Introduction
I never think about the problems I cause
I’m contemplating your security flaws
I never think about the consequences of my actions
We leave a mark on everything that we touch
The year is 2050, and the world is in chaos. For you see, folks, we have something of an apocalypse on our hands. These sorts of things happen, unfortunately. And why do they happen? Well, it could be for any number of reasons, really. An outbreak of a deadly virus, a natural disaster, a government with way too much power... Or, if you're (un)lucky, a combination of the three.
In this case, the major source of problem is the government. As I'm sure you're well aware, dear reader, power can be a very dangerous thing. The old adage does warn, after all, "Power corrupts; absolute power collects absolutely". Now, it's not that some evil dictator has taken over the world or anything like that. No, our problem is far worse. The people who have helped to bring this lovely apocalypse upon us is mix of highly skilled military men, some well-meaning (and not so well-meaning) scientists, a sect of very driven politicians, and a few manipulative war mongerers thrown in for flavor. The result? Disaster.
We violated international law
We really care about the time that you've lost or the lines that we've crossed
We’re watching you watching us
It all started with the concept of the perfect solider, and how to go about achieving one. The United States was in the midst of a conflict posed to become World War III, and things were looking dire. Every soldier was important, and it seemed just one man could tip the scales. The government had taken many prisoners of war, and, as every human was a valuable resource, someone had the bright idea to alter the prisoners' thought processes, retrain them, and release them back into war as killing machines playing for team U.S.A.
Amoral? Perhaps.
Effective? Maybe.
Dangerous? Fuck yes.
Would you do it if you knew we were watching?
Would you do it if you knew that we were watching you?
I don't think you know what’s up
We’re watching you
We’re watching you watching us
Cue President Mortimer Graves. Elected in 2048, Graves was all for this new method of mind control. He did have his concerns, though. Worried that prisoners might have picked up government secrets while in captivity, he decided they were unsafe to use in the war, lest they resist the mind control and deliver secrets to enemy countries. Where, then, was the government to get its specially trained soldiers? Why, from society, of course.
The government began "recruiting" civilians, putting them into "special programs" and trying any number of new experiments on them. With all the new methods and systems being introduced, things were getting out of hand. Wires got crossed, tests went wrong, and chaos ensued. The I.M.A.S. (Institute of Mind Altering Sciences) found itself in deep, deep shit. From the original group of brainwashed soldiers came a slew of other sects, some more nasty than others.
I’ve never seen a code that couldn't be cracked
Show me protection and I’ll show you the hack
I never worry over barriers that bar my access
We’re looking over the precautions you lack
We make you nervous with a service attack
You never know until your systems are go that the lines been tapped
The brainwashed people in the "secure" I.M.A.S. facility found a way out into the world, and the government, still trying desperately to keep things under wraps, scrambled to maintain the chaos. The problem is, we're not dealing with a bunch of "Uuungahowranrwer braaaains" zombies here. These are, for all intents and purposes, highly trained assassins who are no longer following the orders given by the government. There is one group in particular who have made it their goal to pass on their disease and corrupt others. This group is known as (get this) "the corrupted". Because they can appear completely normal (being an especially high-functioning sect), it can be near impossible to detect a corrupt individual until moments before they "go in for the kill" and corrupt their prey. This sect has been working its way up the government, corrupting the lower ranks and working their way to the top.
We’re watching you watching us
Would you do it if you knew we were watching?
Would you do it if you knew that we were watching you?
I don't think you know what’s up
Now that we're on the topic of the different sects, shall I introduce you to them? :) After all, "the corrupted" are but one branch of this diseased people. They're everywhere, you know. Watching you. Some you can spot from a mile away, others appear completely normal. You might know one. You might know many. They're all around you.
They're watching you.
They're watching us.
"The killers" - A particularly bloodthirsty group. This sect stems from the original soldiers who were being trained to use very advanced weaponry. Their twisted minds have led them to believe they must kill, kill, kill. They'll shoot just about everything that moves. They're one of the easier to groups to spot, as they have a set of specific physical symptoms: Dilated pupils, sickly pale skin (some say it has green/blue undertones), and a large amount of muscle. Killers also have incredibly keen senses- their sight, hearing, scent, and even taste is above that of the average human. They are said to be somewhat "manic" and high stress situations set them into overdrive. If you run into one, DO NOT fight back; you will almost always lose. Sometimes killers can be tricked into labeling you as a "non threat" and you may be able to escape.
"The crazies" - This may be the worst group. Their minds have virtually been reduced to mush, and they have almost no concept of reality. Unlike the killers, who are highly trained in weaponry, the crazies are mostly regular civilians who want to kill you...well, just 'cause. They don't have access to military weapons like the killers, so they'll kill you in any creative way their brains can think up. They've been known to kill someone with their bare hands and then nom on their flesh for a few hours before wandering off to find their next victim. They're like zombies, in way, but have no physical symptoms to indicate their mental state. The only way to know you're dealing with a crazy is to attempt to engage him in conversation. Crazies have no speech capabilities (that part of their brain was fried beyond use because of the drug). They can shriek, scream, moan, etc., but they cannot speak. Some say the crazies have "a distant look in their eye" or appear "detached", but that's rarely enough to go off of.
"The half-breeds" - This is a tricky sect. The best way to describe their behavior is a man-made personality disorder. Sometimes they are completely normal and self aware, and other times they are, well, crazy. Different things will set them off; it varies from person to person. It could be an object, a phrase, a situation, or even a person that triggers their disorder. Some believe their affliction is reversible, but the drugs that have been used to alleviate their plight are experimental at best. They are as dangerous as any other group, and are completely capable of killing. Never underestimate a half-breed.
So there you have it- "the corrupted", "the killers", "the crazies", and "the half-breeds". All living among you, all out to get you, all watching you. Is there a way to stop this? Or is your only hope to go into hiding and live through this apocalypse? How will you survive? Can you survive?
Would you do it if you knew we were watching?
Would you do it if you knew that we were watching you?
I don't think you know what’s up
We’re watching you
We're watching you watching us
I’m contemplating your security flaws
I never think about the consequences of my actions
We leave a mark on everything that we touch
The year is 2050, and the world is in chaos. For you see, folks, we have something of an apocalypse on our hands. These sorts of things happen, unfortunately. And why do they happen? Well, it could be for any number of reasons, really. An outbreak of a deadly virus, a natural disaster, a government with way too much power... Or, if you're (un)lucky, a combination of the three.
In this case, the major source of problem is the government. As I'm sure you're well aware, dear reader, power can be a very dangerous thing. The old adage does warn, after all, "Power corrupts; absolute power collects absolutely". Now, it's not that some evil dictator has taken over the world or anything like that. No, our problem is far worse. The people who have helped to bring this lovely apocalypse upon us is mix of highly skilled military men, some well-meaning (and not so well-meaning) scientists, a sect of very driven politicians, and a few manipulative war mongerers thrown in for flavor. The result? Disaster.
We violated international law
We really care about the time that you've lost or the lines that we've crossed
We’re watching you watching us
It all started with the concept of the perfect solider, and how to go about achieving one. The United States was in the midst of a conflict posed to become World War III, and things were looking dire. Every soldier was important, and it seemed just one man could tip the scales. The government had taken many prisoners of war, and, as every human was a valuable resource, someone had the bright idea to alter the prisoners' thought processes, retrain them, and release them back into war as killing machines playing for team U.S.A.
Amoral? Perhaps.
Effective? Maybe.
Dangerous? Fuck yes.
Would you do it if you knew we were watching?
Would you do it if you knew that we were watching you?
I don't think you know what’s up
We’re watching you
We’re watching you watching us
Cue President Mortimer Graves. Elected in 2048, Graves was all for this new method of mind control. He did have his concerns, though. Worried that prisoners might have picked up government secrets while in captivity, he decided they were unsafe to use in the war, lest they resist the mind control and deliver secrets to enemy countries. Where, then, was the government to get its specially trained soldiers? Why, from society, of course.
The government began "recruiting" civilians, putting them into "special programs" and trying any number of new experiments on them. With all the new methods and systems being introduced, things were getting out of hand. Wires got crossed, tests went wrong, and chaos ensued. The I.M.A.S. (Institute of Mind Altering Sciences) found itself in deep, deep shit. From the original group of brainwashed soldiers came a slew of other sects, some more nasty than others.
I’ve never seen a code that couldn't be cracked
Show me protection and I’ll show you the hack
I never worry over barriers that bar my access
We’re looking over the precautions you lack
We make you nervous with a service attack
You never know until your systems are go that the lines been tapped
The brainwashed people in the "secure" I.M.A.S. facility found a way out into the world, and the government, still trying desperately to keep things under wraps, scrambled to maintain the chaos. The problem is, we're not dealing with a bunch of "Uuungahowranrwer braaaains" zombies here. These are, for all intents and purposes, highly trained assassins who are no longer following the orders given by the government. There is one group in particular who have made it their goal to pass on their disease and corrupt others. This group is known as (get this) "the corrupted". Because they can appear completely normal (being an especially high-functioning sect), it can be near impossible to detect a corrupt individual until moments before they "go in for the kill" and corrupt their prey. This sect has been working its way up the government, corrupting the lower ranks and working their way to the top.
We’re watching you watching us
Would you do it if you knew we were watching?
Would you do it if you knew that we were watching you?
I don't think you know what’s up
Now that we're on the topic of the different sects, shall I introduce you to them? :) After all, "the corrupted" are but one branch of this diseased people. They're everywhere, you know. Watching you. Some you can spot from a mile away, others appear completely normal. You might know one. You might know many. They're all around you.
They're watching you.
They're watching us.
"The killers" - A particularly bloodthirsty group. This sect stems from the original soldiers who were being trained to use very advanced weaponry. Their twisted minds have led them to believe they must kill, kill, kill. They'll shoot just about everything that moves. They're one of the easier to groups to spot, as they have a set of specific physical symptoms: Dilated pupils, sickly pale skin (some say it has green/blue undertones), and a large amount of muscle. Killers also have incredibly keen senses- their sight, hearing, scent, and even taste is above that of the average human. They are said to be somewhat "manic" and high stress situations set them into overdrive. If you run into one, DO NOT fight back; you will almost always lose. Sometimes killers can be tricked into labeling you as a "non threat" and you may be able to escape.
"The crazies" - This may be the worst group. Their minds have virtually been reduced to mush, and they have almost no concept of reality. Unlike the killers, who are highly trained in weaponry, the crazies are mostly regular civilians who want to kill you...well, just 'cause. They don't have access to military weapons like the killers, so they'll kill you in any creative way their brains can think up. They've been known to kill someone with their bare hands and then nom on their flesh for a few hours before wandering off to find their next victim. They're like zombies, in way, but have no physical symptoms to indicate their mental state. The only way to know you're dealing with a crazy is to attempt to engage him in conversation. Crazies have no speech capabilities (that part of their brain was fried beyond use because of the drug). They can shriek, scream, moan, etc., but they cannot speak. Some say the crazies have "a distant look in their eye" or appear "detached", but that's rarely enough to go off of.
"The half-breeds" - This is a tricky sect. The best way to describe their behavior is a man-made personality disorder. Sometimes they are completely normal and self aware, and other times they are, well, crazy. Different things will set them off; it varies from person to person. It could be an object, a phrase, a situation, or even a person that triggers their disorder. Some believe their affliction is reversible, but the drugs that have been used to alleviate their plight are experimental at best. They are as dangerous as any other group, and are completely capable of killing. Never underestimate a half-breed.
So there you have it- "the corrupted", "the killers", "the crazies", and "the half-breeds". All living among you, all out to get you, all watching you. Is there a way to stop this? Or is your only hope to go into hiding and live through this apocalypse? How will you survive? Can you survive?
Would you do it if you knew we were watching?
Would you do it if you knew that we were watching you?
I don't think you know what’s up
We’re watching you
We're watching you watching us
- 5 posts here • Page 1 of 1
The Story So Far... Write a Post » as written by 2 authors
On this overcast morning in September, Jo was doing what she did best: target practice. The sounds of muffled gunshots could be heard from outside the fortified warehouse, while inside Jo shot her way through 20 empty bottles that had once contained various types of liquor. Each bottle broke with a satisfying crash, splinters of glass flying into the air and falling back to the concrete floor like rain, and all around her were the scattered shells of previous shots. The brunette's aim was impeccable, and she smiled as she hit the 20th bottle, which she'd placed on some high rafter to give her something of a challenge. She rarely left the warehouse (she tried to limit her excursions to a bi-monthly supply run), but on the rare occasion she did come out of her fortress, she liked to be prepared. Upon finishing, she slung the rifle over shoulder and grabbed for the open bottle beside her, uncertain of it's contents. She sniffed, took a sip. Whiskey? Rum? Whatever it was, it was strong, and strong was good. She took a long pull on the bottle and returned it to its place, then, turning on her heel, strode away from the mess she'd made.
She left the glass and bullet casings where they were, evidence of her violent tendencies, and snaked her way through the haphazard stacks of cardboard boxes that lay before her. Jo was apt at many things, but housekeeping was not one of them. She'd never intended to be a homemaker before all this shit had gone down, and she certainly didn't plan to become one now. Beyond this maze of random crap lay the innermost part of her safe house, the resting place for her large assortment of weapons. It was well concealed, hidden amongst the many shelves of the once-bustling warehouse, and if you didn't know where you were going you were likely to miss it. Turning between a narrow gap between two wooden crates, Jo shimmied her way through the tight space and emerged on the other side, greeted by the sight of hard, shiny metal glistening under fluorescent light. Her 17 rifles, 14 hand guns, 9 knives and assortment of explosives were exactly as she'd left them, undisturbed and tucked away in various hiding places, and all was as it should be. The boxes that filled up the warehouse built an inner room of sorts, a homely little space furnished with a broken desk chair (a.k.a. The Captain's Chair, which was not to be touched, let alone sat in, by anyone but Jo herself), a cooler stocked with, you guessed it, booze, a dusty mattress, and a couple comic books.
Removing the rifle from her shoulder, she returned the gun to its place amongst the others and flopped onto the mattress, a puff of dust coming up around her. She cleared her throat and wiped the tears from her eyes, snagging one of her comic books and a beer from the cooler before situating herself on her back. She was a little troubled by the 4 beers left in her cooler; she'd have to restock soon, but for now, things were good. She was alone, encased in her self-made solitude, and she was happy. (As happy as one could be in the midst of zombie apocalypse, anyway, but that's beside the point.)
She left the glass and bullet casings where they were, evidence of her violent tendencies, and snaked her way through the haphazard stacks of cardboard boxes that lay before her. Jo was apt at many things, but housekeeping was not one of them. She'd never intended to be a homemaker before all this shit had gone down, and she certainly didn't plan to become one now. Beyond this maze of random crap lay the innermost part of her safe house, the resting place for her large assortment of weapons. It was well concealed, hidden amongst the many shelves of the once-bustling warehouse, and if you didn't know where you were going you were likely to miss it. Turning between a narrow gap between two wooden crates, Jo shimmied her way through the tight space and emerged on the other side, greeted by the sight of hard, shiny metal glistening under fluorescent light. Her 17 rifles, 14 hand guns, 9 knives and assortment of explosives were exactly as she'd left them, undisturbed and tucked away in various hiding places, and all was as it should be. The boxes that filled up the warehouse built an inner room of sorts, a homely little space furnished with a broken desk chair (a.k.a. The Captain's Chair, which was not to be touched, let alone sat in, by anyone but Jo herself), a cooler stocked with, you guessed it, booze, a dusty mattress, and a couple comic books.
Removing the rifle from her shoulder, she returned the gun to its place amongst the others and flopped onto the mattress, a puff of dust coming up around her. She cleared her throat and wiped the tears from her eyes, snagging one of her comic books and a beer from the cooler before situating herself on her back. She was a little troubled by the 4 beers left in her cooler; she'd have to restock soon, but for now, things were good. She was alone, encased in her self-made solitude, and she was happy. (As happy as one could be in the midst of zombie apocalypse, anyway, but that's beside the point.)
Ransacking homes in an abandoned suburb when any second someone could leap out of the shadows and try to kill me...
The things I do for alcohol.
Silas sighed disdainfully, shaking his head as he stepped carelessly on the belongings of some long-gone homeowner. Judging by the lovely crimson stains on the eastern wall, they didn't leave by choice. Or leave at all. The hairs on the back of his neck rose a little and he shivered, feeling as if there head just been a gust of wind through the building. He'd been getting the feeling all day, what with the weather showing an imminent threat of a storm... The gloom was really making this hard-headed man's heartbeat speed up a little. Already having nearly half a bottle of some unmarked alcoholic beverage in his system, he was beginning to stumble. He typically could handle large quantities of alcohol, but today was just not his day. It might have been that he was running on an empty stomach or something of the sort. He was Silas, damn it, and he didn't know or care. Stepping forward, there was a lovely crunch beneath his shoes and he glared down at the culprit.
Glass. He scoffed inwardly, having thought it was the mangled skeleton of a baby or a rat or something. Glad it was nothing, he went to take another step.
That was when he heard the gunshots.
Dropping to the floor without care for what might jab him in the process, he scanned the room with the air of an army general or something of the sort. His eyes were narrowed dangerously--no one screwed with Silas, especially when he was feeling particularly tipsy. In fact, just then he fell over just a little in his feline crouch. Clearing his throat, he started to stand when the next few shots were fired. His head automatically turned to detect where it was coming from, a small piece of his black hair flopping down in his sapphire blue eyes. Scowling deeply, he lunged out of the building and scanned his surroundings for any sign of danger--Fuck it. Y.O.-fuckin'-L.O.," he thought--and darted across the street in the direction of a warehouse where the culprit was obviously hiding. He was at the back, only cloudy windows to look in. At this point, of course, he didn't care about safety. When did he ever? It's a hard knock life.
Then his eyes locked on a back door, one that was hidden by a spilled pile of trash. He rolled his eyes, his hand already on the handle. Who didn't lock all of the doors, seriously? It turned with such ease, he just burst straight in and immediately slid his hand to his waist in search of his gun. Grabbing it with his less-than-completely-steady hand, he conjured it from his waist and pointed it at a... woman.
And a bad-ass looking woman, at that. Lounging with a beer and a comic book... Obviously she was staying here long-term. She had a mattress, and the place looked slightly home-y. Raising one eyebrow and tilting his head to the side, he scoffed in his Silas-y way, "The fuck was the ruckus?"
The things I do for alcohol.
Silas sighed disdainfully, shaking his head as he stepped carelessly on the belongings of some long-gone homeowner. Judging by the lovely crimson stains on the eastern wall, they didn't leave by choice. Or leave at all. The hairs on the back of his neck rose a little and he shivered, feeling as if there head just been a gust of wind through the building. He'd been getting the feeling all day, what with the weather showing an imminent threat of a storm... The gloom was really making this hard-headed man's heartbeat speed up a little. Already having nearly half a bottle of some unmarked alcoholic beverage in his system, he was beginning to stumble. He typically could handle large quantities of alcohol, but today was just not his day. It might have been that he was running on an empty stomach or something of the sort. He was Silas, damn it, and he didn't know or care. Stepping forward, there was a lovely crunch beneath his shoes and he glared down at the culprit.
Glass. He scoffed inwardly, having thought it was the mangled skeleton of a baby or a rat or something. Glad it was nothing, he went to take another step.
That was when he heard the gunshots.
Dropping to the floor without care for what might jab him in the process, he scanned the room with the air of an army general or something of the sort. His eyes were narrowed dangerously--no one screwed with Silas, especially when he was feeling particularly tipsy. In fact, just then he fell over just a little in his feline crouch. Clearing his throat, he started to stand when the next few shots were fired. His head automatically turned to detect where it was coming from, a small piece of his black hair flopping down in his sapphire blue eyes. Scowling deeply, he lunged out of the building and scanned his surroundings for any sign of danger--Fuck it. Y.O.-fuckin'-L.O.," he thought--and darted across the street in the direction of a warehouse where the culprit was obviously hiding. He was at the back, only cloudy windows to look in. At this point, of course, he didn't care about safety. When did he ever? It's a hard knock life.
Then his eyes locked on a back door, one that was hidden by a spilled pile of trash. He rolled his eyes, his hand already on the handle. Who didn't lock all of the doors, seriously? It turned with such ease, he just burst straight in and immediately slid his hand to his waist in search of his gun. Grabbing it with his less-than-completely-steady hand, he conjured it from his waist and pointed it at a... woman.
And a bad-ass looking woman, at that. Lounging with a beer and a comic book... Obviously she was staying here long-term. She had a mattress, and the place looked slightly home-y. Raising one eyebrow and tilting his head to the side, he scoffed in his Silas-y way, "The fuck was the ruckus?"
Jo's days always went something like this: Wake up when-the-fuck-ever (she didn't have a clock, and the small skylights on the warehouse roof didn't let in much light), drink a beer (or three), complete the bare minimum in body and oral hygiene, count her weapons, do a few rounds of target practice, and a retreat to her mattress to enjoy her solitude. Lather, rinse, repeat. She was completely alone, save for her weapons, booze, and comic books, which was just the way she liked it. Things were less messy when it was just herself, and, to be perfectly honest, she'd never been all that enthused about other people even before the whole apocalypse thing. Save for the 2 days a month she went out on supply runs, she never saw another living soul (and even then, you couldn't really call the genetically modified zombies "living"...), and that was fine by her. As far she was concerned, the fewer people she saw, the more booze and guns there were for her. And so she was quite content as she lay on her mattress, flipping through her comic book and sipping beer. The warehouse was quiet, and all was as it should be. She was nearly to the part where Spiderman saved the screaming Mary Jane from the dastardly Green Goblin and swept her off to safety. It briefly occurred to her what a stupid comic this was, the way dumb Mary Jane had just gotten herself captured and shit, but hey, the whole webs-shooting-out-of-your-hands thing was pretty cool. Not as cool as having a shit load of weapons, but cool all the same.
And then she heard it, a rustling and a click from the backdoor, and she did a mental facepalm before grabbing for the pistol at her hip. Leaving the door unlocked had been a stupid mistake, but it wasn't anything that couldn't be fixed with a couple gunshots. Unfortunately, she was just a little too slow this time. Before she had fully gotten her gun out of its holster she found herself looking up the barrel of a handgun. Being Jo, she was much more interested in the gun than the person holding it, and she inspected the weapon in the hand of the intruder, noting its style and make. Nice piece. I'll have to take it when I'm through with him. Heaving a sigh, she set her beer down and got to her knees, gracing him with a half-smirk. "A better question is, who the fuck are you? And what are you doing here? This is private property, you know."
Technically, that was true. About a month ago Jo had stolen a can of orange spray paint from a run-down convenience store and spray painted a charming "Keep the fuck out" across the front and back doors of the warehouse, but obviously this moron couldn't read. But hey, that was fine; if elementary English was too difficult for him to comprehend, she'd let her bullets do the talking.
And then she heard it, a rustling and a click from the backdoor, and she did a mental facepalm before grabbing for the pistol at her hip. Leaving the door unlocked had been a stupid mistake, but it wasn't anything that couldn't be fixed with a couple gunshots. Unfortunately, she was just a little too slow this time. Before she had fully gotten her gun out of its holster she found herself looking up the barrel of a handgun. Being Jo, she was much more interested in the gun than the person holding it, and she inspected the weapon in the hand of the intruder, noting its style and make. Nice piece. I'll have to take it when I'm through with him. Heaving a sigh, she set her beer down and got to her knees, gracing him with a half-smirk. "A better question is, who the fuck are you? And what are you doing here? This is private property, you know."
Technically, that was true. About a month ago Jo had stolen a can of orange spray paint from a run-down convenience store and spray painted a charming "Keep the fuck out" across the front and back doors of the warehouse, but obviously this moron couldn't read. But hey, that was fine; if elementary English was too difficult for him to comprehend, she'd let her bullets do the talking.
Silas scoffed, rolling his eyes and shaking his head lightly. Who did this girl think she was? "Private property my ass, dumbshit. Nobody owns anything nowadays." Then, he did something that might seem foolish. He literally dropped the gun to his hip and slid it into his holster once again. Shocking enough on it's own, just then he basically reached out to the nearest piece of furniture--an old desk--and knocked everything on it to the floor. What did he care if it was her "private property"? The world was anyone's to claim, now. He hopped up onto the edge of the desk, leaning back and just sprawling out on the surface as if it was the most comfortable bed in the world. Seconds passed.
Then, daringly, he declared, "Mind passing me a beer or something?" Of course, he'd already had enough to drink--that much was obvious. And it was only the morning! Clearing his throat a little, he turned to look at her. "Oh. You asked other questions, didn't you, dollface?" He left his piercing eyes on her for a moment longer, trying to gather his thoughts together. What were those questions, again? His name, why he was there... "The name is Silas, princess." She seemed to him like the tougher type, and his need to piss everyone off kicked in just then. He hoped she just ADORED the tacky nicknames he was throwing at her.
"And I really have no idea why the hell I'm here." He laughed crudely, looking up at the ceiling with a crooked grin and just shook his head. Still looking up, he added, "Got no where else to be, I guess..." Then, with a sharp turn back at her, he lifted his one eyebrow and questioned, "So, how'd you come across this lovely place of yours?" His tone was incredibly mocking, as usual.
Then, daringly, he declared, "Mind passing me a beer or something?" Of course, he'd already had enough to drink--that much was obvious. And it was only the morning! Clearing his throat a little, he turned to look at her. "Oh. You asked other questions, didn't you, dollface?" He left his piercing eyes on her for a moment longer, trying to gather his thoughts together. What were those questions, again? His name, why he was there... "The name is Silas, princess." She seemed to him like the tougher type, and his need to piss everyone off kicked in just then. He hoped she just ADORED the tacky nicknames he was throwing at her.
"And I really have no idea why the hell I'm here." He laughed crudely, looking up at the ceiling with a crooked grin and just shook his head. Still looking up, he added, "Got no where else to be, I guess..." Then, with a sharp turn back at her, he lifted his one eyebrow and questioned, "So, how'd you come across this lovely place of yours?" His tone was incredibly mocking, as usual.
Jo felt the color rising in her cheeks, a long-suppressed anger bubbling up in side her. It'd been thirteen days since she'd seen a human face, and even longer since she'd had a conversation; she was dying for a fight. "No one owns anything, huh? I've got a shit load of guns in here that could prove you wrong real quick, asshole." He was, of course, un-phased by the mention of weaponry, which she'd expected from anyone stupid enough to wander into an abandoned warehouse containing god knows what. His stupidity seemed to have no bounds, actually, as at that moment he holstered his gun and FUCKIN' KNOCKED HER SHIT ONTO THE FLOOR. Jo was floored. Beyond floored. She had dropped straight through the floor and taken her rage from the deepest depths of hell.
By some superhuman expression of willpower, Jo managed not to blow his brains out. There were better ways to make someone pay than an instantaneous death, and now that this bastard fly was caught in her web, she'd make sure he paid. Very slowly, and with deadly calm, Jo rose to her feet. She played it cool, ice cool, and pretended to stifle a yawn, looking down at the moron now sprawled across her desk. The dipshit had the audacity to ask for a beer, and, rather than grace him with a response, she simply picked up her own beer and wandered over to her Captain's chair, which was conveniently placed beside the desk. Taking a seat, she put her feet up on the desk and let the dirt-encrusted heels of her boots rest on his arm. He looked at her out of the corner of his eyes and continued his speech, carrying on as though nothing had happened.
Dollface. Dollface? O-ho-ho, he was on thin ice. Actually, he'd passed thin ice about 100 miles back. He was two seconds away from death was what he was. "Princess, huh? I guess that makes this my castle, huh, Sil-ass?" Ignoring the quip on his name, which was really wasn't her best work anyway, he kept plugging along, answering her final question with a laugh and an inquiry of his own.
"I don't think you're in much of a position to ask. And as long as you're a guest in this castle, you'll address her highness as Jo. Just Jo." Tilting her chin up in that childishly defiant way, Jo reached into her pocket and pulled out a Swiss army knife. She flipped out the blade and held it up above her head, inspecting the metal in the light before lowering it to her nails and beginning the tedious process of cleaning out the dirt and grime from underneath her fingernails. "So tell me," she continued, "are you one of them?" She said it so casually, as if she were asking if he were a girl scout. It didn't really matter what he said, she wouldn't believe him, and as soon as it was convenient she would kill him and be rid of the bastard.
You could never be too careful these days, after all. Before everything had gone wrong, people had gotten their information about zombies from crappy old movies and melodramatic T.V. shows. Everybody thought they were these decaying bodies that went around groaning "Braaains! Braaains!" But the reality wasn't that simple. Not at all. Because the bi-products of this apocalypse weren't really zombies...not quite. They were mutants, to be accurate. Genetically-modified soldiers, fucked-up experiments that had gone haywire and wreaked havoc on the country. And the worst part? Half the time you couldn't tell whether someone was one or not. Some of them appeared normal, you know? They looked like humans, talked like humans, behaved like humans...except when they were triggered. You couldn't tell what would set them off, but once that switch had been flicked, there was no shutting them off. The person that had appeared normal 2 minutes before was suddenly a rampaging, flesh-starved creature intent on killing you. So excuse Jo for her insistence on living alone within the safety of her fortified warehouse. She was going to survive this, and she didn't care what she had to do to do so.
By some superhuman expression of willpower, Jo managed not to blow his brains out. There were better ways to make someone pay than an instantaneous death, and now that this bastard fly was caught in her web, she'd make sure he paid. Very slowly, and with deadly calm, Jo rose to her feet. She played it cool, ice cool, and pretended to stifle a yawn, looking down at the moron now sprawled across her desk. The dipshit had the audacity to ask for a beer, and, rather than grace him with a response, she simply picked up her own beer and wandered over to her Captain's chair, which was conveniently placed beside the desk. Taking a seat, she put her feet up on the desk and let the dirt-encrusted heels of her boots rest on his arm. He looked at her out of the corner of his eyes and continued his speech, carrying on as though nothing had happened.
Dollface. Dollface? O-ho-ho, he was on thin ice. Actually, he'd passed thin ice about 100 miles back. He was two seconds away from death was what he was. "Princess, huh? I guess that makes this my castle, huh, Sil-ass?" Ignoring the quip on his name, which was really wasn't her best work anyway, he kept plugging along, answering her final question with a laugh and an inquiry of his own.
"I don't think you're in much of a position to ask. And as long as you're a guest in this castle, you'll address her highness as Jo. Just Jo." Tilting her chin up in that childishly defiant way, Jo reached into her pocket and pulled out a Swiss army knife. She flipped out the blade and held it up above her head, inspecting the metal in the light before lowering it to her nails and beginning the tedious process of cleaning out the dirt and grime from underneath her fingernails. "So tell me," she continued, "are you one of them?" She said it so casually, as if she were asking if he were a girl scout. It didn't really matter what he said, she wouldn't believe him, and as soon as it was convenient she would kill him and be rid of the bastard.
You could never be too careful these days, after all. Before everything had gone wrong, people had gotten their information about zombies from crappy old movies and melodramatic T.V. shows. Everybody thought they were these decaying bodies that went around groaning "Braaains! Braaains!" But the reality wasn't that simple. Not at all. Because the bi-products of this apocalypse weren't really zombies...not quite. They were mutants, to be accurate. Genetically-modified soldiers, fucked-up experiments that had gone haywire and wreaked havoc on the country. And the worst part? Half the time you couldn't tell whether someone was one or not. Some of them appeared normal, you know? They looked like humans, talked like humans, behaved like humans...except when they were triggered. You couldn't tell what would set them off, but once that switch had been flicked, there was no shutting them off. The person that had appeared normal 2 minutes before was suddenly a rampaging, flesh-starved creature intent on killing you. So excuse Jo for her insistence on living alone within the safety of her fortified warehouse. She was going to survive this, and she didn't care what she had to do to do so.
- 5 posts here • Page 1 of 1
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View All » Add Character » 6 Characters to follow in this universe
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Levi Walker
"Can't we all just get along? ...No? Then hand me a beer."
Archer Evander Cross
Protective and strong, his heart belongs to Violet Moore.
Silas Ezekiel Falcone
Basically, Silas is only around to make everyone wish he wasn't there.
Violet Moore
Fragile little lovebird- the yin to Archer's yang. She's so cute, she just might be the death of him. Literally.
Esther Tamberlyn Sinclair
A down-to-earth, strong-hearted, caring young woman who feels like the solutions to the world's problems are at the tips of her fingers.
Joanne "Jo" McAllister
Trigger-happy warchild with a very impressive (and very deadly) arsenal. Best not to cross her.
Trending
Joanne "Jo" McAllister
Trigger-happy warchild with a very impressive (and very deadly) arsenal. Best not to cross her.
Silas Ezekiel Falcone
Basically, Silas is only around to make everyone wish he wasn't there.
Violet Moore
Fragile little lovebird- the yin to Archer's yang. She's so cute, she just might be the death of him. Literally.
Levi Walker
"Can't we all just get along? ...No? Then hand me a beer."
Archer Evander Cross
Protective and strong, his heart belongs to Violet Moore.
Esther Tamberlyn Sinclair
A down-to-earth, strong-hearted, caring young woman who feels like the solutions to the world's problems are at the tips of her fingers.
Most Followed
Joanne "Jo" McAllister
Trigger-happy warchild with a very impressive (and very deadly) arsenal. Best not to cross her.
Archer Evander Cross
Protective and strong, his heart belongs to Violet Moore.
Esther Tamberlyn Sinclair
A down-to-earth, strong-hearted, caring young woman who feels like the solutions to the world's problems are at the tips of her fingers.
Levi Walker
"Can't we all just get along? ...No? Then hand me a beer."
Silas Ezekiel Falcone
Basically, Silas is only around to make everyone wish he wasn't there.
Violet Moore
Fragile little lovebird- the yin to Archer's yang. She's so cute, she just might be the death of him. Literally.
Fullscreen Chat » Create Topic » Psychosis: 2050: Out of Character
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Psychosis 1x1
by Luv-is-a-Bug on Tue Jul 31, 2012 11:53 pm
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on Sun Aug 26, 2012 11:18 pm
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Psychosis 1x1
Most recent OOC posts in Psychosis: 2050
Re: Psychosis 1x1
I'm not really interested in having this little blemish on my RP record, so I'll be clearing out and abandoning this RP on August 31st. Anyone interested in snapping up whatever's left of it is welcome to it.
Psychosis 1x1
This is the auto-generated OOC topic for the roleplay "Psychosis: 2050"
You may edit this first post as you see fit.
You may edit this first post as you see fit.