#plot 4

The group moved towards the booth and all slid in. They began to talk among themselves while his eyes browsed the menu. There wasn’t anything he really wanted. Maybe a burger and a milkshake? Strawberry shake? Sounds good. An elbow poked into his side. The fellow cop beside him motioned towards one of the waitresses. 

The waitress stuck out like a sore thumb. The color of her hair drew you in. Like how the sound of sirens drew in sailors. Or it at least felt that way for Ryan. It was difficult to take his eyes off of her. 

                                       PLOT DROP 004

Duas semanas se passaram desde a queda da zona de quarentena improvisada, até então liderada por militares. Grande parte da população da cidade de Savannah, na Georgia, havia sido morta desde então, completamente despreparada para tamanhos perigos enfrentados do lado de fora. Os sobreviventes haviam se baseado em talvez um leve conhecimento sobre proteção pessoal, ou muita, muita sorte. 

Duas semanas foram o suficiente para que as pessoas experimentassem os lados mais cruéis do apocalipse: Fome, medo, exaustão, dor, e uma lista enorme de sofrimento. Tudo isso, no entanto, fora o suficiente para despertar lados até então não existentes em cada um, um lado que queria sobreviver acima de tudo, e que agora estaria preparado. Ou o quão preparado alguém pudesse estar em tal realidade. Muitos aprenderam a atirar, outros preferiam armas como canos, tacos de baseball, entre outros. 

Boatos começaram a ser espalhados pela cidade quase fantasma, sobre locais em que pequenos grupos se formavam e cresciam. Dois se sobressaíam dentre eles: A Savannah State University, uma das maiores e renomadas universidades da cidade, que possuía muito espaço e recursos; e o Hospital Candler, que fora um dos únicos hospitais do estado a ser completamente evacuado, e portanto estar quase que cem porcento livre da infecção. Comunidades se formavam em ambos os locais, encontrando conhecidos, familiares, ou apenas estranhos que tornariam seus aliados. Muitos se voluntariavam para ir para fora, procurar recursos, enquanto outros tentavam ajudar da maneira que podiam do lado de dentro.

Algumas pessoas da Universidade começavam a ver os sobreviventes do Hospital com algum tipo de rivalidade, e o sentimento era recíproco. Ambas as “comunidades” buscavam por comida, remédios, munições, e começavam a perceber que Savannah talvez não fosse uma cidade grande o suficiente para ambos.

name: nash alvarez age: 27 fc: samuel larsen personality: Nash is fairly grounded, not bothering to place his trust in the hands of hope. It’s do or die, and sitting on his ass isn’t going to get him anywhere. Growing up on his home-planet among the older mechanics has made him a bit of a flirt, always eager to find a piece, but he never has ill-intentions. Straight-forward in what he says, Nash doesn’t tend to beat around the bush. Of course, being a gambler does let him play the long-game if necessary, although he’d much rather break down the maze walls rather than solve it. Loyalty is important to Nash, and so long as he isn’t going back on his word he sees himself free to do what he pleases so long as it causes no physical harm to others.

skills: mechanic intelligence, ship maintenance, understanding of technology, gambling, cheating, card games, pool, fist-fights and shoot-outs.

bio:

Nash grew up on a large dust-bowl of a planet. Dry-mouth and sweat are common to him, just as much as the grease that somehow finds to smear itself across his cheek as he worked. During the day Nash made an honest living working as an apprentice mechanic, his teacher taking him in when his parents passed soon after he was born. At night when all the staff would find themselves at the local pub to drink off a long day, Nash would be the first person with a deck of cards in his hand.

Losing isn’t in Nash’s dictionary. He’s good with his hands, and sometimes stacking a deck isn’t so hard to do once you play a few rounds and get an idea of where all the cards lay. Of course, he’d lose some nights-- just so the other guys didn’t catch whiff of his games. His teacher needed food to feed them both, tools to work on parked crafts, and rent to pay off protection fees of dirty guards and the like. He was just doing his part.

For someone that seemed to be doing fine for himself, nobody would imagine Nash had dreams of his own. Dark eyes would stare up at constellations, fingers pointing out the different planets that encircled the poverty-rock he was supposed to call home. It wasn’t much longer until the dust in his teacher’s lungs became just a little too thick. Coughing fits became a norm, and eventually, there was a whole year that only Nash worked in the shop. What came next was quiet and peaceful. No pain, no loud displays of fear. Just acceptance.