[Contract Killer]

Zombreach said:

There was something there in his voice...she had heard it... but it was of no concern to her. Everyone had suffered some loss...the Straights and the Traitors both. He was the enemy...for two years she had believed that and a few moments alone with a Traitor wasn't going to change that. She rose and walked over to her weapons, keeping her eyes on him in case he made a sudden move. She bent, picking them up and putting them back on her person.

She started to walk away and paused in front of him. "I suppose that means you'll be watching me...and that's kind of creepy." She turned and made her way to the back. Removing the barricade, she pulled the door open and stepped outside. She looked back once, wondering if he was watching her, before shutting the door. In the darkness she made her way through the street. She walked out in the open, feeling invincible. It was a pity she couldn't brag of her encounter with the Reaper, but no one would believe her anyways. She slowed when she reached the other side of the street and slipped into the shadows. It was time to head home.

Anthony didn't move in the slightest as she left. He didn't even raise his head to watch her go. Anthony wouldn't have to watch her, it would get around that someone had seen him and lived. If it did, many straights would fall. If not, then only a few will, in the next few days at least. He grinned to himself before standing swiftly and resealing the back entrance and turned to walk back to his spot. A fortress of an old hardware store. Here he was safe for the night. Tommorow the killings would begin anew but for tonight he could sleep.

[ZombifiedBrendan]

The sounds of argueing from inside died down and was replaced with normal talking but there was still some sort of distaste in the words. Corey was able to make out none of the conversation through the thick wooden boards that blocked every window but he knew something was going inside and he couldn't do anything. He felt bad but stayed poised in his position.*

Corey scanned the nearby streets, looking for any other forms of life. There was nothing. He hoped desperately that the shadows around him covered his body enough to be invisible from any prying eyes, the Reaper could be out here, watching him right now. A cold shiver run along his spine as he thought this and how easy death could come. He felt like movig but doing that might be even more dangerous. His thumb flipped off the safety and he began to feel more on edge.

Before he could even take a breath, he realized something was missing. The people inside were no longer talking. It was too much to bear so Corey put his face up to the wooden boards of the store. Inside was a shiloutte of a man, it was to dark to make out a face. He could shoot the figure but he could not tell who it even is, he could shoot a straight for all he knew. Corey watched that man through the gap in the wooden boards, hoping to see a friend but ready for it to be a traitor.

[Ruby Snipa]

NAME: Sedrick McDougall

AGE: 23

WEIGHT & HEIGHT: 157 & 5'10"

HAIR COLOR & EYE COLOR: Dark Chocolate Brown & Sapphire Blue

TEAM: Traitors


ARSENAL:

Primary Weapon Name & Type: T/C R-55 LR All Weather

Caliber: .22 Caliber (10 rounds per clip)

Location on Body: Slung over right shoulder

Modifications: 5x magnification scope and Vortex flash hider

Secondary Weapon Name & Type: S&W M&P9

Caliber: 9mm (17+1 rounds per clip)

Location on Body: Black leather concealed holster on left side of body

Modifications: Ivory Handle and Double-Can Silencer (custom self mod that slides on and off easily, easily replacable)

MELEE WEAPON:

Weapon Type: Celtic style longsword

Location on Body: Sheath on left hip


PERSONAL INFORMATION

DATE OF BIRTH: June 5, 1984

OCCUPATION: College Student

FAMILY: His fiance Kate Litrage (deceased)

SEX: Male

PERSONALITY PROFILE: As a kid he was taught to hunt and take his kills respectfully. He was a good trap shooter, although not the best and he won a few contests. After which he went to Harvard and was a proud man before the infection hit the campus. He had a beautiful fiance and his grades were exceeding all expectations of a small town farm boy. He was studying to become a patent lawyer, being a bit of an inventor himself. His fiance died from the infection and she forced him to end her suffering before it fully took hold. He hasn't felt the same since and he takes out his rage on the zombies with brutal force and cold demeanor and sometimes this bloodthirst spills over onto the living. This has earned him the nickname of the Owl, for the gruesome way that the bodies of his victims reappear. They know him not by his looks, but a .22 casing that they find in the mouths of the victims. His work has been invaluable to the Traitors, as he has made many cheap modifications to his bretheren's firearms. His most proud achievement is a toss-up between the double can silencer (made from 2 soda cans taped together) and the water filtration system he made for the underground base.

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION:

Keeps his short as to not impede his vision, and keeps a chin beard, doesn't like side burns. Wears faded tan cargo pants, and holds the pair up with a tattered black leather belt. Wears a black tank top underneath the ripped remains of an unbuttoned red dress shirt. Keeps a backpack over his left shoulder while he moves about unseen in Parker.

MEDICAL HISTORY: Has a minor allergy to some shellfish

SCARS: Several horizontal cuts running up his spine from falling onto some razor wire fencing from on top of his father's barn. Under went physical therapy for the back injury and had it straightened by a brace that he wore for 3 years.


EQUIPMENT: Backpack filled with 3 water bottles, 13 Snickers bars, 2 cans of tuna, can opener, flint and steel, 200 match box, extra clothes, sewing needles, a spool of thread, 1 weapon cleaning kit, a whetstone, a box of 40 9mm rounds, a box of 50 .22 rounds, and basic first aid kit. 5 10 round clips for his rifle, & 3 17 round clips for his pistol located in his pants pockets and hooked to his belt.


"And that should be good enough to silence your pistol pretty well for awhile. Just don't dent the cans or the silencing will instead amplify the gunshot." He hands the 9mm to one of the many grunts in the Traitor's underground base and then turns to Peggy, one of the younger women in the group whom always followed him around the base, she had lost her big brother to the Straights and had grown to consider Sedrick her brother. "How many of these mods have I done today?"


"That's the 26th one today." she stated carelessly.


"I need a ****ing vacation." he let out in a sigh. He hated being the one in the group they always called "Kid", out in the wastes he was the "Owl". Swooping down on his target with precision and ferocity. "I'm going to go out tomorrow and relieve a little stress."

[rowdyrugby]

Joe moved quietly in the dark, listening as his boots touched the pavement. Washington street was already dead before the Z's came, but now it was really dead...well except for the occasional Z's and the people living around Parker. It was time to move off the street.

Joe moved quietly down river avenue. He knew the f*cking traitors frequented the river. Joe flipped the safety off his rifle and brought it to his shoulder. Better safe than sorry. He slowly moved to the river, hopping over the guardrail across from the stale yellow building. He knelt to check his trap. He smiled, a catfish. Not bad he thought! Joe pulled out swiss army knife and gasped the fish, slamming it into the bank. He quickly came down with the blade, sawing off its head. The body wiggled a moment and became motionless. Joe looked around for a moment. Never can be too careful. Joe stuffed the catfish into the kids lunch pail and shoved it into his bag. Upstream Joe filled a canteen with what he pretended must be clean water. He sighed. "Time to find some oil" he thought to himself. He liked it better when he thought life was crap and it was really easy.


Joe threw his pack on and walked over the guardrail. He moved quietly checking for movement around the buildings. He moved towards the outfitters. While it had been picked clean while rebuilding the town, there was something just as valuable. Joe slung the 550 over his shoulder and brought his Smith and Wesson M&P to a firing position, checking the cabin of the Ford Ranger. Nothing. He jiggled the handle and sighed. Locked. Joe sighed. He holstered his firearm and set down his pack. He unzipped the pack and pulled out his empty quart jug. He looked around, listening. Quiet again thank god. Joe quickly slid under the small pickup, multitool and jug in hand. He fumbled around feeling for it. Finally, Joe fixed his pliers to the lug. Out shot oil, precious, sweet oil. He only allowed it to fill up part of the way before twisting the top back on....then he heard it. A low moan, maybe 10 yards away. Joe rolled out, throwing the multitool and oil back into his bag and quickly zipping it. Joe dropped to a knee and looked. 2 Z's were shambling towards him, from the direction of the sanitation plant. 5 yards now.

Joe picked up his bag and slowly backed up and unholstered his weapon. He didnt want to waste 5.56 rounds. Joe leveled the weapon and fired two rounds, one of which found its mark, entering near the mandible and probably exiting around the stem. He smiled and secured his weapon. After all, why waste a round when he could outrun the damn thing? Joe strapped on his bag and began high-tailing. He moved quickly, not thinking twice about turning around. Suddenly he heard the crack of a weapon. Even trained ears often cannot identify pistol calibers but this sounded like a rifle to him. This was either good or bad. Joe felt his adrenaline spike as he kicked it into 5th gear, running faster down the road, trying to hold onto his bouncing Sig 550.

He finally made it to the old bank, nearly out of breath. He slipped his key into the locking device and slammed the door behind him doing a quick inventory. Everything looked fine. He sighed and latched the door. It was quiet as usual. He unloaded his pack and rifle by the door. Joe knelt, taking out the fish and oil. Later he would clean and oil his guns. First he would eat. Joe opened the door to the wood burning stove. He shook his head saying aloud, "gotta love currency". The old money from the vault smoldered for hours. Joe threw in a few pieces of plywood and some chair legs and shut the door. Soon he would be eating fresh catfish and boiling clean river water.

[Contract Killer]

Vanell shot awake, ripping himself away from the nightly nightmares that plagued the callous killer. The image played againn as he closed his eyes. A boy, no older then sixteen, and his father. Both armed. He didn't want to shoot at all, but they shot first and doomed themselves. Idiots, all of them. The Straights would pay. For everything.

Anthony stood quickly and began to walk towards the back exit of his little fortress before seeing the massive hole in the roof, that's a usable exit as well. He jogged across the room and slung his rifle tightly across his back as he picked up the last ladder left in the store, a six footer. He climbed to the top and with a leap; caught the edge of the hole and pulled himself up. This building was by no means ideal for shooting so he walked to the edge. Looking down into the alleyway, it was empty aside from a few corpses and a dumpster. Anthony slinked down and held the edge of the building and fell the nine or so feet into the mass of black trash bags. He jumped out and began to use the cover of houses and the shadows to make his way towards the biggest traitor-owned building in the town, the church. It was also their only above ground base, but it was very strongly held and the straights wouldn't take it as long as he still lived.

[ZombifiedBrendan]

Corey had grown bored of watching the motionless figure after just a few minutes and had decided that whatever this man had was not worth starting a fire fight over. He would see back at the base if anyone had positioned themselves in the hardware store. If there was someone, he would be glad to have let this man live. If it wasn’t... Well at least he hadn’t wasn’t a few shotgun shells. Corey stepped away from the window and went back to his journey to the Straights Head Quarters. The sun would be up soon, better to be somewhere safe than stuck walking the streets in bright light. He wanted to survive and following common sense had made him last so far, why stop know?

Corey walked next the Seward Road, heading west according to his little compass. He knew what was down here. The old athletics field. There was a Straight encampment there, it wasn’t their main base, that was somewhere else in the city, this was more of their out of town campsite. A place to retreat to if something happened in the city and they needed to move somewhere further out of town. It also worked as a trading post with a large quantity of supplies being kept in a locked and constantly guarded room. If he could get something with his worthless amount of supplies, it would be here. Maybe he could get some sort of knew shells for his shotgun, hopefully a few slugs or a bandolier would be nice. He would have to wait until he got there to see in the athletics field actually had some use for him.

[rowdyrugby]

Joe flipped the slide release. Two guns well oiled. He glanced down as he slammed the fresh clip into the weapon, pulled the slide back and chambered a round. Flawless. He wondered desperately how other people we able to take care of their weapons. After all oil wasn't the easiest thing to come by. Joe tried not to trade. While he had taken sides with the straights, he didnt necessarily want to get hooked into this war. The straights knew it, but he had no idea if the traitors did. Joe tried to keep to himself.

Joe was probably one of only 3 or 4 in the entire country doing the same thing he was about to do. He knew the risks doing it brought but if he didn't he would go insane. Joe walked to the vault and closed the heavy door behind him. The reinforced walls and heavy door would prevent most Z's from hearing it.

Joe put down a lit candle next to the book and pulled the cover back. he whispered to himself the words as the keys fell on the old piano-
"Freude, schöner Götterfunken*
Tochter aus Elysium,
Wir betreten feuertrunken..."

He had wheeled the damned piano halfway across town when rebuilding had started. It always made him tear up. He was probably the only one on the face of the planet performing Beethoven live on a daily basis. He weighed the thought and stopped, his head sagging, sobbing lightly. Joe blew out the candle and went to his bedroom, the former managers officer. Joe said his prayers and slid into his sleeping bag atop an old cot. Tomorrow would be a new day.

[Zombreach]

Zombreach said:

She slowed when she reached the other side of the street and slipped into the shadows. It was time to head home.

It took CC ten minutes to reach the spot where Brian and John had been killed earlier. She could hear the infected feeding before she saw them. The undead usually did not eat a person after they had died. That could only mean one thing....Brian had not been dead. Two zombies feasted on his remains, oblivious to her presence. Their faces were buried in his abdomen, occasionally bumping heads, as they greedily devoured his entrails. John's body lay a few feet away-- untouched. She drew her pistol and shot the first one in the back of its head. It's body slumped forward, forcing its head deeper into Brians innards with a wet sound. The second zombie, a female, jerked her head up. Blood and bile dripped from her lips as she moaned deeply with anticipation of a warm meal.

The first bullet struck her in the face, tearing away half of her jaw and cheek. She was on her feet when the second bullet pierced her forehead. CC moved to Brian's side quickly as the zombie's cold body folded on itself and dropped to the ground. CC looked at the bodies around her. They were motionless. Brian however, was going to turn and she had to prevent that before it happened. Putting her sig sauer against his forehead she pulled the trigger, closing her eyes as she did so.

She spent the rest of the evening keeping post in the two men's place. She didn't want to have to explain their deaths to their replacements, so she left just before dawn for base.

[Frallon]

When Damion had sent word for John to meet him at the Little League safe house, under the Home Team's dug out, he hadn't expected this. Not many people knew about the safe house, and if they did, none of them were straights. The entrance was barely noticeable, a concrete square piece was cut out under the worn down decomposing benches that they'd all sat on as kids; a small lever stuck from the square where you could pry the piece out and slide down. John had helped in constructing the safe house. It'd taken nearly a year to tunnel down and under the paved road that bordered the fenced in diamond, and from there, it'd taken almost an additional year to pad the walls to make sure none of the earth caved in. Only about ten people, those who'd helped make the piece, and a few strangers who'd been told about the haven knew how to find it. Yet, here Damion had sat over himself against it's dirt walls under the paved roof with a bullet in his head, and a loaded gun on his chin.
John sits in front of his friend in Kerosene light as he had most of the night, he holds the weapon that was meant to allude people from the truth, the weapon that'd been placed in Damian's hand and pointed towards the mouth. Most people would have accepted the sight. John himself had seen Damien place a cartage in the revolver and spin the cylinder like a mad man before pulling the trigger on himself. Damien never succeeded though, in the years he'd known him, the same bullet had entered the gun and never once was struck by the hammer. The case, even with a bullet in his skull, was still true. John opens the cylinder of the revolver again and slides out the full .38 magnum shell into his hand. Someone had killed Damien, put the revolver there as a motive, and went on their way. Someone, John knows as he sits in the dim lighting twirling the bullet in his hands, that he would find and make Damion's bullet strike true as it should have been long ago.
John slides the bullet back into the revolver and slams the cylinder shut before placing it in Damion's holster now around Johns ankle. He stands up from the corpse and walks over to the exit. The concrete block makes a very small noise, amplified in the tunnel, as it raises up under the little league bench. He sticks his head out the gap and looks up under the wooden roof of the dug out to the sky. A faint light sets over the days clouds, a sign of the coming dawn, a sign to get moving. Under the muffled sounds of the dirt tunnel, John leaves and returns to the space with his duffel bag, and the body of his deceased friend. Both he lifts up one at a time and pushes out the entrance and off to the side. He rushes back to the large square safe house and puts out the lanterns hung against the walls, people would eventually come and ignite them their selves, it was just common courtesy to not let them burn up for those folks. He grunts as he lifts himself up out of the hole and again when he pushes the block back into place. The noises were the only reminder that his body wasn't in as good of shape as he thought, that he was vulnerable, but more so that he was still just human.
John picks up Damion's body and sets him upright on the bench like the little league coach used to when watching a game. A brief smile flushes in his face before he turns his back to his friend, picks up his duffel bag, and leaves the dug out. Straights usually woke up and shot around mid day, dawn was the best time to go anywhere, dusk the distant and unfavored second. There was one place though that it didn't matter what time of the day you traveled there, as long as you had a familiar face; the dunes. The dunes were cultivated a long time ago as an entry point into a series of underground tunnels that'd were once Parkers sewers when Parker was a community. Now, the dunes were just a "safe place" for traitors, where you could cut out one threat just to have it replaced by another; people. The strongest resistance leaders hide out there, men and woman who fought back against the undead and the living, people who had to know about everything otherwise loose their place on the offensive. The only people, the way he figured it, who would know anything about Damion.
John jogs across the road over the safe house and begins to sprint across an open field of hills and dead trees. It'd be a half a mile of flat land to reach the dunes, he steps hard on the ground to increase his pace, but moves his head alertly in a semi circle; someone always seemed to have a gun now days.

This post has been edited by Frallon: 17 June 2010 - 11:28 PM

[Ruby Snipa]

The "Owl" always did his kills at night and because he had to stay at the base most of the time to fix other people's shit. His work was finished for the night and so he went outside to watch the sun rise, hoping to burst into flames for his past actions. This however, didn't happen so he went back into the base dismayed and unsatisfied. If there was a God, he hadn't smitten him yet for a very important reason, otherwise he was just lucky. Once the luck ran out, he'd be dead.
"Let me know when John and Damion return, I need to know how their shit is holding out."

[Contract Killer]

As the sun began to rise in the sky the Reaper came upon the church grounds. The wooden front doors had metal welded to both sides and were chained and padlocked shut during the night hours. Stained glass lay shattered on the floor from the second story. Twelve men held the now iron-clad stronghold, all armed to the teeth with civilian model AR's from the local gun shop and Glock handguns. One man sat high in the bell tower with a milsurp scoped 1903. The rifle gave him the ability to reach out past the thousand yard mark but his skill limited him 300 at best. Anthony chuckled to himself, he once owned that position high up there and had witnessed the two attempted takeovers first hand. Within a few minutes and he banged loudly on the front doors.

"Reaper's home. Open doors" He shouted coldly into the men in the builiding. Shortly after, two armed men opened the doors for him. Anthony held no official position within the Traitors but almost all respected him as if he were their leader. He was too experienced and skilled to do otherwise.

Inside the church was a mess of sandbags, bunks and the pair of trade posts where two men had set up shop. He tossed his bag on top of one of the first bunks and removed the scavenged nine mil and 30-06 ammo from his bag and walked towards the traders.

"How much .308 and .45 can I get for this?" Anthony asked as he tossed the boxes of ammo onto the counter.

"Heh. I could getcha about twenty five of that fancy .308 ammo and maybe forty .45 rounds." The merchant said. A lowball offer for thirty 30-06 rounds and sixty 9 mil. It would work for now.

"Gimmie the ammo you worm." Anthony said, rather annoyed. Taking the ammo, he walked away and laid on his new bunk. A few hours of sleep would make the next day of killing a little easier.

[Zombreach]

CC stepped into the stairwell of the Round-Up Hotel, heading up to level 2. The stairwell was dark, but CC knew there were guards hiding in the hollowed out nooks. There were several entrances to the main base, and all of them were well guarded. At each floor she stopped, waited 5 seconds and then continued. The pauses let the hiding men know she was a Straight.

Entering in the side door of the second floor, she went to the rooms she occupied with her brother Michael. The two rooms had an adjoining door, with a common living area that they shared. Using her key, she slipped inside, hoping to slip into bed and get a few hours sleep before Michael woke up. Instead, she found him sitting on her bed, a kerosene lamp burning on a low flame.

"You're late." He said simply.

She nodded, grunting in agreement, and removed her jacket, setting it on the bed next to him.

He looked at her attire and shook his head. He had never approved of the way she dressed, but she was an adult, and he kept his comments to himself. "Samuels wants to see you. He stopped by an hour ago--woke me up... He wants you to head over to his office right away."

"Now? Damn-it--I was hoping to get some sleep." She grabbed her jacket and headed for the door. Samuels was one of the leaders, and you didn't make him wait--not if you could help it. As she was shutting the door, she heard her brother comment..."That's what the night is for...sleeping." She smiled to herself as she headed for the stairs.

[ZombifiedBrendan]

Corey kept walking, the first rays of the sun spilt in through the trees as the first check point came into view. A bright red stop sign, shot many times from sniper rifle. Corey stepped onto the road and walked up to it and banged it twice. After that, he kept walking, knowing he would be safe from the bolt action man who lurked in the trees above. He had taken that position in times before but so far hadn’t seen any sort of action from it. The field was accessible from other directions but a barb wire fence seemed to stop them from coming in from there.

Corey walked through another checkpoint with a disguised man with a very rare AK variant waving at him. Corey waved back at Simon, knowing he would be on the frontline if the traitors assaulted the storage camp. Corey smiled, knowing he would be safe from here on out.

Seward ended at the Athletics field and Corey jogged off towards the old mess hall. The track had become part of the war zone with ashes from infected blowing across the field. Some of those ashes weren’t even from the infected but from the Traitors that the Straights had managed to capture for information. It was a brutal warzone the city but everything had to be done to destroy the others. They are the ones at fault, not the straights. Corey entered the mess hall and looked at the men around him. Most were gaurds, some were scouts and other scavengers like him. In all, there was about fifteen men in here.

Corey walked through them, some greeted him with a wave, others were too busy sleeping to care about him. He eventually came across the man who sat behind a desk in front of the change rooms. He was the trader who would see how badly you needed the supplies inside and the amount possible to get. Some referred to him as “the dealer” as he never seemed to use a name except for John Smith. He carried a 1911 that always sat by his table but it was always for show, there would be no way he would shoot another straight for a bad deal. Derek set his pack in front of the man and emptied the contents he had found. The broken revolver, the flashlight and the box of matches. He also placed the few .357 rounds he had found with the revolver. “Can I get a few 12 gauge shells? If you had slugs that would be nice as well.”

The Dealer looked at the stuff before walking into the change room. He was in there for a while and came out with a handful of shells. As he placed the down on the table he read out what tyoe they were. “Two buckshot, two slugs and a dragons breath shell. A long distance scavenger found it a town about a day’s travel west. Be glad you’re getting it.” Corey looked at the shell and observed it, it was clearly different and he had never fired anything of the liked of it but he was sure that it had to do something.

“Thank you Dealer.” Corey nodded to the man before walking away, wondering what would happen when he fired the new shell. Wondering how much recoil it contained. The distance of the weapon. But more importantly how many Traitors could be taken down by it.

[Markee White]

NAME: James Fraust
AGE: 27
WEIGHT & HEIGHT: 6'2 & 190lbs
HAIR COLOR & EYE COLOR: Silver and red.
TEAM: Independant

EQUIPMENT:
Nixon Landlock backpack in black, 4 16 round double-stack .45 ACP magazines, one carton Djarum Black cigarettes, Mercedes-Benz Zippo, Truefire Stalker three-finger release, 30 carbon fibre arrow shafts, 30 Magnus Bullhead Broadhead arrow points, bow sling, 4 MREs, hip holster, 32 oz. water bottle.

ARSENAL:
Weapon Name & Type: Diamond Iceman, compound bow.
Caliber: Arrows.
Location on Body: Slung over shoulder.
Modifications: 30 arrow quiver attached to right side of bow.
SECONDARY
Weapon Name and Type: Springfield 1911 Custom.
Caliber: .45 ACP
Location on body: Hip holster.
Modifications: Long slide, double-stack grip.
MELEE WEAPON: HK Ally
Weapon Type: Folding knife.
Location on Body: Clipped to belt, right side.

PERSONAL INFORMATION
DATE OF BIRTH: September 1st, 1981.
OCCUPATION: SF/Oncologist
FAMILY: Xanaville Fraust (Grandfather.)
SEX: Male
PERSONALITY PROFILE: Personality varies due to situation. He can be level-headed,thinking clearly as to what do to to complete what he needs to do. Other times he can be joking, somewhat comedic and laid back. In a normal day to day situation, like his normal, most usual mood would be antisocial, quiet, but always observant. He doesn't care much for people, and if anyone were to see, they'd know he hates the undead. Take these traits, and add a splash of PTSD, and he could be the best or the worst person to have on your team.
PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION: An albino. To be more specific, a man with oculocutaneous albinism type 1b, which allows him to develop pigment. In this case, pigment has developed in his skin, and a small amount in his hair, given his hair a silver sheen due to the blended light grey and white strands. His eyes are red, and due to his condition, not very good at seeing, at least unaided, hence his frameless glasses. He stands at a somewhat normal height, at 6'2, with a build barely above average, with a weight of 190lbs. His hair is not short, but not excessively long, either, going just below his earlobes.
MEDICAL HISTORY: Due to his line in SF work, he has had most bones in his body broken at least once, various gunshot wounds, cut marks, and in one instance, even exposure to VX.
SCARS: Small scar on left cheek (bullet graze, Saudi Arabia) scar on left bicep (compound fracture of the humerous, Northern Siberia.) several scars on his upper torso (multiple compound fractures of the ribs, Northern Siberia.) multiple gunshot wounds of the abdomen (firefight, Rocky Mountains.)


A black Hilux came off the highway, leaving the scent of french fries in it's wake. The driver looked at the instruments. Everything looked in order, except for the oil pressure, setting on the pin at 0. He needed to find some motor oil soon, or...
The truck began making a ungodly rattling as steam began to rise out of the engine bay between the hood and the body. The driver just stepped on the clutch, and waiting for the truck to stop, the steam now beginning to hinder his view. He pressed the release on the seat belt, then breaking glass. He felt the seatbelt tug against his hand and arm as it locked, but he didn't feel his head impact the steering wheel.
He slowly came to. He couldn't have been out for too long, the engine was still steaming. He looked at the floor of the passenger seat. He sighed as he saw his backpack on the floor. He moved the backpack, "Shit."
Seeing his 10 spare arrows, the shafts broken, the blades of the heads snapped. It was a lost cause. He reached over and unbuckled the passenger seat belt which held the bow in place. He picked up his bow and backpack then opened the door, stepping out of the vehicle.
He opened the top pocket of his backpack, reaching in and pulling out his release. He strapped the velcro strap around his wrist then put on the backpack. He held the bow in his left hand, 30 arrows on the side, each arrow having three blades extending out from the edges at the head of the arrow. He pulled an arrow from the quiver, knocking it then putting his release on the loop of the drawstring. He looked around, then took a step. He saw a blue spark on the ground, followed shortly by a gunshot. He began running, keeping his bow ready. He kicked open the door of a diner and raised his bow, scanning the area.

((OOC, I know vehicles weren't allowed, by I was given permission by Frallon to use it only in this post if I make it undriveable. Just clearing this up.))

[rowdyrugby]

Joe woke to the pain in his knee. It was not a bad one, but a small one. If slept on wrong it really killed. He sighed as he often did, slinging his body out of the cot. It was pitch black in the old bank/old marshals office/home. Joe stumbled towards the door and listened. Quiet. Joe opened the slat on his steel door- daylight. He nodded to himself and slid the viewing slat closed. Joe threw on his long sleeve shirt which read on the front in thin, black, letters- Death Before Disco. It still made him laugh from time to time. Thank god he missed that period.

Joe began to climb the ladder to the roof and opened the hatch. He sat there for 5 minutes or so; merely listening for anything. Satisfied, he climbed up onto the roof, staying low and quiet. Nothing but a nice breeze. He still kept low. Even though the Traitors knew he wanted to be just left alone, occasionally some traitor or jackass out of towner would take a pop shot at him.

Joe looked at his tomato plants and picked 3 fist sized tomatoes from the stem. These would be worth a pretty penny indeed. Joe set them down and walked over the the small flag pole. He was maybe the only one who cared for and still flew it. He knelt down and opened an old cashiers box. Joe picked up the tattered old flag and smiled as he did every morning. Joe connected the flag to the pole and watched it gently flap here and there in the breeze. Joe caught himself and remembered his job. Joe attached the small semaphore flag to the line on the pole.

Many knew what it meant. Open for trade. He traded with traitor and straight. Didn't matter to him. All who traded with him knew the rules. 4 knocks and a kick to his steel door to get attention for trade. Weapons had to be locked open or secured. No fighting of any kind during a trade session....unless a Z came by. That happened now and again. Not so much lately. Trade was done by lowering a basket from the roof. Payment always first, goods second. Any argument on that rule had ruined many deals in the past.


The fresh tomatoes would bring in a very high price indeed, as not many people could grow such things. He smiled to himself. All of his cop buddies had laughed at him for his gardening. Now he had this wonderful rooftop garden. His smile faded when he remembered that they were all probably dead. He sighed and went down the ladder to clean out his stove.

[Markee White]

James sat down, setting his backpack and bow on the table of a booth. He reached into the pocket of his white slacks, drawing out a pack of Djarum Blacks and his Mercedes lighter. He flicked the lighter, then touched the flame to the end of the cigarette, taking a long drag. He then opened his backpack, and began searching. He leaned back, realizing he had forgotten his book in the glovebox of his truck. He looked out at the ruined truck, which had stopped steaming by this point. Then something caught his eye. A flag. He closed his backpack and stood up, putting on his backpack and picking up his bow. He knew that chances were a sniper was out there, waiting for him. He took a deep breath as he walked toward the door.

[Frallon]

John digs his feet in harder as he sprints in an effort to increase his speed. Dirt kicks up behind him with lumps of grass that spray everywhere like 12 gauge buckshot. A mound of dirt starts off in the distance but as a slow minute trails on it becomes larger to John as he closes in on it. His worn through shoes nearly slip as he takes a large jump onto the mound and vaults his weight over. His butt skips over the top and slides down a long dirt hill that pushes under the ground level and into a large circular pit hidden from the coming dawn. His body lurches to a stop at the bottom of the large drop next to the mouth of a tunnel. No real planning had gone into making the entrance, when the place had been built all it was made to do was stand, while all the real construction lay beyond its boundaries. With such a design though, there was nothing keeping the dead out, no buffer zone between the mouth entrance and a shambled door that would hold barely any weight on it but keep light from shining through.
John stands up and brushes dirt off himself as he cups a hand over the side of his mouth and amplifies his whisper, "It's butch; John Butch. I know someone's in there," the mouth of the hole, absent boundaries, was always put on a patrol to compensate. The workers were all the same, just members of random gangs, not really united but in the common trust doing what had to be done. They passed a 9mm around with a silencer attached to the front of it to not attract anything after the shot; the weapons was probably the only one of its kind in the entire state, "Just let me come in, you can see my face in the light if you want."
No one responds.
John steps out into the center of the tunnels mouth and crouches slightly as he enters. The hammer to the silenced pistol clicks against the base of the firearm to disarm itself. He lets John get close before he turns a lantern on dim and shuts it off a moment later with a nod to pass.

[Markee White]

James looked at the door. He might be able to take down a sniper, but he needed to think first. He thought to himself, "1,125 feet per second... Probably 1,200 feet."
He took the arrow of the string, holding it in front of him then dropped it, "One Mississippi."
The words stopped as the arrow hit the ground, "Five feet drop in one second. 1,200 divided by 365 is about... 3 and a quarter. Correct altitude for 16.125 feet. Alright."
He took off his glasses, his vision getting blurry, except for far away objects, which seemed much closer than they were. He could only hope. He only had 30.
He picked up the arrow, knocking it again, attaching his release to the steel loop. He opened the door, turning sideways. He ran back to the truck and ducked. He tilted his head to the side, turning it, making his right eye the top part of his head. He took off his fedora and slowly began standing from his crouched position, peering only a bit above the bed. He saw a gleam. He quickly stood, aiming a few inches above the gleam and drawing the arrow back. He took a deep breath and held it as he squeezed the release in his hand.
He strafed watching the glint, then he saw it disappear. He then began sprinting in the direction he fired.
A minute and a half later he reached a bus. He walked around the bus, and saw the arrow laying on the ground, one of the blades bloodied. He looked at the top of the bus. He held the arrow by the shaft in his teeth as he walked to the back of the bus to scale it.
He saw the shooter, grasping his neck, but the blood still ran. James walked to him, "You can't save yourself now. Even I can't. But I can end it all for you right now. It's your choice."
The man looked up at James, and gave a weak nod. James pulled the knife from his belt, and loosened the flathead screws on the bloody arrowhead. He turned the blades so they all faced forward then tightened the screws. He knocked the arrow, and pulled it back, "God be with you."
He released the arrow, which buried itself deep into the man's chest. The man's eyes widened, then his breathing stopped. James pulled the arrow out of the man's chest, adjusting the blades again then wiped it off on the dead man's pants. He turned around. The flag was still flying.

[rowdyrugby]

Joe wiped his forehead. His stove was clean and new logs had been added. Just one to offer light to the main room of the building. Heat was something he really didn't need this summer. His building could sometimes get too hot, forcing him to open his roof hatch. The windows had been the first things to be bricked up. Joe lived in the dark. The light from the stove was helpful but Joe was still forced to spend an hour here and an hour there on the roof to keep his eyes trained.

Joe poked the log, trying to get the desired light he wanted. He tried only to use his candles when he played the piano. Joe put his feet up on his desk and began recited various prayers from his hebrew prayer book. It would be a boring day.

[Markee White]

He reached into the totaled truck, opening the glove box, his bow over his shoulder. He pulled the book out of the glovebox. He pulled off his backpack, slipped the book into the backback then began walking. He knocked another arrow, listening for anything that could be of danger.
A couple blocks down he reached the building. He curled his fist into a ball and pounded on the door three times, then waited for a response.

This post has been edited by fraust: 23 June 2010 - 05:59 AM