Dark Studios Presents... A Darkthought RP... A tale of a world that has lost itself... Sanctuary Prologue: Mankind had almost reached its pinnacle. Petty wars and trivial disputes had been set aside, ushering a new era of peace and understanding. Such great leaps in science and art were made as had not been seen since the renaissance. It was truly a Golden Age. In such an age as this, the institution known as UERI, the United Earth Research Institute, reigned supreme. Its minds had cured world hunger and global warming, and its minds were also the ones that ultimately doomed humanity. Three years preceding the even that would come to be known as the Nova Incident, UERI's top scientists had begun work on a massive particle accelerator named after the project's lead scientist, Doctor Isaiah Magnus. Located near the Franco-Swiss border in a top secret facility called the Nova Labs, the Magnus Device would, in theory, have allowed for great advances in interstellar travel and virtually eliminated the world's growing fuel shortage. However, the tests that were run on the device could have never fully prepared the scientists for what was about to happen. Late in the year 2012, the Magnus Device was switched to fully operational. That was when it happened. A massive EMP blacked out the entire world. Electronics everywhere simply ceased to work. Panic ensued. Riots broke out within hours. The world was ripe for the slaughter that was about to occur. That was when They came. Pouring forth from the Nova Labs, They came with such force as had never before been seen by human eyes. Their armor was to strong for our weaponry, and their numbers were to many for us to fight back. They took the skies from us first. The explosion was seen around the world. A huge missile, as big as our spacecraft, was launched into the air. When it was done, the world was taken by a perpetual cloudy darkness. It grew colder by the day until it became unsafe to live on the surface. So we moved underground into the massive City-bunkers build back in the third World War. Over the next several years, assaults from They became routine occurrence. We grew used to the sound of gunfire, used to the pain of losing those that we loved. We had relegated ourselves to defeat. Few electronics were salvaged that still worked in some fashion. Usually it was small battery powered devices like old radios and walkie talkies. People got by as best they could though. Then one day, in the City-Bunker under old New York City, someone received a radio transmission on one of the old devices in the bunker's military rooms. The transmission was fuzzy, barely intelligible, but what was heard was cause to rejoice. It gave the broken people hope once again. The transmission was as follows: “Doc...Isaiah Magnus...Someone out the....Anyone at all...Plea....resp....Damn.....don't have much time...If anyone is listening...flying over the old World Trade Cent... Heavy gunfire...Find me....Know how....defeat them.” So ended the final transmission of doctor Isaiah Magnus. Within minutes, a rescue force had been amassed. Former soldiers and civilians alike took up weapons and went in search of the crash site. Doctor Magnus had crashed the archaic 747 near the World Trade Center Memorial site. Heavy resistance was met from They, who had apparently also received the transmission. It took several hours and heavy losses, but the crash site was reached. Unfortunately, Magnus himself had been killed in the crash, but he had left something behind in the plane's safety box; one hologram disc and a working player. The disc explained that there was in fact a way to defeat the enemy. However, due to likelihood of the discs falling into the hands of They, Magnus had created five separate discs detailing his plan to defeat the enemy once and for all. The one found in the wreckage had been the first of these discs and had been encrypted with a partial blueprint for some sort of device that would ultimately stop They in their tracks. The Sanctuary Bunker The Sanctuary City-Bunker is the massive city sized bunker that rests under the ruins of New York City. It ruled by a loose association of council members made up of soldiers and civilians. The bunker itself is divided into four districts. Each district is separated by a Checkpoint which one has to pass through with the proper clearance in order to move about. Spoiler The Wall—Military District The foremost area, called the Wall by Sanctuary residents, is the military owned and operated district of the bunker. Its namesake is a massive wall that reaches all the way to high ceilings, effectively blocking off the entire bunker from the outside world. In order for They to assault the bunker, they first have to bypass the Wall and all its defenses. The defenses of the Wall are no meager thing. Every several feet, massive rail guns keep a constant vigil on the entrance, shooting and killing anything that enters without prior confirmation. The Wall is the first and only line of defense against enemy attacks. Should it fall, all of Sanctuary would fall with it. Civilians are not allowed near the Wall and soldiers have free reign in this area. The Rows—Civilian Housing Past the Wall lies the Rows, the civilian housing district. The dull, gray apartments stack up on top of each other eight or nine high for miles. For the people, it is a rough life in the Rows. Food is scarce, and what little there is is rationed by the military. It is not uncommon to go several days without eating. The streets are messy with refuse and trash. Disease is also rampant in this district. Rows Militia help to protect the streets and handle the problems to small for the military to deal with. There are no cars in the Rows and most people will have forgotten what one even looked like. Junkyard—The Waste District The Junkyard is where all of Sanctuary's trash ends up. Unfortunately, people end up here too. When the war started and everyone rushed to the bunker, not everyone was able to fit in the Rows. The ones that were left built up a distinct culture in the Junkyard, living off the things no one else seemed to want. All the broken electronics go here. Every once in a while, a working piece of old machinery will be dropped here and the people use it build up there society even more. Houses here consist of small metal shacks. Life in the Junkyard makes the Rows look pleasant. HQ—The Operations District HQ is where all the working electronics are stored and managed, this includes the communications equipment, lights, and vehicles. This is also where the Magnus Disc is kept safe. Only high ranking officials are allowed into this district and it is kept under heavy guard by the military. Our Weapons Though our supplies in Sanctuary are rather limiter, we have still managed to stockpile a considerable amount of weapons. Not just guns either, but working machinery from before the Blackout. An intimate knowledge of these weapons and their use could be highly beneficial to any soldier. Spoiler MN-800—The MN-800 is the standard issue rifle of all soldiers in the military. It is a magnet powered device that uses mass ammo, a small rectangular piece of highly compressed metal. When fired, the mechanisms inside the gun will shave off a small piece of the metal and decompress it. The magnets in the gun will then fire the metal orb at the enemy. This method of storing ammo is far more efficient, allowing one clip to produce around 800 rounds. The weapon is roughly three and a half feet in length. The accurate firing range is about three hundred yards. MN-Sa—The MN-Sa is the standard issue sidearm to every soldier in the military. It functions on the same principles as magnet and mass decompression components of the MN-800. Assault Armor—The military keeps three units of Assault Armor on hand. These impressive full body devices serve to enhance the abilities of the average soldier almost a hundred fold. The armor comes equipped with two shoulder mounted MN2—2000s, the larger and sturdier upgrade of the MN-800. The suit is also excellent for close quarters combat, allowing for a full range of motion. The armor itself full encloses around the soldier and provides combat info via a heads up display. Wall-mounted Railgun—The military employs the use of several high powered rail guns in addition to the standard manpower in order to fend of They attacks. The rail guns number twenty all together and cover the entire area between the Wall and the bunker entrance. TalonV—Though they don't have much use in the bunker, the military has five TalonV small attack craft for search and rescue missions on the surface. However, the severe infrequency of search and rescue situations has relegated most of these devices to retirement. Only high ranking officials know where they are kept. The TalonV is a small, highly agile, two man craft armed with a series of machine guns. It was originally designed for scouting missions during the Third World War. They We don't have much intel on them since encounters with them are often fatal. There is a little though, and knowing is half the battle. We know that they cannot breath our air, which is why they all carry breather tanks with them. We also know that they can't stand light or heat, hence the reason they took sunlight out of the equation. Some of us believe that they are some sort of reptilian creature, but none are sure. Their armor covers everything. Their standard weapon is called the Pulse Rifle and typically fires short bursts of super hot steel orbs. We have recovered a few of these and are in the process of trying to apply their technology to our own. Spoiler Threshers The Threshers are the powerhouse of the enemy force. Gigantic, standing nine feet tall, heavily armored humanoids, they sport two massive rail guns on either shoulder. Like all They, the Threshers are supported by two well protected breathing tanks on their backs. They seemed to be deployed in pairs to take out heavily manned emplacements. Thresher's have also been known to take out other They in an assault with no concern. Chance to survive and encounter with a Thresher is minimal and none have ever been destroyed. Dragoons Dragoons appear to serve as the main body of the enemy force. About the size of the average human male, Dragoons are not as heavily armored as other types of enemies. Dragoons wield a weapon known as the Shock Rifle which fire short bursts of high velocity steel orbs. Like all They, the Dragoons carry two well protected breather tanks on their backs. Vastly more agile than the Threshers, they can run at sustained speeds of forty miles. They appear to be deployed in five man squads. Hunter-Stalkers Hunter-stalkers are the specialist unit of the enemy force. They are extremely deadly and encounters with them are to be avoided at all costs. Their armor appears to be some form of intelligent polymer that is highly resistant to all types of rounds. Like all They, the Hunter-Stalkers carry two well protected breather tanks on their backs. Only deployed in single units in extreme situations and never work with other They. Carvers The small but deadly floating blade devices that serve to thin numbers before the Dragoons are sent in. Carvers are a staple of any Dragoon squad and can be very effective when deployed in great numbers. However, Carvers can be easily taken out by a precise shot to the center of the rotating blades. Fiends Fiends are the canine automaton creatures that are deployed to chase down fast moving targets. Fiends can reach recorded speeds of up to 100 mph and are capable of disabling an armored vehicle with their back mounted Shock Rifles. The Treader The Treader is the enemy's heavy assault vehicle. Resembling spiders, the Treader is supported by four long, thin but durable legs that tie into the main body of the vehicle. The vehicle stands roughly six stories tall. Dangling under the center of the main body is Electric Charge Cannon that can fire a concentrated beam to devastating effect. It take three Dragoons to pilot one. The only known ways of taking one down are either killing the pilots or using some sort of high explosive to blow apart its legs at the knee joints. Incubus Dropship The Incubus Dropship is the main mode of enemy transportation. The enormous wasp-like ship carries under it the “drop tank”; the part of the ship that actually carries They. Despite not having the capabilities of reaching high speeds, the Incubus appears to be highly maneuverable. It takes four dragoons to pilot the dropship, one corresponding to each engine, though they have been spotted with fewer pilots. The drop tank has a maximum capacity of twenty. Aside from a small Pulse Rifle mounted on the underside of the cockpit, the Incubus has no weapons. One can be put out of commission with a well placed rocket to one of the 4 engines. Your Story Spoiler You have grown up in a world devoid of the warming rays of the sun. Chances are, like most of us, you have never set foot on the surface, never seen anything beyond the bunker. Throughout your life, you have grown used to the constant sounds of gunfire, the constant threat that They will storm the bunker and all will be lost. Like almost everyone else in Sanctuary, you may have lost someone close to you, or more likely many people who were close to you. As you have grown, you have been groomed into the perfect candidate for a freedom fighter by all the soldiers you have spent time around. That is why when Sanctuary is stormed by surprise, it falls to you to recover the Magnus Disc from the Military Quarters on the other side of the Bunker-City. The disc must not fall into Their hands. Without it, the blueprint cannot be completed and They will destroy humanity. Rules Spoiler 1. Read everyone’s posts! Not only does this keep us all on the same page, it’s fun to know your posts are being read and acted upon. Respond to stimuli and events from other players’ posts. 2. Avoid writing one-line posts or extremely long posts. A range of 40-300 words is good to shoot for. 3. Edit before posting, we’re all here to improve as well as enjoy. 4. No God-modding or perfect characters. (boring!) 5. Fighting between characters should be kept to a minimum and I would like to see no killing of humans at all. However, if a fight or killing is unavoidably called for the players concerned must work the action out in PM and both parties should be amenable to the outcome. 6. Do not control another person’s character without their express consent. 7. If a player is AWOL and holding up the game the character will be NPC’d at the GMs’ discretion. If you know you’ll be gone for some time you may hand over your character to another player’s care. 8. Don’t flood the thread with long conversations or extensive actions. Give others a chance to post before moving on. 9. Please discuss any issues in the Discussion thread or PM Darkthought with your concerns. Gossiping about issues or spamming up the story thread is counterproductive. 10. And lastly…the GMs’ word is law. Character Sheet GM posts will be made in blue. These should be paid attention to as they will most likely have a great impact on the events of the story. Character Deaths will be posted in red. Character List Spoiler Player/Character/Gender/Role Junkyard: Blossom – Zafrira “Zefie” Gainsborough - Female – Sniper Raven – Hunter - Male – Assault/Stealth Darkthought – Drengi “Dre” Itir - Male - Assault Military: Nikhil (?) – Roger Gordan - Male – Assault Jade – Jessica “Jessie” Bennet - Female – Assault Foxee – Varenna “V” Shepherd - Female – Long range/support Gloom Kitty – Magdalena “Lena” Scott - Female – Assault Thanos – Bruce Stark - Male – Assault/Heavy weaponry Emerald – Vishka - n/a – Assault Teele - Jack Cyrus - Male - Assault Rem Nightfall - Artemis – Male – Assault CommonGoods – Joshua "Josh" Pastor - Male – Sniper The Rows: Ferret – Alex Meryor - Male – Long range/sniper sprb_skrbblz – Darmetrius Lindemann - Male – Assault/Heavy Weaponry
Name: Jack Cyrus Age: 22 Sex: Male Gear: A pair of pistols, as well as training in various martial arts techniques. Also carries many small electronic devices on his belt, which he lovingly dubs 'the batbelt'. Special Skills: Computer systems management is his primary focus. This includes running and programming software (hacking), in addition to breaking security (cracking; look here for the difference. ). Also, Jack is a crack shot with his pistols, and does well with almost any semi-automatic weapon. Finally, Jack has experimented with various martial arts, particularly jujutsu. Personality: Jack is easy-going and personable, if a little quiet at times. He leans more toward optimism, but not excessively so, and he analyzes every situation throughly before judging it. With people, he is friendly and open, with an easy manner and an aura of humor. During or after a hack, he will completely geek out and ramble on about the details of his implementations. Nothing makes him happier than punching away at a computer terminal. Description: Jack stands 5'11" and is well-proportioned, if a little thin. He has shaggy, somewhat wavy brown hair that instantly curls tightly when wet. He has bright blue eyes, and a faint mustache and goatee. Background: Jack's mother died of a hideous disease soon after giving birth to him. His father (Richard Cyrus) was a soldier, heavily decorated for his actions in the fight against They. He taught his son to think for himself, and be his own person. He nurtured his love of guns, electronics. and mysticism, teaching him all he could and finding all the literature he could. Jack's twin pistols were a gift from his father. Richard died when Jack was seventeen at the hands of They. Jack mourned him, but quickly moved on, knowing what his father's wish would be. He demonstrated mastery in his endeavors and was eventually hired by the government as a covert operative. He has seen and completed four missions into enemy territory, and is currently the youngest operative on the team with that much experience.
Name: Drengi "Dre'" Itir Age:23 Sex:Male Gear: Two old Browning Hi-Power pistols; one with a black on chrome theme and the other with a chrome on black theme. Dre also wields an old shock baton wielded by the MP Enforcers during the third world war. Special Skills: Above all else, Dre is resourceful. Growing up in the filthy and dangerous society of the Junker District, Dre learned how to use a variety of mundane and otherwise useless items for very practical purposes. He is also adept at picking locks. He also possesses an uncanny knack for thinking quick in tight situations. This makes him a prime candidate for being a leader. Personality: Despite his less than perfect childhood, Drengi is actually a very cheerful person. Not only can he force himself to see the best in a bad situation, but his charisma often inspires others to do the same. When the weight comes down though, Dre becomes the very image of intense. It can sometimes be unnerving how focused he can become on his goal once his mind is made up. Description: Messy, shoulder length red hair, an unusual trait as there are not many in Sanctuary. Dark, inquisitive eyes. His clothes are not neat, just what he could come across to get by in the Junker District. Background: Dengi grew up as most of the people in Sanctuary did; poor, sick, hungry, and with no knowledge of what lay beyond the confines of the Bunker-city. He was raised in the lower class Junker District with only meager supplies and nearly no formal education. Despite this, Dre has a deep passion for books and learning of all sorts. His parents died of disease when he was young and he was raised by an old Junker. He learned to fend for himself and as such became quite resourceful. When he was still a baby he caught a bad fever and bright lights will sometimes send him into seizures. If anything, Dre can be a little rash at time, often diving headfirst into a situation and letting his wits try and drag him out of it. Surprisingly, it usually works.
ok, here goes... Name: Darmetrius Lindemann Age: 23 Sex: Male Gear: a .45... a bag with 7 sticks of dynamite... an AK-47... night-vision goggles(not a weapon, is it ok, tho?)... Special Skills: i believe the term is "more balls than brains"... very brave, sometimes too brave... and a phonographic memory... Personality: not a joker, but he has a healthy sense of humor... very grounded in reality, he knows it's serious out there... also cocky... in some situations, he can be a hothead... Description: fatigue pants... combat boots... a poncho... under that is a thermal shirt... long hair in a ponytail... light-skinned with freckles... 6' and about 180 lbs solid... Background: Darmetrius saw his older brother and mother's ravaged corpses coming in from a date, and quickly fled when he heard noises like someone was coming back... he doesn't know what THEY look like, but he's pretty sure that's who's responsible... he took the weapons he has from fallen soldiers...
Name: Hunter Age: 32 Sex: Male Gear: Two large custom made pistols that fire large calibre shells. A jagged blade also custom made from a strong alloy. Special Skills: (Stealth and has an uncanny prowess with any weapon.) Personality: Arrogant Description: Hunter is 6.02 well built attired in black and soft chest armour always wears matt black shades short hair well cut and shaven bold at the back and sides. Regularly seen smoking fat cigar’s Background: Hunter grew up alone stalking the shadows for food Hunter’s family had all been killed upon entry into Sanctuary. Hunter was forced to fend for himself. Eventually he learnt he could use the shadows to hide better and would strike at thugs stealing their food and clothing. Hunter spent many years becoming a ghost in the darkness helping those unfortunate enough to fend off attackers. No one knew his name and dubbed him the Night Hunter which over time became Hunter. Hunter became an expert stealth assassin taking the lives of any brute bog or small to survive and best help the poorer and unfortunate to survive. Hunter realised he enjoyed killing the bad and did so. Eventually he became more noticed by others and accepted into the society that was Sanctuary and given a job as an enforcer which had been a big improvement from vigilante. The vilest of thugs and rapists and killers even enforcers feared Hunter none would want his bloodied retribution.
Name: Artemis Age: 20 Sex: Male Gear: Electric tazer [is that all right? would this have any affect?], and carving knife [would this have any affect on the enemies?] Special Skills: Hacking and able to make herbal drinks that help wounds[hope this is fine] Personality: Odd, funny, and loyal Description: Artemis has fair skin, blue eyes, and jet black hair. He wears a long sleeve, thin, black shirt, some black jeans, and a pair of holy converse. He has a jean jacket. Background: His father was an abusing soldier, whom allowed power to take control of his behavior. His mother was suffering from severe depression when she gave birth to Artemis and she had killed herself. Leaving Artemis the subject of his father's power rants and abusive behavior. Artemis is not a big fighter he prefers to help people, he has tried his best to understand healing wounds, and he even has tried to commission a project to have the children in a safe and sound environment.
Name: Joshua "Josh" Pastor Age: 23 Sex: Male Gear: Modified NM-800 (Less amounts of rounds on clip (300) but accurate at an incredible range), MN-Sa, Camera, Notepad Special Skills: Photographing and writing news reports Personality: Josh is the type of person who prefers to let other people do the fighting. He tends to be very resourcefull, and always manages to talk himself out of trouble. He smiles easily, but is easily scared; one may even call him a coward. He is just as likely to run from a battle as to stay and fight. Although he is usually very talkative, he is known to panic and hyperventilate on occasion. Background: Josh was the youngest son of high ranking military officer, and lived an easy live, being spoiled by his mother. After his father and his older brother died, his mother forbid him to join the military. Eventually, he became a journalist writing for the "Sanctuary", a news paper that is usually read by military personel more then the civilians. Josh has some security clearence within the Wall, but this is as close as he ever got to the military; he has never seen any actual fighting, but usually writes about life in the Wall. He is a terrible shot, even though his father made several attempts to learn him wield a modified MN-800.
Name: Vishka Age: 6 Sex: Male Gear: Shock Rifle, Breathing Tanks Special Skills: Can speak Their language, and has the occasional insight into how They function Personality: Due to harsh psychological conditioning, drug therapy and hypnotism, Vishka's mind was almost completely destroyed, leaving him broken and somewhat psychotic. However, he has been trained -- like an animal -- to respond to certain trigger phrases, and is virtually incapable of attacking a human. Description: He wears armour which protects him from the elements, and has a heavily-armoured breathing tank on his back. The Sanctuary provides him with refills of synthetic 'air'. He moves with a reptilian grace, and fights with vicious savagery. Background: Vishka is an ex-Dragoon. One of Them. He was captured during a mission scouting the Sanctuary, and was put through a rigorous scientific experiment conducted by the military in an effort to re-program him and use him against his former comrades. Although it was a success, his mere existence is top-secret. He is kept locked up in a heavily-guarded military base.
Name: Bruce Stark Age: 21 Sex: Male Gear: A pair of Cestuses he built himself that can compress air. It can produce a maximum of 6000psi added to a punch. An added feature is it steadies the hands and relaxes it to help aim. A rail gun that has 3 levels of charge. Level 1 - 45 seconds Level 2 - 1min 15 sec Level 3 - 2 minutes Special Skills: He has a wide knowledge about engineering in almost any mechanical field and can build or fix almost anything. Works in the army as a weapons design specialist doing experiments with some of the confiscated weaponry of They that have been killed. Did about 2 months of training to be a sniper but was moved to weapons design division. Personality: Enthusiastic about his work and usually friendly. Talkative sometimes too much. Shy around the opposite sex. A peacemaker and tries to get along with everyone. Description: 5'7" but skinny and toned because of years of brotherly “love”. He wears glasses and has brown eyes. His hair is short and coarse, so it looks like he has bed head all the time. Spend most his time working on new weaponry to rid of They. Background: Brought up by a single mother of 5 boys. He was the youngest. He was not like the rest of his brothers who all wanted to join the resistance against They. He was more interested in science mainly engineering. He is good at sneaking around from hiding from his big brothers but when he had enough time to hide he was reading anything about engineering he could get his hands on. When his brothers did catch him they were always wrestling or boxing. All of them enrolled in different parts of the resistance against They. He enrolled in to train in stealth missions and sniping but was passed on to weapons research. He helped designed the Wall – Rail Guns and now works on a portable rail gun to be used by soldiers. [If anything isn't ok PM me GM.]
Putting my flag in the dirt right here Name: Magdalena Scott (Lena for short) Age: 30 Sex: female Gear: MK 11 Ingram small belt of Kunai knives Special Skills: negotiation and criminal psychology Personality: Magdalena, is a sophisticated woman coming from a military family. She speaks well but shows concern for the well being of others and offers kind words and strength to others. Description: Magdalena has black bobbed hair which is tidy and formal however she has a long braid at the back of her hair which she calls a promise braid which she has maintained since the death of her eldest brother. Her eyes are Jade green and she is curvy and athletically built. Background: Magdalena had a good upbringing, with strict morals and a deep understanding of the military lifestyle. Her father served in the military for until retirement and her mother worked in the military hospital. From a young age Magdalena has seen wounds and dying soldiers. Her brother died in the fight against they.
Name: Varenna Shepherd (goes simply by 'V') Age: 25 Sex: Female Gear: A Colt carbine rifle with barrel-mounted flashlight and riflescope, some training in martial arts Special Skills: Medical skills. (since we didn’t have a medic yet I thought this would be ok) and a pretty good instinct for survival. Personality: Deliberate. Has an orderly mind, not without a sense of humor, tries to be optimistic, is very cool-headed in a crisis if it is something she feels she can deal with. If she gets out of her depth in a crisis she can start to stress out which results in being snappish and frightened or, oddly, cracking jokes. Depends on the situation. Friendly enough but reserved, periodically needing solitude (like a long hot bath which is often hard to get with the shortages on everything). Description: about 5'5", thin with long deft fingers. Delicately built and not very strong though she is quick when need be. Oval face with an aquiline nose that has a small bump at the bridge from being broken at one time, slightly squared jaw. Blue-green eyes, generous mouth, and straight honey-colored hair that falls to a bit past the shoulders. Background: Born to a military family in an upper level of the Rows, Varenna spent her childhood playing in the stairwells with the other children. Now and then they'd venture to the Junkyard and made a few friends there as well. Her father, Lieutenant James Shepherd, died in battle against They when she was thirteen and she still mourns him in private moments. Varenna had an interest in healing early in life and read every book she could find on medicine and the healing arts. Her mother made sure she had the opportunity to train at the small clinic in the area so she has some functional knowledge of medical care though she isn't a surgeon or even a full-fledged doctor.
This okay? (Also under construction) Name: Jessica ‘Jessie’ Bennet Age: 25 Sex: Female Gear: Weapon of choice is an assault rifle. Special Skills: She is an excellent shot, even under pressurized circumstances. She has some basic martial arts training. Personality: Jess isn’t considered to be particularly intelligent. Most people who know about her background consider her mentally unstable. Externally, the lack of emotion results in her appearing empty of personality. The finer workings of relationships are a mystery to her, as far as she is concerned, aim and shoot, that’s all there is to life. A lack of scruples allow her to kill easily and without remorse. Description: Her hair is dyed a bright, cyan blue and is cut into spiky layers around a pale heart-shaped face, falling just above her shoulders. She is tall (about 5'7) and slender. She has multiple piercings including a nose stud, lip piercing and numerous ear piercings (industrial (on the left side), pinna and auricle). Clothing is usually light and black. She usually chews on a toothpick, of which she keeps a supply. Background: Her father died at war when she was seven and her mother went mad with grief, resulting in Jess being taken into an orphanage. She repeatedly escaped until finally at seventeen they stopped dragging her back and she trained in combat. Recently she has been defending the wall against the They with the military.
Name: Roger Gordan Age: 18 Sex: Male Gear: Enforcer(pistol), Shock rifle(energy rifle), pulse gun(plasma rilfe) Special Skills: He is a star student and best in studies and sports. He is an excellent programmer, hacker, shooter, athlete and swimmer in accordance to his age. The top ranked student in Science, Social Science, Mathematics and Computers. Personality: He is young and thin but is one of the best swimmer, athlete, shooter of his age. A calm person in face of danger. He hides his inner anger succesfully. Description: Neatly combed hair draw the attention from his thin body. He always wears black clothes so as to mourn for his dead parents. Background: He was a kid who was told to study. At the age of six his parents were killed while figthing They. His uncle who was a top ranked secuirity official took him under his care. He became a star student in both sports and studies. He was soon appointed for an interview to act as a subordinate to his uncle. He soon passed it and got access to some of the brilliant guns. The best guns were however not told to him even by his Uncle.
I’m giving in as well … Name: Zafrira “Zefie” Gainsborough Age: 20 Sex: Female Gear: A dual automatic assault rifle with a scope and 40mm pump-action grenade launcher attached (though there is a very limited supply of grenades), a pair of switchblades and many years experience of street-fighting. Special Skills: She is a very good long-distance/sniper shot, and has an excellent memory. She also has good pick-pocketing and lock-picking skills. Personality: Zefie is sharp-minded and sharp tongued, but would never be deliberately malicious or cruel. She has a tough exterior and has difficulty trusting people and letting them in, but when she does she is warm and loyal. She tries to be kind but is aware that she lives in a harsh world in which survival costs. Description: just under 5’3” and skinny from malnutrition. Though not strong she is agile and a swift runner. She has waist-length blonde hair that she keeps tied back in one long braid. Wide, dark eyes are set either side of a long, straight nose and she wears dark make-up that makes her skin seem fairer than it is. She has a tattoo over one eye that marks her as a member of one of the street gangs, but usually keeps it covered up with a head-band. Background: Zefie never knew her father, and her mother died of a wasting disease when she was three. She was left to wander the streets and was adopted by a gang of street kids who taught her to pick locks and pockets and to steal to survive. Occasionally they would find a still-working gun or rifle and so Zefie also learned to shoot. She grew up scavenging around the Rows and the Junkyard, looking out for the younger kids and learning from the older. She had to be able to run fast in case they were caught, and sometimes they would get into fights with rival gangs so she had to be able to fight. On the last They-raid most of her gang were killed, and those that survived scattered.
Operators were beginning to stir in the many halls of the HQ, the Operations District that rested farthest from the the Wall. The Operators took their places in front of the myriad panels full of flashing lights and security screens. Switches were flipped and buttons were pressed, soon the city-bunker was filled with the roar of Sanctuary's massive generators kicking on to full power. High above the city, the huge lights that simulated and artificial daylight began to grow brighter, giving the effect of a rising sun. In the Rows below people were beginning to go about their morning routines; cooking what little breakfast there was, going to work, heading off to school. Soon the streets of the Rows were filled with the hustle and bustle of an entire city's worth of people. In and near the Wall, soldiers who had patrolled throughout the night were relieved of their duties by the morning shift. Routine maintenance was being performed by Sanctuary's skilled engineers on the massive rail guns that kept the city safe from the looming threat of They. In the Junkyard, the huge machines that managed the waste and their operators were already busy at work separating the different materials to be melted down and recycled. At the command center inside the Wall General Arnold Douglass of the Sanctuary Armed Forces stood behind the security officers, his eyes moving back and forth over the wall of screens that showed areas of the surface just beyond the boundaries of Sanctuary's entrance. It was the morning routine. "I need a report officers. Tell me what the night has shown us," Douglass said as he took a puff on his already lit cigar. "Minimal surface activity last night," said one of the surveillance officers. "Nothing more than usual...the occasional animal. Other than that its just the usual ice and rubble we get normally." "Its boring as hell is what it is," said the second surveillance officer as he crooned his neck to look at General Douglass. "Can't we go get one of those old DVDs or something boss?" "Shut up Kerrington," said General Douglass as if it were a matter of course. "I've got some errands to run. Check up on our little experiment and see what we can pump out of him. Keep and eye on things. If something happens I want to know ten minutes ago. You girls understand?" The men nodded their heads and spoke in unison. "Aye sir." Taking one final glance over the screens and a puff on his cigar, General Douglass left the surveillance room and headed to the containment area where one of Them was kept under close guard and pumped of what information that could be got from him. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Mission I: Introductions Minimum Word Limit: 500 Maximum: 3000 You must do all of the following in your first post. 500 words may seem like a lot but it really isn't. Take your time, describe the scenery, and tell us about your character and you will probably have exceeded the word minimum. If you plan on interacting with any of the other players then please work out your posts through PM or some form of instant message service. This will make for a much higher quality RP. *Show your character going about daily routines *Reveal something about your character's past *Have your character interact with a an NPC (Someone in the military or a commoner)
Bruce Stark I was already up and about, ready to get to the lab before the day had even started. After my morning routine I put on some jeans and a white t-shirt. I threw on a lab coat with my name tag on it. My stomach growled as I headed to the kitchen and grabbed my usual sandwich from the fridge and headed for my walk to the lab. I walked the streets and looked around out how we run normally without any real fear now. The morning air was no different from the night air. The only real difference was the noise level. It was always loud and noisy with everyone rushing to do what they have to do before the day ends. I looked up and saw the ceiling of the Sanctuary over head. A limitless sky use to grace the morning but now we have limits. Ceiling is the limit and we can't do a damn thing about it. At least the City has been safe and secure and I guess I could thank myself for some of that. I smile at the kids running past with there little book bags on running off to learn. Children and their parents held hands walking to schools. Many people were in mad rushes for jobs they were late for. Those people should wake up early like me before the "sun" comes up. I saw everyone happily run about there daily lives as if where we live now isn't any different from where were before They came. I hate They so much. They have taken so much from me but I guess we must adapt to all these things. I finish up my sandwich and near my lab around HQ. "Good morning there, Bud," I said to the entrance guard as I showed him my ID. "Good morning, Bruce," He replied as he opened the gate for me to walk in. I entered my lab. I looked around a bit and thought about the long hours I work in here trying to help is get back what is rightfully ours. I headed to my desk where my hardest project yet has neared it testing point. I ran my hand across the portable Rail Gun thinking about how this could have saved them. I looked at the corner of my desk where a picture sat. My four brothers and my mother were smiling back at me. I slowly touched a scar on my left arm and smiled. I took off my glasses and set them down on the table. I rub my eyes a bit then grab my magnifying goggles and strap them on. I deep breathe enters my lungs as I pull on my gloves. This is for you guys. A soldering iron and some smalls clamps enter my hands as I try to put finishing touches on the weapon.
The Junkyard was an ironically bright place. The harsh, artificial light that simulated day reflected glaringly off the metal from which everything was made, even the streets. In the quiet of the very early morning, the only life about the soldiers that constantly prowled the outer wall, alert for attacks, the Junkyard didn’t seem like the cramped, narrow maze of twisting metal alleys and walkways that it was. But it was only for an hour or so, before full day brought the residents out for business. The marketplace – if it could really be called that. It was really more a metal square where scraps and junk were exchanged and bartered for – was full, so much so that it was nigh on impossible to squeeze between the crushing press of bodies, to hear for the shouting and bargaining; you could hardly carry your purchases without bumping into people and risking attack – or having your possessions stolen. Gangs of street kids scavenged through the junk piles, picking pockets and nicking things from stalls if they could. Mercenaries met around tables, free to discuss their trade without being overheard amid the clamour or without being judged too harshly if they were heard. You did what you could to survive in the Junkyard. Zefie leant against the walls of one of the cobbled-together shacks that lined the narrow streets. People thronged back and forth in front of her from the market places. All she had to do was lean slightly forward as they passed and was able to lift their stuff from pockets and bags. If she was lucky she found a few coins or a piece of junk worth something. This morning she’d been fortunate enough to nick a working watch she’d managed to exchange for the loaf of bread on which she was now chewing. A few passers-by gave her openly hostile or suspicious glares, which made Zefie instinctively reach up to check the black strip of cloth tied round her forehead as a headband. It was in place, but she adjusted it anyway. Underneath the cloth a tattoo of a wing curved over her left eye. In the Rows or anywhere else it might not have mattered, but here in the Junkyard it marked her as a member of one of the street gangs. When you were with your gang you all bore your tattoo proudly, and most people would give you a wide berth. But Zefie was alone, her gang desiccated in the last They-raid. If she showed her tattoo now she’d be asking another gang or an aggressive commoner to attack her. Zefie still felt slightly hollow without her gang. She’d been with them since Spikey had picked her off the streets when she was three, alone, confused and huddling against her mother’s still-warm corpse. He’d been fifteen then and had taught her to pick pockets and locks and to run like the wind. Zefie was the fastest runner the Junkyard gangs had ever known – it was why she hadn’t been caught in the They raid with Spikey and Drey and the rest of them. She sighed, slipped round the corner into the alley. Biting another corner off her loaf of bread, she lashed out at a nearby junk pile with a vicious kick – and was shocked when the junk piled cried out in pain. Frowning, Zefie bent down and brushed off the top layer of junk. Curled up in a ball, face smeared with soot, was a little girl, no more than about six years old. Black hair fell in matted hanks down her back and her dress was ragged and torn. She stared up at Zefie with big blue eyes. “Well, hey there,” Zefie said gently. “Sorry about that kick, kiddo. Didn’t know you were under there. You alone?” The girl nodded mutely. “So am I. Not in a gang?” A shake of the head. “I was, but they’re gone. Here, sit up.” The girl slowly sat up, curling her knees up to her chest. “Hungry?” A nod. Zefie held out the last of her loaf of bread, ignoring the growls of her less-than-full stomach. Spikey would have done the same for her. The girl looked at her hand warily, then snatched the bread from it eagerly. She bit into it with indecent haste, wolfing it down. “Hey, hey, now, take it easy!” The girl’s head snapped up. She stared at Zefie a moment longer then jumped up from her junk pile and started running down the alleyway, what was left of the bread in her hand. Zefie straightened, but decided not to chase her. It would only frighten the girl even more. “So much for gratitude,” she grumbled, dusting herself off.
Login: theripper Password: *************** Welcome, Jack The Ripper! You last logged in on 15-09-2062. [theripper@jackbox] $ pico farewell.txt To Whom It May Concern, I am heading out again on what may very well be my last mission. Most of my meager belongings are found in this room. The foremost of which, of course, is the computer on which you are reading this. In the event that I perish in the line of duty, please forward this message to my commanding officer, General Mark Erikson. All of the personal effects you see belong to him first. If you're lucky, he might let you use a few of the notorious hacks stored here. See the file guts.txt for an overview of how the filesystem is organized. Heartfelt thanks, Jack Cyrus [theripper@jackbox] $ dump /dev/usb0 / DUMP: Date of this level 0 dump: 15-09-2062 DUMP: Dumping / to /dev/usb0 DUMP: Mapping (pass I) [regular files] DUMP: mapping (pass II) [directories] DUMP: Estimated 56980932 blocks on 0.56 tape(s) [theripper@jackbox] $ shutdown -h now ... Jack leaned back in his chair as he watched the system's processes die off one by one as the computer shut down. Once again, this may be the last time he would see it. He pulled the jump drive from the port, placed on its cap and then snapped it to the lanyard about his neck. He stood as the monitor blinked off, and picked up one of his guns from off the desk. He checked the clip, loaded, and placed it in its holster on his hip. He did likewise for its twin brother. Jack then turned to the bed and retrieved his utility belt. As he proceeded to strap it on, he checked to ensure that all his myriad tools were in place. This done, he flung his backpack over his shoulder and headed for the door. He gave one last look back into the small room where he had spent his short professional life. A florescent light above a single bed, a small closet, a desk...not much. But enough to grow attached to. He flipped off the light and began his trek down the hall. One more piece of business to take care of before he could get started. He had to say a farewell to the man who had been his second father. He wore a smile as he walked, nodding and giving quick greetings to those he passed in the hall. The HQ was metal, concrete, and tiled floors that always seemed to be pristine. Jack had never met the janitor, but if he ever did, he made a mental note to commend him for his work. He passed from the crew quarters into the office block, and found the door he was looking for. A door that he had walked through several times. Mark was standing behind his desk, pouring beer from a bottle into a pair of glasses. "Come in, Lieutenant." Jack took a step in and shut the door behind him. He then stood at attention. "Now let's cut the bulls***. Go ahead and say it, Lieutenant." Jack grinned broadly. "Permission to speak freely, sir?" "Granted! Sit yourself down, Jack." Mark set a glass on the desk in front of him. As was their custom, they raised their glasses. "To Earth." Mark said. "To mankind." Jack replied. They both sipped from their glasses and set them down. "So, you're sure about this one, Jack?" "Absolutely, sir. This might be the last chance we have for something this big. I wanna do my part." "Well, I'm not gonna stop you, Jack. And were I in your shoes, I'd be doing the same damn thing." Mark said. Jack smiled as he took another sip from the glass. "Sir, trust me, if it were anything else, I'd be staying in your jurisdiction. You've been a hell of a CO." "Thanks, Jack. You've been the best we've had. Your father would be proud of you." Jack nodded. "I hope so, sir." They talked on for another hour, reminiscing of the times they had. They had been soldiers, yes, but always friends first. Jack emerged from the office and strode down the hall, now completely ready to embrace what was to come.
Artemis placed on the thin black shirt as he woke up. Today was going to be a busy day. He would have to finish the little project he had been working on, he has been trying very hard to make a section in Sanctuary for the children. He felt the rows and anywhere that had children was to close to danger. He also wants to see if its possible to safely transport them somewhere else. He understood what it was like to grow up in fear, but right now wasn't the time to reflect on those times. He actually wanted to give up the rows house he lived to give it to someone who need it more. Someone who lived in the junkyard could take it. The only reason he lived in the rows was because his father was a soldier, he could just remember his father's transparent figure standing in the corner of the room fixing his uniform yelling at him. Telling him how much he wanted his son to follow him in the steps as a soldier. He stared at the small room with gray walls, and could only remember what these walls always heard. The walls always absorb the loud and ruthless voice that was his father. Artemis walked up to his plastic table that was missing a leg, his father had ripped the other leg off when he was trying to make an "important" impression on his son. Artemis sat on the mismatching blue chair and turned the computer that was on standby mode back on. He began typing again, he only needed that one hooking line and he knew he might have the children safe and sound. He could only imagine children his age having to listen to their soldier parents and their ruthless behavior. He wonder what the children thought of the sounds of men and guns. He imagined the look on the kid's faces when they were told their parents died in a shoot out. These children needed education and needed safety. The familiar sounds of guns and shouting would not help these children. Artemis put the word document on a small port and got up from the blue chair. He would ask someone to print it out. He could print it out if he got a hold of the base with his computer, but he wasn't one to believe in breaking the rules. He grabbed his jean jacket and put on his holy converse and walked out the door. He wondered who would help him. He wondered who would listen to his thoughts on children safety. Maybe his name would be written in the history books, he would be known for his projects and his persuasion. He didn't really want to help in the war, he hated the thought of killing someone even if it was to win this war. He didn't want to turn out like his father, who died an ugly man. He didn't want to be that ruthless, abusive soldier who only thought of killing.
The end of Varenna's shift Varenna’s white coat was spotted with blood as she and the nurse cleaned the man’s wounds. Under the glaring light in the small emergency ward room everything, the sheets, the cot, the tiny stand for the tools of her trade, looked stark. “Gauze.” The nurse handed her some and she cleaned and bandaged another cut. That left the ones that would need stitching, one over the man’s eyebrow and the other that had opened the fleshy part of his bicep, both caused by the end of a broken bottle. He tried not to wince as she injected the local anesthetic. She gave him a gentle smile. “Not enough excitement around here?” she asked him, “Did you have to manufacture some?” “T’ other guy looks worse.” He said sullenly through a swollen lip. “I’m sure he does.” She said, “Now hold still. This will probably hurt like the blazes.” It wouldn’t but Varenna believed in letting the patient sometimes believe the worst so that when it didn’t occur they’d feel better. It was cheaper than more painkillers. Medicines could be hard to come by. She stitched carefully and quickly, trying for his sake to do a good job. Varenna knew that it would scar, though. They just didn’t have the resources or the knowledge of the plastic surgeons she’d read about. His face, had she been able to pay attention to it, gave a corresponding tug to one side every time she pulled a stitch through. When she was finished she smeared the stitches with an ointment that would promote faster healing and then handed him the little tube. “Stay out of trouble.” She told him, “put this on it twice a day.” “Rightf.” He muttered, dipping his head and looking at her briefly from the corners of his eyes, “Thanks.” Varenna and the nurse cleaned up after the patient left. She looked at her watch and was silently thankful that her shift was over and she could go home. Between the delivery of a baby, an accident at the Junkyard, and then the brawl that brought several people to the clinic, it had been a long night. Oddly enough there had been no shootings, nobody from the Wall. She had half-expected it. Varenna threw her white coat into the laundry and, after giving her hair a good brushing and making a face at herself in the mirror, reached into her locker for her things. The carbine she slung over her shoulder with a practiced movement, her small bag she wore bolero-style around the other as she considered breakfast. There was a small rugged shop not far away that usually had a pretty good stew or soup on and, if you were very lucky, some kind of bread. She signed out of the clinic and gave the duty nurse a little wave. The stout motherly woman gave her a smile back and Varenna went out of the double doors to the outside of the building. The stone in front of the clinic was smooth and swept downward in a curving ramp to street level...which was still higher than the Junkyard which lay beyond it. High above her light rained down from the huge lights and as always she wondered how it compared to the morning sunlight that she had only read about. People were on the move this morning, talking, bartering, a few even riding bicycles. She listened for the muted ever-present sound of gunfire but for the moment all was quiet. She didn't even notice the thundering hum of the huge generators or the far off sounds of excavation equipment. The small shop was called Morgan’s after Morgan Baptiste who owned the place. She was a tiny woman with olive skin, dark wavy hair, and the mysterious but bright-eyed hopefulness of a gypsy. Varenna smelled something good as she approached the establishment. The doors, heavy for defense, were wedged open. She approached the counter and peeked over. “Eggs!” said Morgan proudly, “now, don’t you be askin’ me what kind of eggs they are. They’re protein and these eating machines,” she indicated a couple of beefy men seated by the door who were eating with rapt attention, “have been depleting my stock. D’you want some?” Varenna looked at them suspiciously. They looked like chicken eggs right enough, there were even brown shells on the counter. “Sure.” She said looking for what else Morgan might have, “scramble them. Any bread today?” “Managed to get some nut flour, don’t ask me where.” Morgan winked broadly and waved the spatula to some small round loaves that Varenna hadn’t noticed before. Her mouth immediately began to water. “I’ll take two loaves and some soup.” Morgan nodded. There were no choices when it came to soup, you took what Morgan had or you didn’t bother. It was usually pretty good and had a selection of root vegetables, herbs, mysterious bits of meat, and/or mushrooms in it. It all depended what she found to put in it. “Takin’ it to your mom?” “Yes, thanks.” “I’ll pack it to go, then.” A few minutes later Varenna settled up with Morgan and swung out the door, headed for the Rows, munching a small loaf with the food package in the crook of one arm.
Jess twisted the silver bar in her ear and watched the walls slowly turn from black to grey. The piercing hurt and her eyes drifted to the bottle of unopened antiseptic on the desk. Doctor Howell had recommended it. But then he’s always recommending something. She tugged at the metal until the skin strained and her eyes glazed over. Suddenly restless, she sprang up from her chair and paced to the window. Along the sill there were several twisted lumps of metal and her pliers. She picked one of the sculptures up and looked through the scraps of twisted, scorched metal at the outside world. In the distance the Junkyard glinted in the light. She looked down at the street below. People hurried past, most of them smiling she noted. One in particular caught her attention. A girl her own age rushed past, grinning from ear to ear. Jess backed away from the window. “Jessica!” The sound of knocking accompanied the voice. After a moment, Jess gently placed the lump of metal back on the wood and walked to the door. She drew a toothpick from the pocket on her shirt and bit it between her teeth. Her aunt stumbled backwards as the door opened and peered up at her. “Oh, there you are. About time.” “Hello.” The silence lingered. Jess curiously stared down at her aunt as she shifted from foot to foot, entangling her hands in the hem of her shirt. Finally, she cleared her throat and spoke. “Do you have the rent?” “What?” “The rent, Jessica. The money you pay to stay here.” She frowned. “I paid you.” “That was last month.” “Oh.” She crossed her arms. “Well, when can you get it?” Jessica leant against the doorframe and sighed. “When I get paid.” “You said you were getting paid last week.” “I did.” She appeared to struggle with what to say for a moment. “If you didn’t spend all of your money... brutalizing yourself.’ She gestured at the piercings, disgust plain on her face. Her voice softened. ‘I know things aren’t easy for you but you need to learn to support yourself. You need to get out and work. It’s not healthy to stay indoors. Your mother would have wanted you to be happy, Jessie. You know I’m always here for you –“ With a loud crack, Jess snapped the toothpick between her teeth. Her aunt flinched and stared with horror as she crunched and finally swallowed the piece of wood. “Just... get it as soon as you can. End of the week please,” she said weakly. Jess leant forward and watched, bemused, as she waddled down the corridor, glancing over her shoulder until she disappeared around the corner. Her mouth quirked into a smile and she turned back to her room and quietly shut the door behind her. Speaking of rent, I should go to work... Once dressed, she picked up her rifle and drifted through the house and onto the street. Several of the neighbours gave her a weak smile and ushered their children away. The walk to the Military District passed in a blur of faces and sounds. Some of her fellow soldiers nodded as she passed them . She climbed the steps and took her position on the wall.
“Live in the Wall – Glimpses of the armoury (Part 1), by Joshua Pastor”. Joshua grimaced. “The bastard changed the title. Colfer promised me he wouldn’t.” He sighed as he put away the Sanctuary Post. He was feeling tired, as usual. “Right, more coffee.” He smiled at the picture of his mother hanging on the wall. “No worries mom, black coffee won’t kill me.” The smile somewhat faded as he passed the picture of his dad. “Frank asked me to bring round your NM-800 today, dad. Seems he’s still interested in that old thing.” He sighed. “We should have just given it to him when you passed away. Would have saved me some trips to the Wall.” He gathered his things before he left; camera, notepad and some extra USB-sticks. Finally, he picked up the MN-800 his father had modified. He hated the thing. He was a lousy marksman, even though his father had tried to improve his shot. He took one final look at it before he put it in the black case. “Right, that should be it.” He couldn’t help but to smile as he walked out the front door of his apartment. He greeted the soldiers standing guard at the Wall’s entrance. He knew most of them since they had been kids. “Good morning sir. Writing another article on the Wall today?” Joshua grinned. “Not today I’m afraid. Sergeant Haven wanted to have a look at my dad’s old gun.” He patted the case. “So I’m afraid I’ll spend the rest of the day listening how he and my dad saved the world.” The soldier grinned. “Count yourself lucky, Josh. You’re one of the few civilians with security clearance. Only reason the Sanctuary Post hired you!” Joshua laughed out loud as he entered the giant building. The walls, ceiling and floor all felt familiar. In truth, Joshua came here almost every day; more often then some military personnel even. It took him about fifteen minutes to reach Sergeant Frank Haven’s office. He was greeted warmly, as always; Haven and Joshua’s father had been close friends, before the latter had been killed in combat. Haven was obviously more interested in the MN-800 then he was in Joshua, and Joshua liked it that way. He took a seat and watched Haven handle the gun. Joshua closed his eyes. This would take a while, perhaps the rest of the day. He didn’t really mind; it gave him ample of time to doze off. His mind drifted to the time his father had first shown him the gun. Joshua had been eight and he had accompanied his father to the shooting range. His father had been an excellent shot, and, as such, he had been disappointed when Joshua had proven to be a lousy marksman. Still, they had practised together every weekend for the next nine years; Joshua never improved much, but it was okay. He didn’t often get his father’s undivided attention. It had been happy times. Joshua was seventeen when his father died in a skirmish with the They. After that, he had never wielded the gun again. His mother had always been overprotective, but after his father died, it got worse. She fell ill, and on her deathbed, she had Josh swear that he would never join the military. He agreed. Instead, he became a reporter. Luckily for him, his father had many connections within the military, and after two years, Joshua had managed to get a security clearance for the Wall. Since then, he had been writing articles on live within the Wall for the Sanctuary Post, one of the newspapers that was mainly read by military personnel or those with family within the military. This was his live; writing things nobody truly cared about, about things that where common knowledge. He smiled as he started to drowse of. It wasn’t much of a life, but it was a life. And it was all his.
After a night's rest, Darmetrius woke up to the same horrific sight he saw going to bed. The same sight that plagued his dreams that night. The bodies of his mother and older brother laid in the middle of the living room, not living at all. Seems to be a perfect example of irony. He went to the bathroom to handle his morning rituals, looking into the mirror before splashing his face with water. When he brought his face back up, his attention was on a small crack in the mirror. He grabbed his toothbrush and applied toothpaste to it. Letting out a yawn, he debates if he should leave and look for something else out there, or feel safe where he was. The bodies were piled up, but whoever was there already left. There was a possibility they would come back, but it didn't seem very likely. Still, Darmetrius felt he should pack up and leave out. Following his gut, he decided to pack. He prepared a sandwich first, thinking out loud about useful staples he would take along. As he surveyed the area, there wasn't really much worth taking with him. Love was what held the home together, and his loved ones are no longer there. He walked into his room, and saw a picture of him and his girlfriend. How would he tell her he was leaving? What reason would he give her? He didn't even know what was going on, but he wouldn't knowingly put her in danger. He grabbed the picture nd put it in his pocket after folding it. He looked at his belongings, nothing fit for ensuring survival. He looked at his basketball and thought about the one on one games he and his brother had that ran into the early morning on occasion. There was a mess of clothing by his bed, he kicked himself for doing his laundry last weekend. "DAMN." he said, looking at the rest of the room. Taking a bite of his sandwich, he wandered to his brother's room. There were pictures of them as a family, Darmetrius took one. There were also pictures of his brother and various ladies. He smiled as he remembered his brother as a nice guy that was very successful with the opposite sex. His brother's bed was a waterbed, perhaps that helped supply the screams he'd here from this room when Mother was away at work. There was a dresser with lovenotes on the top. He found his brother's AK-47, that was used to protect them when they played ball. Darmetrius placed it over his shoulder. Finally, there was his mother's room, the living room. She preferred to sleep there, she figured the location would prevent their place from being a flophouse. Was she ever wrong. She hadn't really had any belongings, stating as long as she had her family, she was rich beyond her wildest dreams. He held back a tear as he watched the bodies lay on the floor. He grabbed his poncho from off the couch. It was untouched, so he took it to protect from the rain and cold. He packed a bag with some dynamite he and his brother used to play with to pass time. He had a .45 he found on a fallen soldier a few weeks ago. He had only used it to practice, so there was plenty of ammo left in it. He holstered the .45 and left out the front door.
