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    1. FiSHYHD 10 yrs ago

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O: Thank you.
Dear Miss A:
What do you do when the world is coming to an end?

Panic was thick in the air, the outbreak came out of nowhere, no true reason, no logical explanation that could ease survivors into an ignorant stupor. Hope was as rare as diamonds hanging off the neck of a sugar-baby with nothing to lose. Terror swept itself through the land, no one would be laughing at those survival junkies who had been preparing for this.

No one was probably laughing at all, especially not when you had ravenous corpses of your loved ones coming at you with the intention to rip you apart like a dog with a bone. How horrible was it when little Miss Picket had half her face chewed off and came at you, fingernails split and screeching and snarling as though more creature then human– she'd always been a kinder, older lady. She baked you those cookies the last time that dead-beat boyfriend broke up with you for that foxy red-head at the bar, she also made sure to remind you that you had mail.

Lola Bean would weep for the older lady who took on such a grandmotherly role in her short time in that city, she'd weep for all the people's letters she'd responded too before the career she tried so hard for went up in flames.

She'd weep for her best friend who laughed at the aluminium baseball bat clutched in her hands, the peeling Sailor Jerry sticker smeared with blood, she'd weep for her car which she had to abandon because she'd been too under-budget to buy a full tank of gas. She'd weep for many things, most of all how things would never be the same.

People always joked or teased on how they would survive the end of the world, some claimed God would seep from the heavens and pluck up the kind and true, leaving behind more then not of the world around. Lola Bean wasn't entirely sure what she counted as; her heart pounded like a dryer full of wet sneakers, her chest heaved, coming out in uneven and sharp gasps of breath, her cheeks were red and splotchy, her hair pulled back, dirt and blood caking her skin, those fancy nails she paid for were gone, ripped, leaving nothing but the softened shell of nail-bed behind.

She had nothing more then what she could afford to carry, everything made her jump, everything smelled like death, she could hear the faint screams of those dying in the distance– she wouldn't go back, she couldn't. Where could she go? Who could she see? How desperate she was to have someone to tell her things would be all right? Lola tried to laugh, it clogged itself in the back of her throat, choking her and making the tears burn her eyes, hard enough to make her sniff back the gob of snot that seemed destined to leak from her flared nostrils.

Trying to recount the last two weeks, she was trying to make any sort of sense of what was happening; the fear was crippling, the will to live made her irrational and no amount of mental pep-talk could have ever prepared her for this, she was a Diva without the comforts of home, tossed out into the vast-unknown. She could be snuffed out any moment and who would know? Her mother was probably dead, her sister? Hiccupping she plucked at the hem of her shirt, pulling it up to dab at her eyes, daintily, almost comically as a series of snorts and sniffs pathetically left the back of her throat, desperate little mewls of frustration. She had no idea where she was, she hadn't run into any other survivors, and if she did would they kill her and rob her corpse blind? She saw this movie before... people became just as terrifying as the beasts wandering the road-side, it left the woman weary and jumping at the sight of her own shadow.

She'd carry on, she had no other choice, if she stayed in one place it attracted those... things, she didn't want to draw any unwanted attention to herself, in fact if she had it her way she'd slip under the radar at all times necessary, but if wishes were horses she'd have a way out of this personal hell.

Swallowing the lump in her throat she carried on, bat in hand, looking over her shoulder every so often, chewing the skin around the jut of her lower lip– unable to help herself and ignored the raw feeling she got in the pit of her belly, ankles knocking together in the hard anticipation of something sliding from behind a building or tree, she needed to get to the main road that lead out, she needed to have a shred of control over what was happening to her.
@Wired Oh goodness, thank you.
@Nallore And thank you for accepting me into the role-play.
I'll get to working on my intro-post sometime today, I'm so excited.
Character Name:
Lola Eleanor Bean.

Character Age:
24

Character Appearance:
Lola Bean is just Lola Bean; with dark hair usually run through with a flat-iron to get the unusual kink of wayward curl free from the coil-y bound waves of frizzy hair-hell, decorated by grown out highlights, giving the improper illusion of naturally, sun-kissed hair. Big hazel eyes, rimmed by thick lashes and dark-circles, exposing the sullen exhaustion of a long night prior to being woken by a slew of birds outside a bedroom window before the sun can meet those grassy hills of morning.

Lola Bean's pride and joy are her eyebrows, though anxiety provokes her to pluck the tiny hairs into a shape that sometimes makes it seem like she's asking you a silent question, her least favourite is the splash of uneven freckles that dot her cheeks and nose. She has no real reason for it, she just does and sighs when she finds a new one every summer.

Lola Bean is of average height and size, she wasn't meant for Hollywood, all though the dream lingered like the sour aftertaste of burnt coffee.

Character Gender:
Female.

Family Relations:
Rachel Bean: Missing, assumed deceased.
Katherine Bean: MIA.
Father-Unknown: Deceased.

Character Personality:
Lola Bean, a former Toddler in Tiara turned Beauty Queen, the retro drab queen of the trailer park and the sassiest sass-muffin on the block. More painted then a celeb-u-taunt during the Oscars; a woman not afraid to file her perfectly done manicured nails into claws. Born and raised with little but always dreamt of more, vanity isn't just skin deep, it's right down to a Starbucks groomed soul.

Lola Bean is a survivor, morality can be questionable at the best of times and with an unusual love for the colour pink she follows the mantra of the three F's, a tough cookie with a soft middle.

Biography:
Lola Eleanor Bean is the oldest Daughter to Rachel Bean. At first, life could have been considered picture perfect, her mother who always seemed a few shades away from being the absolute housewife– to those hot-ironed rolls stacked in her hair to the way she'd make lunches for them before school, to her father who would work long hours, briefly patting them on the head when he arrived home from the office, a younger sister to dress up, despite only being fourteen months apart in age. Life was shattered when her father decided he'd had enough of her mother's nature and decided to run off with a woman– Lola never did know the specifics of who her father "ran off with", just that he'd gotten himself a new wife, and a new family and had no need for the old one. Lola couldn't blame him, after living with her mother as long as she had she couldn't fault her father for wanting to get out and never wanting to come back.

If there was anything about Rachel Bean, it was her need to be the original copy, the very best and her daughters were nothing more then the low-class carbon copies of herself. From boyfriends to husbands both Lola and Katherine got a full understanding early-on that not everyone was meant to be a parent, least of all one who cared more about their well-being then the lives of their children.

At the age of sixteen Lola Bean dropped out, trying to make her way in the world, only to fail and go back, much to her mother's pleasure and the months that followed of smugness, and the trailer park really never was the same after that, those pink flamingo's looked on with judgement in their painted on eyes. It drove Lola Bean insane.

Once she was old enough to try again, and once she had enough education to pack up her tiny life in her beat up 1960 Cadillac Deville– her pride and joy, she hit the road. Lola Bean lived in her car, what few jobs she managed to get she spent those pay checks on a tiny laptop, mooching off wifi in local coffee shops that didn't shoo her away, showers at the local gym who didn't realise she lived in her car and as she drove from place to place, further and further away from her life she eventually forced away contact with both sister and mother.

Eventually, Lola Bean found herself in Los Angeles, the city of fallen angels, there she settled in– a hovel to hide from her past, passive-aggressive and guilt-filled when in contact with either her sister or mother. She found her passion, writing– specifically as a low-key columnist by the name of Miss A, giving advice to women and their problems.

It was here she found the apocalypse, which greeted her with open arms, rotted teeth and scratching nails.

Job Prior to the Break-Out:
Columnist-Writer for Women: Alias being Miss A.

Disability or Fear:
Lola Bean has a series of triggers, more of which can become a heavy hindrance; generally created by being groomed to react a certain way under particular circumstances. One being unable to control the instances around her– having control stripped or forced from her hands, it can lead to both anxiety and neurotic based tendencies, such as plucking at her brows, chewing the skin around her lips or full blown anxiety attacks which can cause hyperventilating and prevention of movement, where her mind and body seem to shut down until she's able to calm down and move.
Another is a fear of dark, tight places, claustrophobia as it were.

Weapon:
An aluminium baseball bat, for now. It's unrealistic to use such a weapon to beat back a horde, but enough to get away and pound some heads in until she's able to get her hands on something more... zombie-based productive.

"Terminus"
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