Realistic or Modern 𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗦𝗘 𝗪𝗛𝗢 𝗖𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗗 𝗢𝗡.

[pomme]

those who

carried on

 

[pomme]

romi rosalinde

LOCATION: near the city edge MOOD: scared INTERACTIONS: open

It was a rainy day in Philadelphia. Rainy in the sense that it would be normal to look outside and see a rippling sea of bobbing umbrellas, or to see business owners rushing to move their tables inside before the rain worsened. It was only beige now, precious water tinged with dirt and blood pooling in the gutters, rippling with peace and pattern otherwise rare. The pools, save for the blood, were mirrors, pushing empty reflections back amongst the monochrome sky.

The Cellar Wall, in its obsidian glory, too had a perfect reflection in the pool of water collecting in front of it. Slips of names written on discarded papers floated amongst it boringly, the fading ink seeping into the water in black skeins. People, humanity, reduced to names. What a novel concept. Novel, perhaps, for the outside observer: novel only in its stunningly executed depravity. The Wall had become a monument felt by each who saw it, a monument that now dedicated more the past rather than the casualties. A monument too heavy to bear, one just almost completely alone.

A single, heavy gaze leveled at it, peering at the first seven names inscribed delicately under something that felt empty in its long-forgotten hopefulness:

For all those lost in the tragedy. May justice be swift and peace swifter.

Then, the list. It became more bitter, more sour each time she read it over, her eyes darkening as they reveled in the fall from society on the Wall’s surface that perfectly mirrored the world around it. The gouges, the names only written on paper, all simply a poetic, stilted reflection.

Declan Donahue, Maeve Wilder, Scarlett Finney, Fletcher Hausmann, Kenneth Abbot, Amelia Teigue, and Darius Rothschild.

The only names that had ever been properly engraved. The rest, pried into the stone with callused hands and dulled pocket knives. All just a metaphor, really.

Romi spat.

Time, after all, was no longer playing the guise of infinity. There was no sea of colorful umbrellas, or life rapid in its vivacity — the only thing to break the sea of beiges was whatever hollowed soul managed to pass through. Things once novel were exalted to the utmost luxury. Food. Water. Time, even. Time was a rather clever game, one that all had to play. One of trading. A new day, a new question from the game: what will you sacrifice next to play longer?

Thinking, too, was a sacrifice. It was Romi’s first.

Her knuckles whitened around the shiv she gripped as she slipped away from the monument and back into the shady reprieve of the alleyways. The past few days, ones of timeless wandering and starvation, had pushed her to the edge of The Hills, eyes peeled for anything more than a hint of life. She couldn’t allow herself to waver around her thoughts too long, forgive they started to turn longing. In actuality, it was simpler just to forget to wonder about things. Regardless, it was a needed ease.

Today’s target was another ghastly remnant of the past, a shelled store she’d been making her way towards over the past few days. The limited glimpses of interaction she’d had gave her whispers about it, secrets she’d thought perhaps better kept. But it worked for her. Across the years she’d caught bits of history from abandoned books that she found alongside food. One thing she’d remembered from their faded pages was old propaganda — specifically, one particular quote. Loose lips sink ships.

It was fun, occasionally, to lapse into the realm of possibilities and differences, to simply think. Seeing the color fading from dropped leaves now produced that same feeling: nostalgia, maybe, for memories long ago. She’d never been able to quite tell. Most she’d found looked old enough to remember what came before, and Romi was never happy to admit that she could too. The flashes that came were the worst kind of fear, one that writhed within the heart rather than electrifying the limbs.

The trip from the Wall to the old store didn’t take long, each step digging chafing her ankles more against the worn fabrics of her shoes. Her ears perked as the building came into sight, its large motif long cracked and faded. Through the miraculously intact glass she could see corners of color, things peeking out between collapsed shelving and desecrated countertops. The sight almost made her mouth water, the boxes she saw feeling something like salvation.

It was just exciting enough for the spurring of life around her to be lost.

The door whistled sadly as she pushed it open, her footfalls light and echoing in the high-topped palace of the abandoned pharmacy. Trampled boxes relieved of their contents lined the floor, filmed with ash and smudged by grime. Empty rolls of bandages sat sprawled across the ground, torn and caked with mud. Worthless. The corners of her mouth dipped downwards, but the excitement sparking inside her gut was electric.

But her muffled glee was, in true day’s end fashion, not something built to last.

It was, at first, quiet, but then loudening. The blood fell from her already sickly cheeks at the sound, the cruelly echoing sound, of something. In these times, unknowingness wasn’t poetic adventure, but rather a fury of unforgiving adrenaline. This was terror.

Her mind raced, each thought too fleeting to hold. Each movement was mechanical as she crept to peek from her spot, each footstep silent in its hallowed fear.

Through the shelves was a figure.

Romi knew she wouldn’t win a fight, but the tugging urge to know piled higher than her fear.

Two words, quieter than they should’ve been, hung insurmountably with life in the balance.

“Who’s there?”

stats

health​

hunger​

thirst​

 

[timshel]

Pharmacy ruins. Somewhere in Philadelphia, PA.

location

Sheer terror. Like a cornered animal.

mood

Romi ( pomme ).

tags

Silas Vail

PLEASE COULD YOU STOP THE NOISE IM TRYING TO GET SOME REST

When he woke in the dark in the woods he gasped, breathless, and reached out fumbling through the cold to find something, anything, that would set his nerves at ease.

Calloused, dirty fingertips sifted through dust and dirt, to the worn fabric bag until they found the coldest thing. He wrapped his hands around the crowbar and clutched it tightly, desperately, turning his knuckles white as he tried to slow his breathing; they sounded so loud in this painfully still space.

Silas absentmindedly watched the tiny clouds of his breaths disappear, fading into the grey morning light just starting to leak through the tarpaulin. Some time passed and he finally relented, sighing, letting the metal clatter to the ground. The sensation of some impending unknown faded. A new day had to start at some point, and this particular morning, it insisted itself upon him.

This kind of sleep—haunted by terrifying dreams he couldn’t hope to remember, dreading what unknowable things would happen between the time he closed his eyes for good and opened them once more—drained him like nothing else. He unzipped the tent and stood slowly, wincing at the dull stiffness in his limbs and uncomfortable popping in his joints. The cold was never kind to his body.

Every day had its routines, its rituals to give him something to do, something to anticipate and look forward to, even if it was empty. Mundane. After taking the tent down, Silas emptied out his backpack to make room for it at the very bottom like always, and then painstakingly rifled through his inventory.

He’d been intentionally saving this can of cherry pie filling for last, and there was now nothing else he had to eat. This meant he was going to have to hunt again, and soon. He grimaced at the sickeningly sweet colors on the can label, stark against their dulled, unsaturated surroundings, a relic of a time where its only job was to be an object too bright to ignore on a store shelf.

The cherries tasted like shit. A slop of unevenly dark crimson, glinting suspiciously, studded with strange lumps that reminded him of sights he’d rather not recall. Silas almost decided to just toss it somewhere deep in the woods, despite his better judgement. They were too sweet but he forced them down despite his lurching stomach every time he brought the can back to his lips.

He then started planning a hunt. He quickly established where he was on this map of greater Philadelphia, then dug for his map of the surrounding forest areas. Ridley Creek wasn’t far from where he was and had been lucrative on his last trip months ago; people like himself were uncommon these days and animals seemed to have outgrown their generational fear of people. Perhaps if he was lucky, he could make a quick turnaround.

After he threw on his work coat and repacked his bag, Silas picked up his crossbow, always too large and awkward in his hands, and glanced to the few remaining arrows tucked in the mesh where a water bottle could go. He pulled out an arrow just for the hell of it, then watched helplessly as it quite literally disintegrated in his hand. Fell to pieces.

“No, no, no.” Whispered but urgent, half submission, half prayer.

He fell to his knees and tried to salvage what he could from the dirt, mainly the arrowhead, which was still in decent shape. But the plastic had been dangerously cracked and fragile for some time and he knew it: this was inevitable. The rest were no doubt in similar condition. As was the trip he’d have to make into the city wreckage to find a sporting goods store for replacements.

An ice-cold raindrop stuck the back of his neck and ran down his spine just as the initial dread began to set in.

—​

Words couldn’t begin to describe his hatred of the city.

He stepped carefully and as silently as he could over massive cracks in the sidewalks, expertly sidestepping trash and debris, strictly staying close to the building shadows where he could hopefully blend in more. One of the few times he was thankful for the white noise of the rain to drown out any mistakes he made, but despite it all, he couldn’t shake the paranoia.

In spaces this open and large, with countless spots for other survivors to tuck themselves away, to hide out and watch him, Silas could never be sure which sounds were a figment of his overactive, cruel imagination. He could have sworn he heard whispering, unintelligible, but most definitely human, through the light rainfall. This time he didn’t stop to listen. The idea of staying to find out for sure was scarier than the thought of others being nearby, for some reason.

Silas came across the glorious ruins of a pharmacy before he found a sporting goods store and decided, after a prolonged couple moments of debate, to take his chances and see what he could find. Even if these were the first places that people looted when this all began, he’d gotten lucky enough to leave with something of value a handful of times. Possibly finding bandages, lighters, alcohol, or some kind of wound salve in the debris was worth the short delay.

He stepped carefully through the nearly collapsed door threshold, wincing at the noise as broken glass crunched underfoot. And waited.

There was no reaction to breaking the silence; this place had to be empty. Feeling somewhat relieved, Silas ventured deeper into the shelves that still stood after all this time, squinting at almost indiscernible package labels blackened with caked-on dust. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular, but was more casually browsing through, waiting for something particularly compelling to catch his attention. He used to do this. That much he remembered.

The front door creaking made his blood run cold.

Silas whipped around to the source of the sound, eyes wide. Fuck. He didn’t dare make a sound. Was that real? It had to have been—but Philadelphia had seemed so empty today. But it sounded so real. He’d also just heard that same noise as he opened that same door only minutes before, and, on occasion, unique noises would play again in his mind, like a broken record.

He damn near fainted at the sound of another voice. Feminine, barely there.

This deeper corner of the store was dark, further from the windows letting light in, but he thought he could just make out the shadow of a figure some distance away from him. Silas fixed his gaze on it, eyes wild, jaw clenched. He’d been followed in here—he was sure of it. He hadn’t been careful enough or perceptive enough out there in the rain, and some opportunistic survivor thought he was easy pickings. Followed him in. Intended to make him a part of history.

“Go away,” he warned lowly, voice gravelly and surprisingly hoarse—he couldn’t even recall the last time he had to project in any way.

When he wasn’t met with an immediate response from this stranger, real or not, but terror-inducing nonetheless, the worry and dread intensified to a dangerous boiling point. Silas reached for the crowbar poking out from the top of the backpack and drew it out, holding it firm in front of him.

“I said—get the fuck out of here.” Louder and firmer this time, but Silas had to pause so his voice wouldn’t tremble. “I’m not warning you again.”

code by valen t.

 

[horses]

Bevis Hooper

Health

Hunger

Thirst

location: somewhere he probably shouldn't be | mood: hungry & irritable | tags: pomme & timshel

Bevis would've been in a good mood if he had eaten recently. He loved the rain and the way it stung when it hit his bruised skin. He loved how the water rose in the low parts of the city, creating dirty pools for him to dive into. The rain was one of the few things that made Bevis feel as though he were actually living.

Of course, the loud growl emanating from him stomach was also a good indicator. It had been nearly a week since he had eaten. It used to be easy to find another survivor to score off of, but the city had seemed sinisterly empty in recent weeks. Bevis saw fewer people everyday. Now, he couldn't even remember how long it had been since he'd seen another person. Could it have been a whole month?

Bevis found himself near the edge of the city, a place he hadn't been in a long time. He had been wandering for days, searching for something to eat and collecting rainwater in an old milk carton. It tasted like sour cardboard, but at least he wasn't thirsty.

At one point, he found a few pieces of amber-colored hard candy wrapped in gold foil. He eagerly shoved them into his mouth and chewed on them, the pieces of candy breaking into glass-like shards against his tongue. They tasted sweet, but hardly did anything in the form of sustenance.

It meant he was close to something, though.

Looking around the general vicinity, he scanned the buildings for any sign of food or supplies. That's when he saw it.

A drug store.

He could see the near-empty shelves through the broken windows, lined up like giant metal dominoes. He found himself running towards the building, the rising rainwater squelching beneath his boots. He easily slid his small frame through the depreciating doorway. Once inside the building, he stood still for a moment and listened for any sign of another person. After a few seconds of hearing nothing other than his own breath, he began to move again. The dirty linoleum floor tiles were covered with broken glass, dirty bandages, and what was probably animal feces. Bevis walked through the empty aisles, taking note of what was left on the shelves. Makeup, disposable cameras, a couple of magazines. All stuff that he supposed wouldn't have been particularly useful in anyone's current situation, unless there was a market for post-apocalyptic fashion models.

Actually, he thought, that might be kind of cool. He took one of the cameras and shoved it into his satchel.

He continued his stroll through the store, lazily running his fingers along the dusty shelves. Towards the back of the building was a counter with a cash register and a couple of small shelves behind a glass pane. Bevis approached the counter and peered through the glass. There was something in there.

He walked behind the counter and reached his hand into the glass casing around the shelves. He pulled out a small disc, turning it over in his hand. The top was fuzzy and gray, and his eyes widened when he realized what he was holding. A chocolate-chip cookie. Bevis quickly pulled out his pocket knife and began scraping away at the mold. Once it was mostly fungus-free, he eagerly took a bite of the sweet.

The cookie was hard and strangely chewy, and his jaw hurt after just a few seconds. He continued to eat it, though, finishing in three large bites. Humming with pleasure, Bevis closed his eyes and leaned against the back wall. He allowed his body to slide to the floor, stretching his legs out in front of himself. Maybe he would sleep here tonight.

Just as he drifted somewhere between sleep and reality, Bevis was jolted by the sound of the front door. Scrambling to his feet, he quickly scaled a tower of shelves against the back wall. He normally didn't mind a bit of confrontation, but he was too tired to deal with another person right now.

And that's why he found himself hanging from the rafters, like a monkey holding onto a branch.

He watched as a rather tall man entered the building and proceeded to walk through the shelves, just as Bevis had done a few minutes ago. He eyed the man's backpack and wondered if this man could be a potential target. He was handsome enough that Bevis wouldn't have a hard time faking an attraction, and he seemed skittish enough that he wouldn't put up much of a fight once Bevis got him naked and cornered. Bevis chewed on his lower lips as he contemplated this, still watching as the man drew closer and closer.

Then, the sound of the door.

Bevis watched as a girl, about his size, entered the store. What were the fucking odds? Weeks without seeing anyone, and now he was hanging from a metal pole like a sloth to avoid being seen by two other survivors. This had to be some kind of sick joke.

The man and woman shared a few words, but Bevis had become too distracted by a newly-arising problem to make out what they were saying.

His fingers were slipping, and he did not have the strength to hang on.

He gripped the bar tighter with his thighs as his torso flopped down, and he found hanging upside down like a bat directly in front of the man.

Bevis chuckled as he hung there, letting his arms go limp by his head.

"Well, this is awkward."

c o d e b y t r i p l e s​

 

[noxious]

emery "phantom" mok

Tales of disaster could be seen for miles, the scenery haunting of what once was. Rain bathed the ruins and reminders of the old world, washing withered buildings of filth. The water ran cloudy, dust from crumbled structures mixing with soot produced by past shelters set aflame.

Emery looked up as water droplets soaked her, staring at the only constant in these times. The sky. It was bleak, grey with dark clouds and the sun absent. She was standing atop the remains of a small office building, where she had been looking for writing utensils, two new pens now in her possession. Almost half of the building was gone, broken down and exposing all the inner floors. Scaling the floors was a task, with no ladders, but she made due by climbing things and entering upper floors through holes.

Although she adored rain, she didn’t much like soggy shoes, so with a small sigh she dropped down from the roof to the top floor. She stood for a moment, shaking her hair to get rid of dripping water. She then eased backpack straps off her shoulders, letting the bag secured to her back drop to the debris covered floor. Once the weight was off her shoulders the state of her body became apparent. Muscles sore, joints aching, and stomach tight with hunger. She felt twice as old as she is. This was the first time she stopped moving in two days, an odd anxiety not letting her rest. It was nice to take a break, to breathe, the office building provided the right place where she could do that. Granted, the hills weren’t exactly safe, but she was near the edge where not many wandered.

She dragged a tattered desk chair to where her bag was located and plopped on to it. It creaked loudly, as if yelling against her weight. Slowly, she unzipped her bomber jacket and loosened a few of her weapon holsters, made from leather belts. As much as she wanted to nap, she knew she couldn’t get too comfortable. Not here. The rain had yet to lessen, which Emery felt was a tad unfortunate seeing as she couldn’t really travel in such weather. Her backpack was not waterproof and certain possessions were too valuable to risk wreckage.

Emery leaned forward and opened her bag, sifting through the contents until her hand came across a cold tincan. Though there was a want to save her food, her body couldn’t go much longer without something. Gripping the can and pulling it out, canned peas greeted her. Such foods were always a hit or miss, especially with how overdue they are of their shelf life. She grabbed one of her throwing knives from its spot on her thigh and stabbed through the top of the can. The material feeble against the blade.

Once it was opened, she glanced inside the can and a look of disgust spread across her face. The peas were slightly discolored, slime-like, and the smell was odd. The urge to gag was strong, but the need to eat even more so. She tightly closed her eyes, tilted her head back and poured some slime peas into her mouth, whatever fluid in the can along with. Lowering her head to its normal position, she started to eat. She chewed despite the indescribable taste coating her tongue. The process continued until the can was emptied, there was an aftertaste she wasn’t quite sure was supposed to be there. Before putting the throwing knife back where it belonged, she cleaned the blade off on her pants, watching a trail of green slime be left behind. She tried her best to ignore it, hoping what she ingested wouldn’t come back to bite her.

Now bored with the can, she tossed it behind her across the decayed room and towards the area where a giant chunk of building was missing. She heard it roll before falling off the ledge, there was a soft thunk noise followed by someone cursing and kicking the tincan. Her head whipped around, staring at the exposed area. Quietly and swiftly, she made her way to the ledge, laying on the dusty floor. She carefully peaked her head over the edge, peering down the floors. She’d done a mile radius scout in the area before meticulously going through each floor, no one had been around and she wasn’t in the location long. No one should be here.

And yet, there they were. Another person a few floors down, a sticky substance in their hair, nearly like the goo Emery left in the can. They started to look around and she hid away from the ledge, flipping onto her back and heavily exhaling.

One singular world left her lips in a whisper, “Shit.”

LOCATION:

The Hills​

MOOD:

Tired & Exasperated​

TAGS:

Open for interactions​

coded by weldherwings.

 

[pomme]

romi rosalinde

LOCATION: the pharmacy MOOD: panic INTERACTIONS: timshel horses

A voice.

It winded through the silence, twisting invisibly around her and stifling the fear with a cruelly calming necessity. The unbridled hostility in the masculine voice: it was something she'd found in lush abundance in Rubyland, but outside it, the brutal emotion laid flat felt like a toy in her hands. Soothing whispers that almost felt like they belonged to someone else bloomed in the darkest cracks of her mind, the little tiny instinct that had saved her so many times taking over quicker than the adrenaline could make her falter.

Her voice was no longer quiet, only whistling in the dulcet tone that traced through it like an undercurrent, cooing yet so persistent it sounded sweet even to her own ears. "You sound a little stressed there, friend." Her gaze was firmly locked on the hazy shape of his silhouette, panic sparking in her again as her words bounced off the empty metal shelving. This was a gamble, but gambles were something she dealt out with each blink and each breath.

A weapon. The shape jutting from his white-knuckled grip was crushingly familiar, its burnished metal surface catching dying embers of light and tossing them over the dully shining tiles. A thin smile poked out from under her waning fear, her fingers stretching out towards it instinctively. His emotion, so vibrant and palpable, hung in the air so heavy she felt she could mold it without even a word. The more seconds passed by, the more she knew: whatever weapon he had wasn't embedded in her skull, so there was at least a chance that she could win this battle.

After all, she needed the interaction as much as he did, and unlike the wavering figure, she had no game-over held in a tight fist. Her words, like they had so many times before, would decide her fate.

"You sound like you could maybe use a little company, somethin' to ease that edge a bit," she hummed, her breath catching in her chest as she stepped out into the aisle, standing just a few paces behind him. The field was even now. Her hands snapped up in a delicately feigned surrender, the shiv tucked just under her wristband and the empty grin on her face growing.

"Don't worry, I'm n—"

A flash, a swipe of color slashing down in front of him. A bright scream tore from Romi's lips as she threw herself back behind the shelf's thin cover, her body hitting the ground with a heavy thud. Her breaths came out in heavy pants, a jagged scratch torn by the metal's biting edge stinging under her ripped sleeve. Terror battered against the charisma she'd donned so carefully, her legs shaking weakly as she jumped back up and brandished the puny shiv in front of her like a pistol.

The feeling of her back meeting with the wall gave her little reprieve to the shrieking, mind-shattering adrenaline that clung to her like a vice. Through blurred vision and twitching eyelids she could discern more of the second figure, a gently swinging... person? Upside down?

It didn't matter. Two was never a coincidence, and words meant nothing when she was outnumbered.

"Who are you?!" She screamed, her voice cutting only in the way it quavered as if even she was unsure of her words. The fear that engulfed her was numb in her skull, echoing just as weakly as her words did amongst the silent landscape of trashed boxes and fallen shelving. "I'll kill you," she whispered, each breath resounding as a gasping pant.

"I'll kill you!"

stats

health​

hunger​

thirst​

 

[pomme]

As it had been for the last days, months and years, Philadelphia was a city divided. The difference between the carefully cultivated solitude and the turmoil that raced through the streets and embedded itself into each and every thing was something that sat in starker contrast than anything else, as it had been for the last days, months, and years. This day, as all the others, was one with little peace.

But reason would soon strike in swift blades, for not all of the chaos was happenstance.

Seven. For some, a sigil of luck, for others, tallies of sins: for now, neither. Today, seven was a convergence, two groups split across the city, both equally engulfed in that same chaos that so many others knew.

Today, for a certain seven, there would be a reason.

After all, the present is something comprised equally of the living and ghosts. Quite a burden, perhaps, but the crucible that held the world that was longer an 'after', but simply a 'now'.

One pharmacy, one office, seven people far outnumbered by their ghosts. None ready to meet them, yet they wouldn't have a choice.

In the same moment, two twin bolts would strike: a crash, splitting their revolving chaos down the middle, leaving nothing but a sheet of paper with scribbled text and grainy pictures behind.

ANDREW CAMPBELL. MARISOL EVELIN GUERRERO. THE BOUCHERS. GRIER "BUTTHEAD" HOOPER. NATHANIEL ROSALINDE. THE SOMS. OAKLEY MOK.

1843 MABLE AVE.

Are you ready to meet your ghosts?

 

[timshel]

Pharmacy ruins. Somewhere in Philadelphia, PA.

location

Paranoia in full effect. Borderline unhinged.

mood

Romi Rosalinde & Bevis Hooper.

pomme & horses , respectively.

tags

Silas Vail

PLEASE COULD YOU STOP THE NOISE IM TRYING TO GET SOME REST

Silas flinched at the unexpected verbal answer.

Something about the way this woman spoke to him only fed into his paranoia: a kind of forced sweetness that left an uncertain taste in his mouth, one that made him confident it was nothing but deceptive. The idea that she could apply this ‘one size fits all’, kind of coquettish, disarming approach to survivors was almost funny, but he’d reflect on that some more later—if there was one thing he was sure of, it was that there was no way in hell he was letting his guard down.

He narrowed his eyes, furrowing his brow. I’m not your friend. His grip on the crowbar only tightened as this silhouette remained motionless in his plane of sight, actively denying what he thought was a very reasonable request. She’s going to try to kill me, Silas reminded himself. Why would she turn and leave if she’d followed him in here? And why was she playing with her food?

It was all so very strange: no one had spoken to him like this in a long time, if ever. Whoever this character was wanted to play with words like a cruel cat would with its prey, passive and in shock from terror. The man instinctively whipped around and moved away as she moved to start closing the distance between the two of them. Crowbar still held tight, arms tense, jaw set. He was intent on swinging if she drew much closer, despite her unoriginal peaceful gesture of raised hands.

Who did this stranger think he was? He’d seen it all by this point—everything about her demeanor and words only told him that this display was nothing more than a ruse. And then the ceiling caved just in front of him, and Silas was reminded yet again that just about anything could happen these days.

“Jesus Christ!”

A flash of movement—clothes and skin and the glinting of glass in the low light. A scream tore through. He lunged back at the first sign of movement, nearly tripping over a piece of broken shelving on the floor as he stumbled. Heart pounding faster than it had in a long, long time, all of the sudden, making his throat close up tight.

He stared at the suspended figure as if he’d just seen a ghost.

This survivor was young. He didn’t even know if there were many people who weren’t well into their twenties anymore, but the thought of caring for a baby and raising a child in such unstable circumstances seemed damn near impossible.

That being said, there was no way this kid was traveling alone through these parts. There were more people somewhere. Something rustled and groaned somewhere above them; Silas threw his head back and looked, eyes wide, darting to make some sense out of the vague darkness and shapes. When he couldn’t quickly make something out, he fixed his wild gaze on this upside-down kid.

Then it hit him: this had to be some kind of ambush. That was the only thing that made sense. With being followed in, and this younger kid screwing up and giving their location away, the others lurking just out of reach were no doubt closing in before he could do too much damage. It was obvious.

His expression nearly threatened to crack. “Who else are you with?” Silas shouted at the hanging survivor, raising the crow bar over his shoulder as a threat.

“I swear to God, I’ll kill you. I’ll beat your fucking face in if you don’t start talking.”

code by valen t.

 

[bad wolf]

THE
GOLDEN

ROY BOUCHER

Mention(s): Emery ( noxious )
Location: The Hills
Mood: Irritated and very fucking cold.

She sat him down, gripped him by both arms, and stared at him hard. He was bugged-eyed, her even more so as she told him very seriously, "Nothing's wrong with you." Nonetheless, she'd brought him into the doctor's two months later only to find out he might have an overactive imagination and an attention deficit disorder, big words for someone so little. She explained it as a sort of creativity that stretched farther than the eye could see and energy as fierce as the sun's. Whenever he got bullied at school, he told his attackers that he was a superhero, that his mom had him checked and the doctor said it was so. He had the paperwork to prove it. He'd say it over and over again and they'd only laughed as they blackened his other eye.

When the roof leaked at home, he saw waterfalls. He'd sit right under a steady trickle and imagine himself being waterboarded. He thought about how much he'd say in such an instance, how strong he'd be as he shut his eyes tight and sat as still as he could. His mother would swoop to his rescue and complain about the water being contaminated, something about asbestos in the walls and insulation. She'd throw a towel over his head and press her lips into a thin line as he told her in a muffled voice, "I'm immune, Ma. I've got superpowers."

He hosted funerals for his dad and his sister's barbie dolls, creating coffins out of shoeboxes and interring them into the flowerbed they rarely used. At the head of each grave was a cross he'd made out of twigs and whatever string he could salvage. Sometimes he'd invite his friends to attend one and they'd all spend the afternoon digging holes for more coffins. He invited the neighbor girl once and she cried so hard that she had to run home. She never came back over after that.

If he sat down long and he thought very hard, Roy could picture the flowerbed, he could see himself in the mirror as he poked at another bruise, and he could make out the green of his mother's widened eyes, the way her lashes batted at him like some billowing black blanket. He'd sit there and imagine a whole world of possibilities and it'd make his eyes water, his chest hurt, and his hands shake. He'd sit there so long thinking about the things he'd lost, that he'd forget everything he still had.

And it might not be much but a whole fucking hill to yourself was nothing to sneeze at.

This hill creaked and it moaned and it spoke to him when no one else would. If he rummaged around in the debris long enough, he'd find treasures. Bobby pins and coke cans. Furniture to burn and broken plaster to plug the holes to his room with. If you dared climb to the top, five stories of near collapsing concrete, you might be able to see the sun reflect in the highest windows of the surrounding city scrapers.

But that was on a good day and this day was far from it.

Wrapped in a green tarp, Roy paced just to keep warm. He tried starting a fire and every time he got it started, a hole in his roof would put it out. He'd move the fire pit and another damn hole would emerge just to spite him, dripping enough water to smother whatever spark he'd got going. A slight breeze whistled through the hill's broken windows and he cursed it all for laughing at him. "I'm working on it," he sneered, kicking at pebbles. He went on to mutter, "We're supposed to be a damn team aren't we? I dress you up some, hang pictures on the walls and sweep the floors," a little louder "And you provide some fucking protection from the elements, right?" His voice echoed. The hill neglected to answer. "That's fucking right."

Hugging his arms tighter, the trap crinkling loudly in his ears, Roy crouched and stared at his fire pit. The pot he used to gather water was full, but the wood he needed to boil it was too damp to burn. With a scornful grimace, he lifted the pot to his lips and studied the grey slosh he had inside. One drink the one time he couldn't get a fire going wasn't going to kill him. Taking a sip, he nodded smoothly and downed the rest before standing.

Fixing his bag over his shoulders and the tarp, Roy backed out of the hill's entrance with a bow. "Fuck you. Fuck my fire. I'm out. See you in ten." Minutes. Hours. Days. He begrudgingly refused to clarify.

He walked at a brisk clip away from home, the tarp crinkling and his feet kicking like a one-man-band down the center of a bustling city street. He dodged past stationary cars, their metal husks rusted through and disintegrating. The ground shimmered, billions of raindrops painting the surface of broken glass. He thought that this might be the prettiest thing he'd seen in months.

As the rain let up some and he slowed to a small shuffle, Roy lowered the hood of his tarp and paused. He'd left without a plan, charged out like an angry spouse just to put some distance between himself and the thing he was most frustrated with. Can't distance yourself from yourself, now can you? "Ha!" Looking about, he leaned into the trunk of an old hatchback, gripping the straps to his backpack tightly. What are you most right now? Cold? Can't help that. Sleepy? "Ha!" What even was sleep? You're not thirsty so you might as well eat.

And like that... Food came falling from the sky, nearly knocking him unconscious. "Ha!" Stop that.

Roy watched a can roll away from him and raised a hand to wipe away the green goop which flooded his vision. "Fucking hell." Peering up and around, Roy glared at the gaping windows of the nearest building, the hungry holes in its walls and floors. Looking at the smear of green on his hands, he brought it up to his nose and sniffed. "Nope." Dabbing a bit on his tongue he shook his head and dragged his hands over the tarp. "Double nope." Grabbing the straps to his backpack, he faced the building and stepped back a few feet. "Fucking bogey's the best you got? I. Want. Meat. Just a really fine spread of potatoes and peach cobbler. Could you throw any of that at me next?"

© pasta

 

[low fidelity]

EVE
GUERRERO.

MOOD: tired and stressed, but curious.
LOCATION: somewhere in the streets.
TAGS: none yet.
MENTIONS: roy / open to everyone.

Sometimes, Eve's dreams were as forgiving as they were heartbreaking.

Her mind would allow her to remember, to dream of what her life once was, with a family and love and safety. Four walls and a solid roof, televisions to watch cartoons, toys to play with. In her dreams, Eve got to see her mother's face. Her appearance was clear, a crisp memory, photocopied directly into her mind's innocent childlike fantasies in those quiet nights, and she was given the blessed curse of seeing her talk and walk. When Eve would wake, however, the memories would flitter away in the wind like dandelion puffs. Her mind was a cruel thing, denying her the memory of her mother. The nights weren't easy. Eve could barely sleep.

I miss my dad. I wish he were here. He would know what to do.

The thoughts played on repeat in Eve's mind as she trekked through the wastelands, barely a week after her hurried nighttime escape from the Guerrero Compound. Her life had changed so suddenly, so harshly, and all that was left in her chest was a profound loneliness and sorrow. She had spent nearly a decade in the presence of other people; whether they were friends or not wasn't important, but the prison was lively and hosted at least fifty people at any given time. Every day, Eve woke to the sounds of life, people clamoring for their morning breakfast in the mess hall, sleep-heavy greetings, even the sound of children. They had gotten so comfortable. Eve let herself get too used to sleeping in a warm bed, and now, she mourned what once was.

The loneliness was what persisted the most, but anger came at the worst moments, bubbling up inside her like some awful caged animal, waiting to be let out. Eve was so fucking angry, with herself, with the Grishams, with her father, with the world. Many would say that Eve was lucky to have had her father for so long. She got to watch him age, got the opportunity to be raised by a parent, something that most folks in this world simply did not have anymore. But the thought of her supposed luck only left her more bitter. At night, resting under trees or dilapidated buildings, Eve imagined returning to the compound and slitting Edwin Grisham's throat slowly. Other nights, the nights where she was too afraid to sleep and rested in between boughts of anxiety and flittering nerves, her night terrors were of Edwin finding her, sentencing her to the same fate as her father. She could see the streaks of red painting his old pillows. Lately, her vision was the same shade of red, full of a type of howling rage and sorrow she did not know she was capable of.

It was a bitter day from the start. Eve woke up to rain droplets splashing her eyelids, faint and weak, a warning of an oncoming storm. It was getting colder, day by day, and today the world around her was nothing but beige and grey tones, promising only cold and dreary disappointment. Nonetheless, Eve got to her feet and stretched out in the bare bones of a shed she had found herself in. If she stood on her tiptoes, she could run her fingers along the ceiling. The tin roof had seemed intact, but upon further scrutiny in the morning light, she realized it had been corroded over the years and was littered with holes. Only three of its walls remained standing and whatever it once contained was long gone, but despite its lopsided lean it was decent enough to sleep in for the past two days. She vaguely wondered how many people had found refuge inside.

Eve patted its cracked wooden door, a silent thank you for giving her somewhere to sleep, and knew it was time to move on. By now, the city was close and she was nearing the Hills. Her plan wasn't clear just yet, nor did she trust any of the folks who skittered through the ruins' shadows. The girl couldn't bear the thought of staying in one place though. It was too risky; she had no clue if the Compound was looking for her, and god forbid anyone stumble upon her little hiding spot while she slept.

A little rain wouldn't hurt anybody. If anything, the crisp cold of the morning helped fight off the drowsiness that persisted. Eve tugged on her coat, pulled the hood over her head, and made sure to tuck her shirt over the rest of the belongings in her backpack to try and protect it from the oncoming rain. The air outside was humid, the smell of rain and damp soil flooding her senses. Something in that damp morning air left her with a peculiar feeling. She was expecting something to happen. Not the usual paranoia, wondering if someone was lurking around the corner, ready to pounce. The weight of something significant happening that day laid heavy in her chest like a cold stone, and she had no clue what to make of it.

The trek through Philadelphia was a sight to behold. Whether that sight was beautiful or not was determined by the eye of the beholder, but Eve reasoned that there had to be some beauty within all of this ruin, this rot and emptiness that was left behind. It was a silly notion to mull over as she walked through muddy, patchwork grass of what once was a lawn, but there wasn't much else to keep her mind occupied. If left alone with her thoughts for too long, they would fill with red, and she could smell the gunpowder in the room from a freshly fired gun, and see her father never waking up from his sleep. It kept surfacing up like bile, it was too much to bear. And so, Eve forced herself to appreciate the brilliant green of the trees and plants that overtook the buildings, even more colorful in the light rain. She was trying to compartmentalize. So far, it was working.

The weather was beginning to take a turn for the worse as she approached the Hills, but Eve kept walking, kept herself moving with purpose. Idle hands were the devil's workshop, her father would say. Stop fucking thinking about dad, her next thought cut in. After hours of walking, moving through broken down buildings and eerily silent streets though, tiredness was weighing on her. Earlier, the girl had decided her goal for the day was finding more food, and possibly other supplies. In her escape she had only brought three cans of food and some jerky, and that jerky was gone, and the cans of food were not to be trusted. They were so far out of date, Eve could barely stand the thought of opening them and seeing if the food inside was spoiled or not. Food poisoning was no damn joke. Plus, Eve needed a gun. She had some bullets, but nothing to protect herself with except for an axe and knives. For others, that would be plenty, but Eve wasn't the strongest survivor in the wasteland. She'd feel better with a gun.

Eve was right to find some solace from the weather under broken slabs of concrete, somewhere that used to be an office building, she thought. The rain outside had turned into a steady downpour, and her stomach was protesting loudly from the hunger. The street outside felt too exposed; with the rain, Eve couldn't hear what was going on around her, and she had no clue who else could be lurking around. Scooting into the driest corner she could manage, the girl looked over her map as she poured a cold can of beans into her mouth. There was a pharmacy a few blocks down. That might be promising.

And then, the sky exploded. A loud clap of thunder, Zeus' fury announced to the survivors, and then through the rainfall, Eve saw a man.

A man walked down the road with a tarp over his person, but through the pitter-patter, she swore she could hear him laugh. Short barks that made her jump with each annunciation. Of course, the first person I see in days, and he's fucking crazy. He idled down the road, nearly out of sight, and Eve immediately felt the need to run. She had no gun, he seemed a good bit bigger, and even if he was going the other direction, Eve had no upper hand in this situation. Her hiding spot was almost in plain sight, found from the street if one looked hard enough. Eve wanted to get inside somewhere, get up high, get some visibility. Rainfall be damned.

Scooping her things into her bag in one fell swoop, Eve tied a black bandanna over her face, pulled her hood over her head, and headed out into the street with light footfalls. His voice echoed almost clearly now, and though she didn't pay attention to his words, the girl still jumped. He was closer than she had thought. Time to get a move on. The pharmacy can wait. Eve thought to herself, and as she crept away from the perceived danger, she crept closer and closer to the note and photos, a new mystery that would surely throw her for a loop.

code by low fidelity.

 

[Astarte]

serani – the raven – som

❛ We can never flee the misery that is within us. ❜

Those who have had the curtesy of meeting her, often had the pleasure of meeting the woman with coquettish eyes. The way her subtle aesthetic, albeit not that attractive features, were complimented by words that easily flittered from her lips. She was a woman who had a notorious way of getting what she wanted in ways that not very many knew how, but the way she had managed to get the items she had exchanged had definitely piqued the interest of the desolate wanderers of today.

Plucked from her pack; an old, damaged hiking bag with a convenient number of inside pockets, and deep holes on the outer compartments; was none other than an old bottle of vodka that Serani would often carry with her in case she had needed to tend to her wounds. Smirnoff: Watermelon Melon D'eau, though she hadn't had the chance to taste it, she doubted it would have a consistent flavor of melon's. The individual she stole this from likely replaced the alcohol with something entirely different.

With a light and casual toss of her dark hair, long, skinny fingers ran through the rough dreaded section of a lock of hair as the look of exhaustion spread across her mature features. Should she, or should she not drink from this bottle? Is it poisoned? Did they die? Would she die?

Who knew what was going to happen, but she didn't much care for the results at this point. She was bored, wandering without a compass, away from the comfort that was Rubyland as she trudged upside a concrete hill, remnants of what was once a towel, glittering building. With dark streets, and solemn alleyways, all around there could be people watching, danger lurking, and every towering shadow that Serani got close to caused an all to familiar feeling of excitement to ache between her shoulder blades. This excitement proved to her that her posture might've gotten worse over the years, especially seeing as she hadn't managed to find objects of comfort, well aside from a bag full of leaves she had to leave behind. But it wasn't comfort she was looking for as much as it was adrenaline, the idea of someone attempting to mug her, to fight her, to give her something that helped her feel as though she were alive.

Eventually, hours had passed, with an uneventful day to pass her by before day became night then night became day. She never did sleep while she was traveling, not by herself, and with her legs aching against the uneven terrain, Serani had nearly opted in sleeping in a tree, like it would do much for her, before she came across what was supposed to be a desolate building. Eager to raid and rest easy, her pace quickened towards it's crumbled box-like shape before the sound of chuckling and a can collapsing stopped her in her tracks.

"So," she said to no one in particular, "there are people here, after all?" She wanted to be heard, her voice was silent, but only naturally so as she whispered to the wind. Readily, Serani pulled her dreaded hair back into a ponytail before she stretched out her upper body and marched forward. "Hello, hello," she cooed in her sing-song voice, "greetings, for I come in peace! Ahaha!"

noxious bad wolf

coded by weldherwings.

 

[noxious]

emery "phantom" mok

The man who was victimized by the tincan yelled out and it was then she knew, he wouldn’t think the falling can to be a freak accident. With her presence now outed, she gathered her things. Weapon holsters tightened, jacket zipped, and backpack secured, Emery was ready to book it. Then her movements paused, the last of the man’s words hit her. Curiosity prodded at her, what was a peach cobbler? More so, who the fuck cobbles peaches?

The thought of such a ludacris thing made her pause and stare towards where the man was. She simply just wanted to rest for a moment. And well, wasn’t that just too much to ask because she was now questioning the sanity of the man below her.

Emery shook herself from those thoughts and observed her surroundings. There was one way out of this mess and she wasn’t going to waste time. The layout of the building was prominent in her mind as she dropped through a hole to the floor under. She landed softly on a filing cabinet and stilled, listening as another voice rung out. A loud greeting, which both startled and annoyed her. Did no one have any discretion for danger anymore?

Many things ran across her observant mind in that moment, such as the man didn’t come alone and was probably grouped with a few others. The new addition near the office building included and was the spark of said thought. There was no wasted breath on a sigh as she crossed the floor she was on. Urgency in her movements as she descended another floor. It was her luck to come across a small group, a rather noisy one at that.

“Pens. I came here for pens.” she grumbled out. The universe had it out for her and she sure as hell returned that hostility; cursing towards the sky.

No holes to weasel through nor disappear into were on the current floor. Remembering how she ascended beforehand made her eye twitch. She was going to have to risk being out in plain sight to get to the next floor. Emery crouched near the edge, peering over the ledge once again to get a look on the situation. There was no avoiding what she had to do, just for a chance of escape.

Gripping the ledge of crumbled debris, she carefully lowered her body and dangled in the air. Steeling her nerves and inhaling, legs were swung for momentum. Ignoring the noises of the two people as she let go of the ledge, flinging herself to the targeted area. Her feet hit the weathered cement, echoing throughout the space. She ducked into the floor out of sight, hiding behind a broken metal desk, clutching a knife tightly in her hand. The aching in her bones flared.

She’d felt their eyes, it was too late. They’d already seen her.

LOCATION:

The Hills​

MOOD:

Tired & Exasperated​

TAGS:

bad wolf Astarte​

coded by weldherwings.