he was already feeling.

He pushed it aside, though, and accepted the help up. He ended up retracting his hands almost instantly after he was standing, dusting himself off and trying to not snap, biting the inside of his cheek briefly in order to try and compose himself better. Then, he addressed his assailant, once he was sure he wasn't about to sound as annoyed as he was. It was better to be polite around the few people that remained than to instantly bombard them with angry words (as much as he'd like to).

"I'm fine." He said, crossing his arms, before quickly uncrossing them to put his hands in his pockets, already feeling jittery "It happens, I guess." It did, because he'd been run into before, but that didn't mean he appreciated it any. He was going to leave it at that, but something about the guys voice- he'd admit it, he didn't remember his name -sounded familiar. Similar to the one he'd just heard. "Uh, were you the one just yelling?" He'd been curious about it, which is why he hadn't made a b-line to the bunker exit like he'd originally planned, so it was worth asking.

 

[Satanic Nightjar]

Dylan's head still seemed to be spinning a little bit - whether that be from the collision itself or embarrassment or simply because it was kind of in his nature. He'd always been regarded by his family and friends as a little bit "all over the place", but they didn't even know the half of it. The speed at which his brain seemed to move never ceased to amaze him, especially in comparison to how useless the thoughts that floated about inside of it were. Got him in loads of trouble in class, that did. Teachers love a kid who blurts out whatever comes to mind virtually uncontrollably - his parents chalked it up to ADHD but no one really cared if it had a fancy title or not. He was annoying.

And there it was again - another typical thought spiraling down into utter chaos. He licked his lips nervously, blinked a couple of times, and tried to return his focus to the matter at hand. Boy. In front of him. Crashing. Accident. Oh God.

The young man he'd practically run over looked just about as bewildered as Dylan felt. His hair was a bit of a mess and though he was clearly trying to put on an indifferent or even forgiving expression, he still looked just a tad annoyed. And he had every right to be, he'd just been knocked to the ground by a distracted stranger in an over-sized army costume that had never been used. One whose mouth seemed to refuse to form adequately apologetic words for the situation.

He didn't quite recognize the guy in front of him but something about him was definitely familiar, hidden somewhere in the back of his memory like that scene in a book you love but can't remember the page number. A name danced on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't convince his lips to create the word. A tad frustrated, he sighed, wanting to ask him about it later. Instead he ran a hand through his hair then clasped his fingers behind his back awkwardly, clearing his throat a little. "Yeah, I guess. Still, really sorry about that, I'm a little distracted at the moment I guess. Glad you're okay though!"

Dylan was filled with mild horror as he realized that his yelling had been heard from all the way down the metal corridors, but he tried to hide it from his face. "And, uh, yeah, I guess that was probably me you heard back there," he said sheepishly. "We got a radio for help and had a, well, a disagreement on what to do about it. It's okay though. We figured it out, now I've just got to figure out who I'm taking out there with me. Which is no easy task, but-" He cut himself off, realizing that he was rambling and not wanting to make this even more weird for himself. "I'm Dylan, by the way. Dylan Stark."