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@Pipar0ni They are still open
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Lildear18,
shallow grave,
headintheclouds,
Silent Showers,
Days,
Vixere,
Tlstiffl,
Pandolin,
honeysweetestco,
Astro
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6 days ago
Current
Trying to get caught up on RPs, bear with me.
27 days ago
Both. It's both.
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1 mo ago
Personal stuff going on atm, posts will be delayed
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1 mo ago
Working on replies
1 mo ago
You know, its frustrating when you don't ghost someone but instead tell them you're no longer interested and they get bitchy about it.
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Bumping this for funsies
Added plots 5-8....I have a type, leave me alone! Wait! No! Don't leave me alone, write with me!
Sawyer Graves
As they navigated the cluttered, shadow-filled aisles of the old warehouse, the scent of decay mixed with stale motor oil hung heavy in the air. The distant sounds of a struggle or confrontation pulled Sawyer and Freya deeper into the dimly lit depths. Turning a corner, they were met with a scene that tightened Sawyer's jaw immediately.
Above them, a young man—clearly just a teenager—clung desperately to the rafters, his fear palpable as he negotiated for his life. Below him, the towering figure of SU2775 loomed, a known figure among the Genesis survivors but now seen in a disturbing new light.
Sawyer's usual composure slipped into a frown, his voice carrying a sharp edge as he addressed the scene. "Ease off, Comrade Cannibal," he called out sternly, his use of the nickname biting rather than playful. "He’s just a kid."
Freya stepped up beside him, her expression hard as she surveyed the tense standoff, her instincts as a protector coming to the fore.
Freya Eriksson
"Leave him alone, now," Freya commanded, her voice firm and authoritative, leaving no room for misinterpretation. The gravity of the situation was not lost on her; a minor was in potential danger, and her tone reflected her immediate concern.
The young man's pleas echoed off the warehouse walls, his voice cracking with terror as he begged not to be harmed. It was a stark reminder of the stakes in their new world, where even the young were not spared from fear and violence.
Sawyer's eyes didn't stray from SU2775, his stance rigid with tension. "This isn’t what we stand for," he added forcefully, hoping his words might diffuse the situation without escalating to violence.
Freya remained alert, her body tensed for action, ready to step in if the verbal intervention failed. She glanced at Sawyer, sharing a brief look that conveyed both their readiness to act and their mutual concern for the teenager's safety.
"Seems we got here just in time," Sawyer muttered to Freya, his voice low, an undercurrent of anger still lacing his words as they stood ready to intervene further if necessary.
Freya shifted her attention to the boy. "I am Fre- I am SW017. Are you alright? Freya was never sure what to call herself. Sawyer insisted on calling her Freya but she truthfully answered to just about anything anyone wanted to call her. "Doctor Taylor should get a look at you. Are you alone? It is not safe to travel alone.
"Especially with Comrade Cannibal looking for his next snack," Sawyer grumbled but stopped when Freya cut a disapproving look at him.
The sky loomed ominously overhead, a thick canopy of gray that seemed to press down on the deserted streets below. As Sawyer and Freya approached the auto part store on the outskirts of town, the air grew heavier, tinged with the metallic scent of rain yet to fall.
The store itself stood as a testament to neglect, its walls pockmarked with the ravages of time, windows shattered and gaping like open wounds. The faded sign swayed slightly in the breeze, its cheerful promises of sales and service now just a cruel joke in the silent world.
Inside, the smell of motor oil was overpowering, mixed with the musty odor of mold and the faint, unsettling scent of decay—a reminder of the store's last frantic days. Shelves were overturned, parts scattered like the bones of a mechanical graveyard. The air was thick with dust, each step stirring up particles that danced in the beams of their flashlights.
"Stay sharp. We might not be alone," Sawyer whispered, his voice a low rumble in the stale air. Freya nodded, her eyes scanning the shadows as she stepped carefully over a fallen beam.
Her flashlight caught the edge of a box under a table, half-hidden by debris. Pulling it out, she found spark plugs, filters, and hoses—essentials for keeping their equipment operational. "Found some filters and plugs!" she radioed to Sawyer, her voice low but clear.
"Good find. Check this out," came Sawyer's reply from the back of the store. Freya made her way to him, passing through an aisle cluttered with car manuals and broken tools. He was standing next to an old electric utility cart, its once-bright paint dulled by dust and grime.
"It's solid, but needs work. Flat tires, dead battery, and the wiring's a mess," Sawyer assessed, pointing out the frayed wires and deflated tires.
"We'll need the right tools to fix it up," Freya noted, her mind already cataloging what they'd need to bring or find. They agreed to return later, and with the cart noted as a future project, they continued their search.
Further into the store, Sawyer discovered a locked toolbox. "Could be something valuable in here," he said, his flashlight highlighting the rust around the lock.
As they delved deeper into the workshop area, the smell of oil grew stronger, mixing with a sharper scent of rust and rubber. Each shelf and cabinet held potential, their contents a mystery to be solved by their persistent search.
Their exploration was a slow dance of light and shadow, their flashlights sweeping over surfaces cluttered with the remnants of a world that no longer needed repairs, only rebirth. With every discovery, the store revealed more of its secrets, the smell of decay a constant reminder of what they had lost and what they still hoped to reclaim.
The store itself stood as a testament to neglect, its walls pockmarked with the ravages of time, windows shattered and gaping like open wounds. The faded sign swayed slightly in the breeze, its cheerful promises of sales and service now just a cruel joke in the silent world.
Inside, the smell of motor oil was overpowering, mixed with the musty odor of mold and the faint, unsettling scent of decay—a reminder of the store's last frantic days. Shelves were overturned, parts scattered like the bones of a mechanical graveyard. The air was thick with dust, each step stirring up particles that danced in the beams of their flashlights.
"Stay sharp. We might not be alone," Sawyer whispered, his voice a low rumble in the stale air. Freya nodded, her eyes scanning the shadows as she stepped carefully over a fallen beam.
Her flashlight caught the edge of a box under a table, half-hidden by debris. Pulling it out, she found spark plugs, filters, and hoses—essentials for keeping their equipment operational. "Found some filters and plugs!" she radioed to Sawyer, her voice low but clear.
"Good find. Check this out," came Sawyer's reply from the back of the store. Freya made her way to him, passing through an aisle cluttered with car manuals and broken tools. He was standing next to an old electric utility cart, its once-bright paint dulled by dust and grime.
"It's solid, but needs work. Flat tires, dead battery, and the wiring's a mess," Sawyer assessed, pointing out the frayed wires and deflated tires.
"We'll need the right tools to fix it up," Freya noted, her mind already cataloging what they'd need to bring or find. They agreed to return later, and with the cart noted as a future project, they continued their search.
Further into the store, Sawyer discovered a locked toolbox. "Could be something valuable in here," he said, his flashlight highlighting the rust around the lock.
As they delved deeper into the workshop area, the smell of oil grew stronger, mixing with a sharper scent of rust and rubber. Each shelf and cabinet held potential, their contents a mystery to be solved by their persistent search.
Their exploration was a slow dance of light and shadow, their flashlights sweeping over surfaces cluttered with the remnants of a world that no longer needed repairs, only rebirth. With every discovery, the store revealed more of its secrets, the smell of decay a constant reminder of what they had lost and what they still hoped to reclaim.
The crunch of gravel underfoot was a constant companion as Sawyer patrolled the rugged perimeter of Camp Hope Light. The sun was beginning its descent, casting long shadows that stretched across the ground like dark fingers clawing at the remnants of the day. The rifle slung over his shoulder was a reminder of the ever-present danger, but for now, it remained untouched.
Beside him, a lighter set of footsteps accompanied the heavier tread of his boots. Freya Eriksson, SW017, was ostensibly here to assist in the patrol, but her playful nudges and the way her ice-blue eyes sparkled with mischief told a different story. They were both warriors shaped by their pasts, yet moments like these allowed them a brief respite from the weight of their roles.
“Bet I can knock that can off the fence with a stone,” Freya quipped, eyeing a rusted piece of scrap metal perched atop a distant post.
Sawyer issued a rare grin, bending to pick up a smooth, flat stone. “You're on. Loser does the other's chores for a week.”
The challenge was a simple pleasure, a moment of levity in their guarded existence. They took turns lobbing stones, laughter mingling with the gentle thuds of their makeshift projectiles.
With a skilled flick, Freya sent her stone spinning through the air, striking the can with a satisfying clink that sent it tumbling off its perch.
”Looks like you're washing dishes tonight," she teased, turning to Sawyer with a triumphant smirk.
Their fun came to an end as Sawyer finished his patrol route, checking in with Eden who informed them that Doctor Taylor had been looking for Freya for a supply run. Both of them headed into Taylor’s Workshop to see what was up.
“What’s up Doc? Need some supplies? I don’t like the idea of Freya going out by herself. I can go with her, or is this more of a team thing?”
Sawyer trusted Doctor Taylor but he didn’t always trust the Genesis people. Freya was like a puppy, more so than his own dog was, eager to please just about anyone and everyone. None of them knew how to act right, but they were his people now and he would protect them just the same.
Beside him, a lighter set of footsteps accompanied the heavier tread of his boots. Freya Eriksson, SW017, was ostensibly here to assist in the patrol, but her playful nudges and the way her ice-blue eyes sparkled with mischief told a different story. They were both warriors shaped by their pasts, yet moments like these allowed them a brief respite from the weight of their roles.
“Bet I can knock that can off the fence with a stone,” Freya quipped, eyeing a rusted piece of scrap metal perched atop a distant post.
Sawyer issued a rare grin, bending to pick up a smooth, flat stone. “You're on. Loser does the other's chores for a week.”
The challenge was a simple pleasure, a moment of levity in their guarded existence. They took turns lobbing stones, laughter mingling with the gentle thuds of their makeshift projectiles.
With a skilled flick, Freya sent her stone spinning through the air, striking the can with a satisfying clink that sent it tumbling off its perch.
”Looks like you're washing dishes tonight," she teased, turning to Sawyer with a triumphant smirk.
Their fun came to an end as Sawyer finished his patrol route, checking in with Eden who informed them that Doctor Taylor had been looking for Freya for a supply run. Both of them headed into Taylor’s Workshop to see what was up.
“What’s up Doc? Need some supplies? I don’t like the idea of Freya going out by herself. I can go with her, or is this more of a team thing?”
Sawyer trusted Doctor Taylor but he didn’t always trust the Genesis people. Freya was like a puppy, more so than his own dog was, eager to please just about anyone and everyone. None of them knew how to act right, but they were his people now and he would protect them just the same.
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Interest Check: Echoes of the Dead [Romance | Survival | Post-Apocalypse]
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3 mos ago
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