OPEN suburban decay

[arden]

ARAMIS FINCH
STR: 8 | PER: 9 | END: 7​

Some ghouls say they used to call it urban exploration. Exploration. They'd regale tales on sneaking into abandoned hospitals or hotels or schools and the mystery surrounding it all. The rush of getting caught, of stumbling across something they shouldn't have seen. They said it wistfully, through rose-colored glasses that only saw a leaky roof or busted air conditioning as the worst of dangers. Aramis, along with literally any other wastelander who's been outside longer than five minutes, wouldn't even have a phrase for it. It was what a person did. Survival. ​

​

He pushed through an intact door of a building, the signage too weathered away to read. That's what piqued his interest. What reminded him of those nostalgic ghouls. When's the last time he's seen an intact door? Windows that weren't busted to shit? Hell, the locking system was still somewhat intact, seeing how he had to crash his shoulder through to get it open. Dust lingered in the air, unsettled for the first time in a while. A long, long while. His eyes glimmered in the sunlight; was he…excited? Was this an adventure? Was this what those ghouls felt? ​

​

He took a few steps, floorboards remaining silent and keeping the stillness unbroken. Fingers wiped a nearby shelf, a thick layer of uranium-infused dust collected on them. Eyes scanned the area. It looked like a shop of some sorts. Lots of shelving but not enough inventory for him to tell what they used to sell. Another gentle step, a wiping of the hands to get the dust off. The wanderer even took his hand off of his pistol to absorb his surroundings that much more. If he had an ounce of culture to him, maybe his mind would wax poetic about silence and humanity or whatever.​

​

Instead, someone -or something- broke the silence and scared the shit out of him.​

 

[Lyrikai]

It ought to be labeled as the first law of the wasteland: Do whatever it takes to survive.

If that meant fighting, you fight like hell. If that meant stealing, you make sure you don't get caught. If that meant scavenging, you go in as quietly as you can in case someone or something is already in there having the same thought as you. Or worse. Using the place as their den.

Shuffling through doorway after doorway, Law was pleased that each room he entered seemed pretty empty, well of people and wasteland monsters, at least. As far as loot went, he found a nice stash of snacks that still seemed edible and quite a few mechanical looking components and hardware in the basement of a shop that might prove useful for modifying his rifle. Too heavy to haul around while he was still exploring, he made a mental note of the loot to come back for it later. As long as there was no one else around, he didn't have to worry about accidentally running into someone that might think him an easy target and blast his head off for the caps in his satchel.

A basement from one building led up through another and he stopped dead at a distant sound that pricked his ears. It almost sounded like a door being forced open. So someone else was scavenging the area after all? Terrific. He would have much preferred to avoid confrontation today. This was why he traveled alone and kept to quiet places like this. The fewer people he ran into, the fewer... incidents there would be when push came to shove or someone grew suspicious and accused him of being a Synth. Wow, what a laughable thought considering he was one. But as many people that didn't have to know that, the better. He looked human, talked human. How anyone managed to figure him out was astonishing, but there were always... tells, weren't there? When one was suspicious enough or trained enough to notice them.

Well. He supposed he had two options. Stay quiet and hope they left, or make the first open gesture of peace and go and say hello. Is that what people did? They greeted each other with a pleasant 'Hi there!' Ooh, yeah that sounded good. He liked that! He could do that!
Wow. He'd been alone for too long. He forgot how to say hello.

Leaving his quiet little basement, he followed his feet to where he'd heard the door. Stepping into the room to greet his fellow scavenger, he spoke up with a "Hello? Wait-" No that was terrible. "Howdy?" This was how people got shot. How he ever survived the wastes this long astounded even him when it occurred to him that he had the advantage and could have stepped into the room rifle at the ready.

 

[rissa]

Cassady Cross

LUCK: 9
AGILITY: 7
ENDURANCE: 7
COMPANION: [ CONNECTIONS OPEN ]

"Y'all sure are jumpy."

Cassady was thankful neither seemed to be jumpin' to shoot though. She holstered her hand gun, not that she was particularly comfortable with it in such close quarters, but she'd manage to pop off a round or two before ducking out and finding another room to bunker down in. She was just here to scavenge. Survive. Stimulate her brain in the endless waste. Suburban complexes like these were dangerous, for a plethora of reasons, but there were always goodies to find and salvage, to repurpose and make use of again. Sometimes you could drink those goodies and sometimes you can even eat them.

But the best ones were the ones you could smoke— like a carton of cigarettes.

It was a sad day when she realized she was only stirring from her comfy foxhole because she was running out of Grey Tortoises.

"Howdy," Cassady replied in response, "It's a good day when I get to meet some folks willin' to chit chat."

 

[Apocalypse_Enjoyer]

Matt "Metal", Type III ghoul
E-8
P-6
S-5

Garbage, garbage. More garbage. A tech-doo-hickey. Probably useless. With the last garbage container search a frustrated sight left the ghoul.
Walking around for days in this shit-ditch yielded three half-decayed SMG's, two mint condition 10mm's, 5 cans of SPAM, one bottle of fresh water... and that's about it.
Unscrewing the dirty plastic bottle, it was submerged in a nearby irradiated puddle to quench the thirst. The sludge of mud, water and bacteria went down the throat with no visible disturbance on the drinkers face. Sipping on the liquid, he sat down to consult the map provided by Joe.
There was a marked spot just down the road, a couple blocks down. Read R&D Henry and CO. , underneath written in neat letters read:

"Might have some fission batteries in the basement. Lower levels irradiated and most likely locked."

Closing the map, he got up and packed his bottle, brandishing his 308. chambered hunting rifle. It felt familiar in his hands, comforting. Like a reliable friend, minus the small talk and actual human connection. He only heard his footsteps, the wind and rattling metal signs until he got close to the office building, in which he heard a set of voices. His eyes immediately darted to the source and he instinctively went to the opposite building for cover. The voices we're close, coming from one of the rooms. Climbing a set of stairs he reached the second floor to have a good vantage point of the situation, but he saw nobody from the windows, only heard them chit chatting. Grabbing a chair, he sat down and decided to wait patiently. Maybe they will leave if he waits long enough. Or atleast he hoped.