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Joanne "Jo" McAllister

Trigger-happy warchild with a very impressive (and very deadly) arsenal. Best not to cross her.

0 · 250 views · located in Washington D.C.

a character in “Psychosis: 2050”, as played by Luv-is-a-Bug

Description

Natural child, terrible child
Not your mother's or your father's child
You're our child, screamin' wild
An ancient lunatic reigns


Image

In the trees of the night
Ha, ha, ha, ha
With hunger at her heels
Freedom in her eyes


Image

Pirate prince at her side
Starin' into a hollow idol's eyes
Wild child full of grace
Savior of the human race


Jo is a tall, leanly muscular girl- 5'9" and about 130 lbs. She's never been bothered by her more muscular frame; if anything, it's been useful being the one female in the world with actual upper body strength. Her body is long and streamlined, svelte and toned from lots and lots o' time spent completing her home-made obstacle courses in her weird little safe house.
Her hair is naturally dark brown, though she's streaked it with some messy lighter pieces because...well, just because. Most days she can't be bothered to drag a brush through it, and if anyone were able to get close to this wild child, they would find her hair full of tangles and snags. From a distance it's almost attractive, if you like that wild, ravaged look, but come closer and her bedraggled mane loses its appeal.
When she's in the mood (which is often) she will paint a black stripe on either cheek- her own version of "war paint". She's always had a fondness for black eyeliner (the drama of smoky eyes is pretty much the only beauty routine she's allowed herself to buy into), but as physical appearance is not high on her list of priorities (and her execution is not so pristine as her vision), her eyes are often smudged with some random dark crap, giving a smoky, gritty effect that brings out the darker colors in her brown eyes. Her eyebrows are dark, even darker than her hair, and their natural arching shape gives her an all almost constant smirk, which is fine, because she is almost always finding something to smirk at. Her mouth is surprisingly small and feminine for all the foul language that comes out of it, and her lips are full and pretty. Her squarer jaw line and sharp chin make her look almost masculine, but her distinctly feminine cheekbones and long-lashed eyes are just enough to balance it out. She is attractive in an atypical way (some might say not attractive at all), but she'd rather be known for her large collection of guns than for her looks.
Her outfit of choice is a heather gray tank top, black skinnies or cargo pants, and her black combat boots (though the shoes are at least a half size to big for her feet, which are a surprisingly small size 6 1/2). You'd think with the fitted tank top and jeans she'd have a hard time concealing all her weaponry, but she finds a way. XD Her fingers and wrists are adorned with "jewelry" made out of twisted scraps of metal and other junk, and she often has a bandana tied on her upper arm, which has come in handy on several occasions.

Personality

Nickname: Jo. The only people who call her Joanne are those who want to die.
Age: 21? 22? She forgets.

Pros: - Extremely resourceful. Able to make use of almost anything.
- Quick thinker. Able to make quick decisions under high pressure. Now, whether they're good decisions is open to interpretation.

Cons: - Stubborn. It's her way or the highway.
- Argumentative. It's a way for her to blow off steam. Her other method of stress management is shooting stuff. :3

Jo is the epitome of a war child, a trigger-happy gal who delights in the simple pleasure of blowing stuff up. She is always, always one to pick a fight, and, due to a questionable upbringing, is severely lacking in social graces. Rude, crass comments and a "suck it up" attitude are the norm for her. She has no respect for the weak and sniveling, and she will not hesitate to tell you so. Where most people have that little voice in their head that says "You probably shouldn't say that", Jo's is missing. She is selfish and combative, and very loud when she has something to say. It's widely believed she has absolutely no sense of right and wrong, as she's not the most moral character, but she does feel guilt for her unethical her actions. ...Sometimes. Desperate times do call for desperate measures, and she intends to be the last one standing.
She is paranoid, but not in the typical, "Golly gee, they're out to get me!" way. More in the "Back the hell up or I will blow your brains out" way. It isn't quite true to say she's all bark and no bite, as she's definitely used her weapons before, but she's not about to go shooting up the city or anything. Jo is a big believer in personal space, and she likes to keep her distance, if she can help it. Of course, if she can't, that's fine too.
It should be noted that our reckless war child is something of a hoarder. On top of her personal magazine, she collects other junk to be used at a later date, and organizes it all very neatly within her little fortress. She steals compulsively because really, who's going to stop her? and she entertains herself by drinking, shooting and smoking the day away. Her approach to this horrendous apocalyptic event is to wait it out as long as she can (or maybe fight, we'll see), and then go out with a huge, fiery, blinding bang.

Equipment

Jo collects weapon the way some people collect rocks and bottle caps. She has an unhealthy fondness for anything able to cause mass destruction, and over the past year she has built herself the ultimate safe house, equipped with just about every weapon imaginable (also a choice selection of booze). It's like a secret clubhouse, but with way more explosives. :3

On her person she carries:
- A grenade (for blowing up walls, not people. Usually.)
- A 9mm pistol berretta
- A rifle, strapped across her back
- Extra ammunition, distributed throughout her pants' pockets
- A cyanide capsule, should things really take a turn for the worse
- A pack of cigarettes, for those stressful, post-apocalyptic days when you really need a smoke

History

Jo was the only child of a man who desperately wanted a son. Her mother died during childbirth, and her father made an immediate decision to raise her like a boy, forgoing all flowers, pink things, and other girly stuff. He had no pity for tears or "I can't"s, and with his high standards Jo grew to be the tough, can-do girl she is today. Of course, her upbringing had its draw backs. She always harbored a certain amount of resentment for her father, and was instilled with a rebellious streak at a young age. She loved to cause trouble of any kind, and she channeled her reckless energy into sports and, when there were no sports to play, fights with the neighborhood kids.
She came home many nights with bloody noses and bruises, and in a sick way her father was almost proud of her. He taught Jo almost everything she knows about weaponry, and at 18 she stepped out into the world, ready to make a name for herself. The day she graduated high school was the last time she saw her father. Once the apocalypse hit and the government went haywire, Jo took action (in a very paranoid way), and started collecting weapons and preparing herself for the fight of the century. Maybe it's overkill. Maybe she's crazy. Or maybe she's better prepared than any of us.

So begins...

Joanne "Jo" McAllister's Story

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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.)

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Character Portrait: Joanne "Jo" McAllister Character Portrait: Silas Ezekiel Falcone
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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?"

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Character Portrait: Joanne "Jo" McAllister Character Portrait: Silas Ezekiel Falcone
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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.

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Character Portrait: Joanne "Jo" McAllister Character Portrait: Silas Ezekiel Falcone
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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.

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Character Portrait: Joanne "Jo" McAllister Character Portrait: Silas Ezekiel Falcone
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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.