good riddance,

     plotting  call  !!!

             ❛  where  you  headed?  ❜  there’s no malice, just genuine concern, and she knows how it looks  ---  anyone wary of anyone knows how it looks. when survival is the game that is being played; everyone seems like either predator or prey, but sofia doesn’t want that. it’s boring, it’s dated and it’s ineffective. she looks to her truck and then back to the blonde, the faintest smile tugging at her lips.  ❛  queenie’s  a  rocky  ride,  but  she’s  stable  enough  and  i  got  food  and  water  ---  no  catch.  ❜   /  ♡  —  @martyrr​.

                                    ❛  hey,  c’mon   ---  i  need  a  taste  tester.  ❜  the plight of the post-apocalyptic chef is that people don’t really complain. food is food and they accept what they get, but sofia’s gotta try something or else she’ll run the risk of being bored and anything works when it comes to doctoring up the rations. they were cookies, seemingly chocolate, but there’s always a catch.  ❛  it  should  taste  like  a  chocolate  chip  cookie,  but,   i  need  input.  it’s  got  enough  carbs  and  protein  to  replace  a  meal.  figured  they’d  be  good  on   supply  runs.  ❜   /  ♡  —  @ifacedeath​.

     ❛  so  you’re  the  one  puttin’  the  seeds  in  a  frenzy,  ❜  she always knew that they’d been off, but never to go nuclear like this. the reaping. the apocalypse prophesied by, under normal circumstances, a seemingly decent --- albeit extreme, preacher. it hurt sofia on some level to know that her grandmother trusted the seeds with her place more than her family. it hurt, but it wasn’t surprising. still, despite the chaos that looms in the air --- sofia’s doing her best to keep herself calm by cooking. the food truck provides.  ❛  can  i  get  y’somethin’?  a  bottle  of  wat’a?   er  ---  water.  ❜  pronouncing the ‘r’ is still a challenge.  /  ♡  ---  @deaputy​.

     starter  call,  length  will  vary !!

         dwight  fairfield  reminds  her  of  a  funny  girl  with  glasses, that spoke in riddles and rhymes. half of what she said didn’t quite make sense until much later and by that point thinks had hit the fan so much that it was hard to recall completely. weaver was her name. it stung in a way like nothing else did, because talking to her was like trying to see smoke in a building when it’s coming from outside through a window. it hurts, it strains your eyes and as you begin to cough  ---  it’s done and all you have is a visage, an idea, a haze. she shifts just slightly, her weight resting on the wall of the truck as she takes another bite of her sandwich. ❛  ain’t  that  half  the  fun?  nothin’  ev’a  works  out  the  way  it’s  s’posed  to,   ❜  she almost sounds sad, almost annoyed but it reads as more apathetic than anything else. as if she’s so used to the image in her mind evaporating and the horrifying reality showing up without even a beat inbetween. sofia has to remind herself that whatever she’s feeling is temporary, life is always going on and even if it feels like hell --- wait five minutes, things can always get worse or better. or there’s this nifty little third option that she entertains now and then; the ceilings will fall and the world as they know it will end both above and below. it’s happened before, it is an ache that she doesn’t quite know how to deal with. not quite queasy, maybe it’s some sort of acid reflux. ❛  but  ---  if  you’re  here,  that  means  things  didn’t  work  out  for  you  eith’a,  ❜  she muses with a shrug of her shoulders. her head shakes slightly,  ❛  tell  ya  what,  i  make  ya  some  food,  we  share  stories  about  our  mishaps.  i’ll  even  go  first  to  save  ya  some  of  that  good  old  fashioned  embarrassment.  you  in,  mr.  fairfield?  ❜