#tdowstarter

Starter: open

Location: a grassy patch near the burned down house of 103

Summer. The perfect time for...well, not much, really- in Faust’s opinion. The only thing Summer was good for was wearing ugly button-up shirts. Unfortunately he only had one of those left; he suspected that every bisexual, enby, and middle-aged father had snatched up all the available Hawaiian shirts the minute the apocalypse hit. 

Well, he’d wear the hell out of his shirt anyway. It already had a few holes in it, but it was nothing Bobbi wouldn’t be able to patch up. Probably.

Speaking of, Bobbi was the only reason he was currently sitting outside “soaking up the sun”. She’d told him he was looking a little too pale. He’d made some snarky comment in response that had earned him a thwap to the side of the head- he couldn’t quite remember what he’d said. But it’d been enough to get him off his ass and get him outdoors. 

He was sitting on a patch of green grass that had sprung up from the ashes (literally), just next to 103. The grass was a bright patch of green amidst the ashy, grey, desolate reminder of what had happened several months prior.  Hey, where else were you gonna kick back and relax?  Faust cracked an eye open when a shadow fell over him, squinting up to try and see who was blocking his sun. He took the cigarette out of his mouth (one of the last he had stashed) and said on an exhale of smoke and a forced smile:  “Hey.” 

   SHE HAS A few drinks in her system, if not more. It has been so long since she’s been able to taste the burn of alcohol, feel it warm her insides and fuzz up her brain. Thanks to an easily bribed farmer, she’s gained access --not unlimited, but generous-- to his store of moonshine. It’s disgusting, and she loves it. After a small dinner, appetite as small as it had ever been and, in all honesty, wanting to leave her stomach empty enough to make a little of the liquor go a long way, she stands out behind the mess hall. She’s bundled up, watching the sunset, smoking one of the last cigarettes she has in the pack she stole from the group she’d been with before this. 

   In fairness, she was swaying more than standing, humming a tune that used to define long nights leading into early mornings under her breath. She doesn’t hear anyone approaching, blissfully zoned out in her own world and watching the steam of her breath in the cold air mix with the smoke she breaths out, cast against the beautiful glow of the end-of-day sunlight. 

         “... really feelin’ this, but...                           feelin’ myself...                                  addiction... afflicted...”

     He walked up behind her, leaning against the door frame with two glasses and a bottle of something strong in his hands. “Hey, trouble, you look like you could use a drink.” The male commented, his signature smirk on his face. He placed the bottle and the glasses down on the counter, stepping into the room and gently placing his hand on her shoulder. “Seriously though, how’re you doing?” Dorian asked, his gaze softening as he looked at her, he cared, and he wanted her to know that.

“here you looked like you could use a beer.”

   HE STILL DOESN’T understand why these people are celbrating. From all he can see, they have little to be proud of beyond keeping so many folks from killing one another for so long. Their crops are dyind, their runners wounded, and now they’re all sloppy drunk. Still, this doesn’t stop him from accepting the bottle of beer handed to him by a friendly faced passerby. When he takes a sip, his tastebuds are assaulted, and he spits the foul liquid on the ground. The first person he sees has the bottle shoved into their chest, and he shakes his head. 

         “---Piss. Do not drink it.”

There was no reason for her to be here, at least, not for the moment anyway. No one sick or injured as far as she knew, but still, Ayla was drawn to the infirmary, to the one place she felt useful. She’d always been the type to keep busy, always needing something for her hands to do. Perhaps she’d count inventory for the millionth time or re-roll bandages or maybe even just sit in the one space that felt relatively comfortable or familiar. Sitting in the rolling stool, if she closed her eyes for a moment and breathed in that sterile smell, she could almost imagine the outpatient clinic where her career had just begun, or the halls of the emergency room where she’d had her first rotation and found herself longing for a time when the world made sense. 

The sound of approaching footsteps had her gaze snapping toward the door and her heartbeat quicken. “Can I help you?” She called before they were even in sight, hoping to hear an answer back that was anything but the all too familiar moans of the undead. 

      “You’d think we’d all know by now, sneaking up on people after everything is a bad idea, hm?”

   THE SMELL OF off-kilter moonshine fills his nostrils as he swirls a cup of it under his nose. He takes a sip as he watches his daughter run around the room with a few of the other children that are still awake -- it’s a special occasion, a late night for nearly all of them in Sanctuary. A cringe seeps through his smile as the liquor floods his tastebuds; quickly, he wipes his hand at his mouth as he notices someone looking his way. 

         “--- Er. Moonshine?” 

   He offers a pre-filled cup at the edge of the bar table to the onlooker. 

         “It’s, uh, not as bad as I make it look. Promise.”