Name: Rick Hampshire
Only shaves enough that it doesn't overgrow his face, he has brownish eyes and his hair, on average, is messy, medium-long, and naturally tilts towards the left - often there'll be a stray group of hairs that stick out from about the middle of his head. His eyes are near-permenantly dark and shadowed, narrowed, and when his hair is unrestrained it often falls over to cover his eyes slightly. His posture is slumped and lazy, with his shoulders positioned forward while his back is only slightly straight. When in shoes, he tries to walk flat-footed - however, at almost any other time he finds it more comfortable to balance himself on the balls of his feet, and thusly he usually seems more along the lines of five foot eleven, rather than his true five foot nine. Lean and not very physically fit, his body is more suited towards short amount of activity rather than long-term prolonged activity.
Occupation: Drug dealer.
Personality: Before the whole fiasco, he pretty much drifted through life - wake up, play games, go to 'work', go home, read internet stuff, pass out, repeat. While he did find a certain amount of excitement in games and fiction, most notably in the bloody and/or the romantic, his life was relatively unfulfilling. Cynical, he's always tried to squash any sense of optimism he's ever had, and throughout his life he's found himself slowly losing his faith in humanity. While he does understand and abide by a system of morality, said morality is fast and loose and he's more likely to restrain himself with thoughts of the consequences or his own personal feelings than by anything people would call 'human decency'.
Equipment: A 2-liter pepsi bottle filled with water. Two cans of ravioli, and a can of corn. An airtight plastic bag filled with cut up apples. iPod with charger, cracked screen but functional. Notepad and pencils. Scissors, small knife. Weed, plus cigarettes and lighter. Hammer and crowbar. Flashlight and twelve batteries for it. Duffel bag.
Skills: Able to sneak around very well, has basic survival knowledge, has basic knowledge of anatomy, basic knowledge of gun handling, able to hide or fake emotions and/or personas well for short amounts of time.
Weakness: Physically unfit, no training in firearms, very low stamina, prone to extremely emotional outbursts while stressed.
History: He grew up without most of the comforts that most people are privy to. Namely, companionship, a stable home, a father figure, or a sense of safety. His mother was unable to work due to injuries, so they often had to scrape by each month. His brother was a domineering control freak who had fights with his mother on a weekly basis, and on more than one occasion they ended up spending the night at a friends, huddling inside a work building, or outside. He himself was considered 'odd' by the kids around him, so he was ostracised. While at first he reacted violently to this, he eventually became somewhat mellower, and eventually his 'Brother' moved out, so from around nine to fourteen things were... relatively normal. He developed a protective streak for his mother and would respond to most threats with extremely pragmatic violence, and while that gained him no friends it gave him enough respect that he was generally left alone and he was able to live his life.
The life that mostly consisted of the internet, books, or video games. He became almost unhealthily obssessed, and while it only interfered with his grades to a minor level he still spent an incredible amount of time dashing himself against the rocks of the modern world. Human fallacy, the laws of physics, one at sufficient velocity, morality and viewpoints, grey and gray morality, evil and good being decimated, the sheer stupidity of large portions of the human race... More and more he found himself simultaneously uplifted and crushed, and again and again he came back, until he eventually entered college. His roommate there, Drake, was a decent man, and they often had fun playing video games or supporting eachothers study habits. Eventually, somehow, Rick found himself grabbing some weed from a seller for the man. While he never smoked it himself, he did somehow become a regular in the 'business', and the farther into the college he went the harder it was for him to find a way to care about it. So, one day, he started asking questions. And eventually, that became helping out with the sales. Within a year, he ditched college and set himself up in a small apartment, letting his old roommate sleep in occasionally as he found himself buying, growing, and selling weed. Hardly glamorous, or even the greatest paying job, but he still made a living this way. And, overall, he found himself pretty happy. He made the occasional call to his mom, pal'ed around with Drake, and life was good. Off the grid, without any responsibilities, things were pretty much greater than they'd ever been.
And then, in one day, it was all torn down. Outside, the world had gone nuts; inside, he holed up as he found reality itself something to be questioned. Zombies? It was crazy. He understood that it was possible - that there were certain ways you could turn everyone into cannibalistic maniacs, or take control of the dead. But, for it to actually happen... for the power to go out, the plumbing to stop working, and the entire whole of society to seemingly go insane... that was the part that seemed impossible. So he waited. For a week, he sat inside his little hut, pacing back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, waiting for the TV to switch on a solider to say that everything was alright, the military had destroyed the problem, or the scientists had found a cure for whatever it was, or even just that the goddamn things had killed themselves off or rotted to the point of uselessness. Unfortunately, that didn't happen. And when that realization came, he finally decided that this was real, and he couldn't hide out forever.
So he loaded up whatever he thought would be useful in a duffel bag, determined his goals and methods for pursuing those goals, and left the room.
Dialogue Color: WhiteTick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Rick slwoly shifted his fingers from side to side, allowing them to mimic the mental sound of the seconds ticking by as he approximated. He could've read, but there was no power. Well, not that that usually stopped him, but he'd always been paranoid about heights, and adding that onto the idea of a zombie crawling up the fire escape he'd rather not stick his head out the window to read by moonlight. He could've used the damn iPod, but he was kinda afraid of running out of power. Of course, provided he kept the lighting down it would probably last weeks - that didn't mean he wasn't still paranoid. Plus, there was the simple fact that, beyond it all, he really didn't feel like doing any of those things. Not even sleep was calling to him, something he'd been doing an abundance of in the past week.
Of course, there was still the problem of zombies. That was something he'd thought on quite a lot over the week. So far as he'd been able to see (And hear, but he didn't like to think about that), they followed the typicial "Rage Virus" pattern: look generally alive, capable of full human locomotion, and liable to charging every single thing that attracts their attention. He supposed he was lucky on that; if they really were a Rage Virus zombie, then they'd starve to death, damage their bodies beyond operational limits, and be curable. Unless there was magic in the mix. Magic always screwed things up. and generally, zombies + magic either indicated a fantasy setting or horrible, horrible eldritch abominations being about. He shuddered at the thought - if there was anything eldritch about the new apocalypse, then he was fucked, no two ways about it. Literally the only thing that MIGHT save him is total obscurity, and even that was unlikely.
'Course, there were always the traditional "shambling undead" zombie. Fortunately, if this zombie 'apocalypse' was based upon those, then there was basically no problem at all. There'd probably be more damage from panic and anarchy than anything else. Unfortunately, this zombie apocalypse didn't seem to be doing that at all. Combined with the fact that everything had seemingly happened in a single day, and he was afraid to admit that it probably was a combination of the tradional and the "Rage" versions. And the idea of people spontaneously becoming Rage Zombies... well, that was downright terrifying.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock...
Rick dragged himself up abruptly. It'd been a fucking week. If he wasn't even hearing the military by now, then he needed to get moving. Get moving, for what, he wasn't completely sure. Find Drake, probably. Higher priority was finding a ride home, to make sure his mom was okay. And best way to secure a route back to Mom, a definitely safe one, was helicopter. His mom lived in a city not... too far, he was sure. He could probably get to her city, land on a rooftop somewhere, light some flares to get attention, and then escape without running out of gas. Of course, first things first he would need a map, the proper supplies, a helicopter, a pilot... damn. He'd need a lot of things to get a safe way in and out of her city. Still, it was a plan. He pulled on a relatively clean pair of pants, a t-shirt, and his old black Southpole sweatshirt.
He marveled at the sweatshirt - he'd had it for God-knows how long, and it was a torn up mess, but he wouldn't give it up for anything. Zipped it up, went for his old hat before deciding to forego actually wearing it. shoving it in the closest and largest duffel bag he could find, he meticulously went through his house, looking for everything he'd need. Going through his fridge, he found a few apples that he spent a moment cutting up and putting in a zip-up bag, then shoved that in. Grabbing the 2-liter of frozen water in his fridge, he shoved that in his bag. Knife, scissors, cigarrettes - weed, he could probably use that to bargain with others - lighter, last few cans of food, flashlight, old pack of abtteries he'd never opened - when had he gotten the hammer? Or the crowbar? didn't matter, they'd certainly be useful - probably as weapons, he grimaced.
Collecting a few last-minute items, he took one deep breath as he looked to the door. It was covered ith his couch and chair, but those were relatively easily moved out of the way. This was it. As soon as he left the room, he'd be going from waiting for help to trying to get help for himself. As soon as he opened that door, he'd be leaving his old life behind. He frowned. He wasn't the hero. No matter how fictional the entire thing seemed, he had to remind himself of that - just because he was going out on his own, just because he was starting to enact a plan, that didn't mean he was a hero, that logic ould cease to exist and he'd become the luckiest man in the world.
He wasn't the hero. He wasn't a protagonist. If there was a girl, he wouldn't get her and he'd probably hate her to boot. If there was any kind of plot, it was probably somewhere far away, or he was one of the extras that got killed. Or something like that. Before he left, he had to make that firm in his mind; This. Is. Not. A Story.
Taking one deep breath, that thought comented into his mind, he took his first step outside the apartment.
New life. New (probable) death. Hopefully, he'd die losing blood and delusional. Or he'd just pass out and never wake up.