Ok, after performing in six shows and working loads i finally have time to get this snowball rolling. In all honesty thanks to Mr.Smileysmile i really don't have to do much here, read his amazing FanFic at this http://www.gamesas.com/index.php?/topic/1146987-the-warren/ it will set the stage for where the RP is starting off make sure to read the installments across all the pages, just for everyones reference post your CS before your first post.

And just incase anyone dosen't understand what we will be doing, we will be working to retake the Warren form Ellis and Stane, this will by no means be a quick process.

Rules:
1. No character controll
2 NO CHARACTER CONTROLL (cwutididthar? you love them references)
3. No god modding, you are not invincible and you do not carry an unlimited supply of ammo/gear/weapons
4. At least paragraph posts please
5. no killing other Rp'ers characters ect
6. in all honesty you should all know the rules by now



Name: Zoey

Age: 21

Gender: Female

Race: Human, Caucasian

Appearance: http://mmomfg.com/wp-content/gallery/miranda-lawson-04152010/miranda-2.jpg I thought it would be easier to provide a link to what she looked like instead of try to descibe it with words.

Personality: Usually quite nice and caring to most people, cant stand jerks, on occasion if needed or if somthing/somone's made her angry she can be a real b**** (for want of a better word), Is willing to pitch in and help most people, Broken trust with her will never be gotten back. quite easy going when she knows you but not overly outgoing as a whole, very disciplined. Takes whatever care she can into her appearance, acts very feminine. Independent, due to growing up quicker than most she is set in her ways but it does not mean to say her mind can't be changed, given enough reason. Zoey is also happy to have conversations with most people, dislikes people that take power for granted and use it for their own gains and to not help others. Zoey can keep a cool head in most situations and usually has a good opinion, or can usually benefit the situation in some way.

Skills: Can cook, not overly well mind (tends to burn things every now and then) and can also run quite fast,her father taught her how to fly a helicopter. Despite only being 21 she is a very experienced gambler when it comes to things like cards, it is on rare occasion she is beaten. Also has a way with words, she can usually talk/charm her way to getting what she wants, this also doubles up well with the Zoey's sleight of hand technique.

Weapons: M4A1 W/Holographic sight and Suppressor has the words 'Zoey 22nd' etched on the side, L96 AW Long range bolt action rifle with 'Sarah 22nd' etched in the stock, USP.45 '22nd' etched on the slide and a combat knife with 'Sometimes it helps to know you've got something to loose' etched on one side of the blade.

Clothing: http://www.bbcamerica.com/media/264/ultimate_clevel.jpg, a pair of sunglasses and an S.A.S Beret that is kept in one of the pockets of her clothing.

Bio: Zoey's mother died at childbirth leaving her with her father who was a serving helicopter pilot in the British army. This meant she had to grow up fast, she taught herself to do things as she was the only one to look after their house while her father was away and when he was home he jokingly criticized her cooking for being burnt. When she was 15 Zoey and her father moved out to Witchita as her father for some reason unknown to her was posted there but despite this her father always taught her about the British armed services. Zoey had a quite a few friends growing up but was never as outgoing as them on regular occasion declining invites to party's and going out. When she did go to out to a bar or parties there was usually a card game going on, which meant Zoey usually left better off than when she went in when playing cards she constantly reminds herself of her favorite quote "Who Dare's Wins" Zoey tries to apply this to her whole life that if you dare to do something your going to win. (for those who don't know Who Dare's Wins is the British S.A.S slogan)

Having a serving father he taught her discipline and respect for others, when the bombs finally fell Zoey successfully survived in a shelter only to emerge into an alien world. As much as it hurt she pushed the memories of those she had lost to the back of her mind so she wasn't distracted and could survive she went to make her own way. As she had gotten older Zoey had wanted to leave home for quite a while and become an actress, however she never expected leaving home to make her own way would be like this.

Zoey survived the war with the Abu Nidal, she experienced war first hand and has come to learn of what happens in war. She didn't let this changer her, she still remains the caring girl she was before the bombs fell, however in times of need she becomes hardened like in combat and one thing she hates above almost anything is non combatants being harmed due to conflict and she disagree's completley with execution. She acts as leader of The Warrens special ops team who base themselves largley on the S.A.S as Zoey spent al the time she was in her fallout bunker reaserching them. Zoey woulf rather find a diplomatic awnser, however she has come to terms with the fact that this is the wasteland now and combat is for the most part unavoidable. 'its funny' she thinks to herself 'Before all this i wanted to be an actress, it was my dream, how trivial that must seem now'.

As Zoey walked the dark and dank halls of Arthur's home his words rang through her head He'll drag you through the mud, absolutely. Sarah said goodnight and went to a room to get some much needed sleep. Zoey stopped just before the door to a room, she lent her head on the Wall and breathed heavily. Stepping back she pulled her arm back and punched the wall as hard as she could and cursed loudly, the ceramic tile cracked under the strike as a few drops of blood streaked down the wall. As she pulled her fist away smeared blood stuck to the wall. In the room she found a mattress laying her weapons down save for th knife in her boot she lied her head for some much needed sleep.

In her dreams Collie and Mac drifted through, lifeless and limp. When she woke she thought over her dreams, Zoey knew in her heart th two where dead. Rolling off the mattress she got to her feet and gathered her weapons, in her situation now she felt unsafe without them. Zoey glanced at the bed, there was a small blood patch where her knuckle had been bleeding which was no sore as hell. she walked down the hall and outside. The Notah had already got a fire going, it was early morning, probably about seven am. Zoey propped her M4 against a bench and sat down near the fire, pulling out a bandage from one of her pockets she wrapped it around he hand. As she looked into it the reflection in her eyes described what she was feeling. Fire burned in her eyes.

Name: Cain Johnson

Age:19

Gender: Male

Race: Ghoul, Caucasian

Appearance: Cain's face use to have a pale complexion, but most of that is now gone and rotting away. Muscles are being exposed as his skin deteriorates. He has long brown hair that is beginning to thin. His body is heavily muscled and in a a lot of places who can actually see it. His eyes are green and he stands at 6'2 weighing around 215Ilbs. Even though his skin is rotting and he generally looks revolting, he still has a perfect set of white teeth...for now.

Personality: Calm and Friendly usually but has grown wary of smoothskins.

Skills: A skilled sniper and hacker. His biggest skill might be his endurance, which is needed for his survival.

Weapons: Mosin-Nagant.

Clothing: Faded blue jeans, cowboy boots, white T-shirt.

Bio: Born on a farm, Cain worked with his dad on their farm all his life. His mom died from cancer when he was five, and being an only child, his dad was all he had. When the bomb warning came, he ran to their shelter, primarily used for shelter against tornadoes. His dad was at the local town when the bombs fell, he assumed he was killed. After a couple of days, he was forced to leave the shelter from lack of food.

After leaving he managed to stumble upon some other survivors, they pvssyd for a minute and then panic ensued. Ghouls rushing from no where, the survivors fled in search of a place to hide. Cain was too sick to keep up and was left behind, presumably ghoul food. The ghouls did not eat him, perhaps they could already tell he was becoming one of them. His shelter was built for tornadoes not bombs and he had contracted server radiation poising. Instead of dying from it, he was transformed into something like a zombie.

His bad luck did no end their however. He was not aware of his zombie state yet and so did not use caution when searching for fellow survivors. On his search he found two teenagers walking on an abandon road. He was able to get very close before they noticed and when he let out a hello, he noticed a kind of grating quality to it. It reminded him of the rustling of dead leaves.

The kids turned and screamed, they had not yet known that their was such things as sane ghouls. When he went to ask what was wrong, one of them took a sledgehammer to his back. He crumpled to the ground and they ran off, not quite yet cold blooded killers. When he awoke he found that he got not move his legs. To be paraplegic was his second worst nightmare next to quadriplegia and he ended up screaming for some time. When that failed to do anything, he began to crawl. Slowly inching down the road.

Finally fate smiled upon him as a fellow ghoul traveler found him laying on the ground. The ghoul was not about to leave Cain behind because their was not many of their kind. The next week would be strenuous for them both as the ghoul had to carry him and this made traveling painfully slow. A bonus to this was that their friendship grew in a way that most friendships didn't, for the man held Cain's well being in his hands.

They finally struck gold when they found a desolate New Plague medical camp. It was just a bunch of tents thrown on the ground for a makeshift hospital, since most could not leave the quarantine zone. The valuable medical supplies had be taken already ( not that they needed the Rad-Away of Rad-X)but there was plenty of wheelchairs. And at this they rejoiced.

The next month, or maybe it was months it's hard to tell when knowing the date is no longer important, Cain learned survival while being handicapped. Cain was already accustomed to shooting and was a fairly good shot, as his dad was an ex-marine and believed his son should at least know how to shoot a gun. He hunted for the both of them, his upper body strength grew while his lower strength weakened. as he maneuvered his wheelchair threw the wasteland.

Pretty soon he could go fast enough to keep up with his friend in speed and distance. And soon outpaced him, though on especially rocky terrain he still need a little help. In return for getting him food, his friend showed around computers. A lot of bunkers and facilities used terminals and knowing how to hack them was very valuable. Especially since they were both ghouls and need they extra protection of turrets and Protectrons to help defend themselves against bigots. They found themselves a small bunker in it was a couple Mark IV for turrets and they made this their home.

All good things must come to an end, however, and eventually it did. After all they weren't the only people on the planet who could operate terminals and one day a group of people got end, searching for supplies. Cain heard his friend cries of shock and then gunfire as he friend was torn apart. Thinking fast Cain grabbed a blood pack and ripped it open, and fell to the floor, playing dead. The scavengers passed him by and continued on their way.

He left the bunker than, it was no longer safe as it use to be and he couldn't move the dead body anyway. He has spent the rest of his time traveling and learning. He was once killed a group of men as they were sleeping, it wasn't hard, he no longer considered himself human. But he only did that for survival, he wasn't hell bent on killing every man he saw. Not everyone is a bigot. Besides he needs people more than the next ghoul.

He has heard of rumors recently of a town popping up. Not the ramshackle camps that sprout up every so often. And it seems to be a safe town, a haven for the weak and needy. Or so he has heard. It seems more promising than most things and he's not sure how people will feel about ghouls but it's worth a shot.


~Cain Johnson~

Blood splashed on to the pavement.

They looked on in stupid awe.

Idiots.

They thought just because I was a crippled, I would be easy to steal from. They thought that since I was a ghoul, I should die. They came up to me, two with baseball bats, one with a pistol. Taunting, a man with no weapons in his hands, a man in a wheelchair. What could he do they thought. When one of the men leaned forward to spit in my face, I swung my fist hard into his jaw.

I never felt anything so satisfying in my live before that moment. The pleasure of just shutting him up was immense. The force of the blow knocked him off his feet and onto the ground, one of his teeth penetrated the side of his cheek. The flow of blood was immediate.

The other two just stared, a stupid look of wonder on both of their faces. By the time they realized I was drawing my gun, it was too late. I shot the man with the gun first, blood erupted from his chest as he went down. The other man looked at me for a moment, then dropped his bat and ran.

I peered down the scope of my rifle and aimed at the wide expanse of his back. He was running in a straight line as fast he could, my finger was on the trigger. I hesitated, and then let go. Let him run. Maybe he will learn his lesson.

I disengaged the locks on my wheels and pushed myself away from the other two bodies, one of them would live. I began pushing myself to a blot on a plateau on the horizon. If my information was correct, that would be The Warren. I swept my hand across my jaw, all of the skin had rotted away and on the left side you could see the bone. I wonder how they felt about ghouls.

OOC: I shall be entering The Warren in my next post. If Smiley or Venix could PM a brief description of what it now looks like, that would be nice. I tried to find some information on what it looked like, but nothing conclusive as of yet.

Name: Harry Clarke

Age: 35

Gender: Male

Race: Human, Caucasian

Appearance: Buzzed dark brown hair with noticeable 5 o'clock shadow. Has what appear to be grey eyes, though its hard to tell. Build can best be described as cruel, with ripped muscle throughout his entire body, and old scars that criss cross throughout his body

Personality: Deadly if he is your enemy, though one of the best friends you can make in the wasteland. In many ways he is like his former superior, but years in the wastes have dulled the passion he used to see in his commander's eyes. Now he is cold, slow to anger, calculating, and tactical. Harry does not trust outsiders, and only his closest squadmates know anything about him.

Skills: Used to be called a model soldier, he couldn't call himself that any longer. Now he is an assassin, silent, tactical, and deadly. In the old days, when wars were fought army to army, Harry was always ready to lead the charge. But everything is different now, now the skills he was taught in training really matter. Stealth, marksmanship, demolition, have been perfected over time in the harshness of the wasteland.

Weapons: MK 16, all black, standard issue in Sigma. Allows three different barrel lengths to be attached, and has 2 rails that allow the attachment of various tactical systems. Also carries Commander Brown's M9, a reminder of the mistakes his superior made.

Clothing: All black full-body ballistic body armor, a prototype from before the war, these suits are very limited, as the technology to keep them running has been destroyed, only three remain from the beginning, and they are only used by the leaders of Sigma.

Bio: Harry’s story began where Dan's ended. The moment his Commander was killed was the moment his new life began. The soldiers looked to him now, but he couldn’t look to the Warren. So he left, cursing the safe life he had, the Warren, Dan, Samuel, and the Militia. With him went his Red Berets, though that name now is just a murmur of the past. They wandered for a many months, but they came upon a sight that was so familiar, yet so distant. McConnell Air Force Base, where him and the rest of the original soldiers were stationed before the war. For someone who wanted to know the short history of the Red Berets, there investigation would go dark here, for the Red Berets found a new name, Sigma.

McConnell became their home, their sanctuary. Invisible to the rest of the wasteland, they started digging deeper into the Base, and found the resources they needed, and began their operation. Sigma did indeed take part in the war, though no formal declaration was made on their part. Harry spent that time learning, watching, waiting. Sigma Black he was called, and that name was only known as rumor, a shadow in the wasteland, for that was what the soldiers who made Sigma became, ghosts.

You don’t find Sigma. They Find You.

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Harry Clarke

"Sir, it's all quiet, the gunfire stopped."

"Ok, keep moving, we want to reach to police station by sundown."

The Sun had just begun to sink beneath the brown, rolling hills West of the city. Cries of ghouls and men echoed throughout the city. Distant, but not distant enough.

"Stay sharp guys, we don't want any surprises."

Harry and the few survivors from the Red Berets moved through the rubble that they knew all too well. They were moving to the old police station, where it all began, where the Warren first took shape. It was to become their new home, their port in the storm. Captains Harry Clarke and Ryan Thorn, and Sergeants David McHenry and Robert Wagner. They are what remains of the Warren's true military, America's true military. They are the last upholders of justice in this godforsaken war zone. Now that the Warren is in ruins, and raider bands roam the city, unchecked, their is mission clear. Purge the enemies of the Warren, and eradicate those who harm the innocent.

They must do it quietly however, there is no more back up, they're on their own now.

Name: William Penn

Age: 23

Gender: Male

Race: Caucasian

Appearance: William is a Slim man standing at about 5'10. He remains cleanly shaved and had short hair cut neatly despite the current situation in the world. He used to wear a set of steel rimmed glasses over his dark brown eyes, but has since managed to receive eye surgery to improve his vision from some of the best doctors in the Warren in order to help bolster his image as a brave leader who occasionally led from the front. He is not particularly muscular but can be a very fast runner if need be with his wiry and tough frame. To many he is just another face in the crowd, but in the time since his arrival to the Warren many have learned to recognize his features, simply by the fact that it is so exceedingly average.

Personality: William is a very cautious man with a very powerful sense of self preservation. Over the years this has kept him from being another dead man buried in the wastes. When the bombs where falling he shut the door to the bomb shelters just so he could have more supplies for himself. He even murdered one of his fellow soldiers in order to make sure the rest of them got out alive. He's kept this a closely guarded secret and now regards himself as a changed man. His experiences in the Warren taught him the value of loyalty and friendship. A person who gets to know him will find that he really is just a nice person. They may even find that he is an extraordinarily intelligent person with even greater ambitions. Still, deep down inside, he still tells himself, Remember who #1 is.

Skills:

Guardsman- Taught to use a rifle during his training in the national guard. His accuracy is average but at least knows how to fire and maintain his weapon. At best it can be said that he knows how to follow orders. However, the training he received was sloppy and fast. They were meant to be molded into soldiers but the mold broke apart and the insides spilled over into a sort of goo that you might find underneath your shoe. Discipline was not drilled in quite perfectly and morale is low.

Banker- an absolutely useless skill in this post-apocalyptic day and age. Unless you count learning how to refuse loans a skill.

Director of Warren Administation Bureau- The skills of being a statesman and an administrator have proven to have some applications within the civilized Warren. Having a few underlings to carry out your errands help too.

Weapons and Gear:

When in noncombat situations: A well maintained and polished M1911 and a chest holster concealed underneath his suit

When in combat situations: His well maintained and polished M1911, an old yet equally well maintained FN FAL, and a combat knife, several Russian RGD-5 hand grenades taken from a black market cache, and a gray backpack containing all the essentials for a one day patrol

Clothing: A dusty navy blue suit with a bowler hat or, (depending on the situation) old national guard fatigues dyed navy blue with rank patches sewn on, some nicely polished jackboots, and an officer's cap

Bio: William Penn, loyal and honest son , excellent student, successful banker, National Guardsman, and a deserter.

Life was good for William, he followed his father's footsteps into banking, getting a job easily right out of school at his Dad's bank, and even slipped away from the draft by joining the National Guard. Surely the war would be over soon and he could get back to life as usual; maybe even find someone to marry and to start a family. William couldn't have been more wrong. Basic training was a nightmare, he was sheltered from the harsher things in life and it was a complete shock to him. After a few weeks it seemed like he could make it through alright, then they were given a gun and told to go put down food riots in the city.

Things couldn't have been worse. A massive mob was choking every block and were roaring like a tsunami. It was as if you could not breathe, everywhere you turned were bloodthirsty and hungry people, looking for someone to blame. As it just so happened, they represented the government authority and so they were stormed with every manner of objects. If it could be thrown then it was, including harsh language and the occasional bucket of excrement. The ratio of guardsman to people were a million to one. It didn't take long for the Officer to get stabbed to death by a hundred sharp weapons and the Sergeant to get lit up by a Molotov cocktail.

This was the opportunity William had been waiting for, he took ten of his buddies and they ran in the opposite direction. The city hall itself was the only place left to run, though the thin line of police and guardsmen defending it was crumbling quickly. They were so close and William could himself taking cover inside the civil fallout shelter where they would then emerge after the crowds dispersed. He bashed in the head of a man blocking his way and a few of his fellow guardsmen opened up a path into the safety zone defended by the last few remaining troops.

Then, the bombs fell. The sirens went off and what everyone dreaded was finally coming to pass. The mob suddenly surged forward with renewed vigor. The only thought on their minds was the thought of getting to the nearest shelter, which just happened to be in the town hall. Those moments went by like a blur, all William could remember doing was stabbing anyone that got near him in a desperate bid to get to safety. When he reached the shelter he didn't pause to wait for others, he closed the door and waited out the storm. Of his entire unit only he and two others had survived, and none of the civilians had made it.

The next months were very quiet, one of the other survivors developed an infection from a nasty cut he got and died soon after. With no way of properly disposing the body, William took a risk and with the other survivor decided to leave. After picking straws the other man went outside first to see if it was safe. After an hour with no response William went outside. There he saw everything he had ever known destroyed, reduced to ashes and cinders. This must have been too much for the other man as William found his body not too far out. The only signs of what had happened was that the man's head was resting on his rifle, and his hand still holding the trigger.

Shame, he never even remembered his name.

That was three years ago, since then much had changed, he had helped bring back civilization to the wastelands. All the wrongdoing he had done had been cleansed by his own sweat and blood. Through years of hard war he had brought prosperity back to his people. Now, Samuel and Murrow were dead and his a few old comrades: Collie, Mac, and Zoey were gone, along with a few of their supporters. William did not know what had happened entirely, but he knew enough to know the the upstarts Ellis and Stane were trouble. They took care of their opposition but they made a big mistake, leaving him alive.

Since Samuel's death William has remained hard at work trying to clear the name of his friends but he now knows that it is too late to save Mac and Collie. The city has fallen into chaos and it is only with the assistance of the Warren Enforcer Corps that the remnants rightful government remains alive. Trapped within a few small blocks of the Warren William must now do everything he can to survive, if Ellis and Stane still wishes to claim the pretense that they are now the true legitimate leaders of the Warren then William will fight them all the way from the Council Chambers of the Warren all the way to John Cedar Holmes Memorial Lane .

William Penn

The sound of a police whistle tore through the air as a thin and dusty line of police officers, armed with heavy armor padding,steel riot shields, and heavy batons, smashed against a boiling mass of civilians. The officers could barely contain the mob as it threw everything it had at them, they clobbered anyone who tried to get over the line of steel yet the bloodthirsty mob just kept coming at them. They had seen years of war and were not fazed by the batons, the tear gas, or the line of steel. Law and order had fallen apart in the Warren. Looting and anarchy had taken over the streets as the people, shocked by the death of their leader, vented their desire for something to destroy.

This was the sight that greeted William as he looked out of the windows of the Warren Administration building. He was a virtual prisoner in his own home now. Already Ellis and Stane had the Army's support, after Dan's death years ago the army never had a strong leader other than Samuel. Now, with him out of the way the Army was easily swayed by Ellis' words. Day by day more and more people were starting to believe the words of Ellis. They made a big mistake though, they had left him alive. He was still well respected enough that Ellis wouldn't dare to publicly touch him.

It was only a matter of time, he could no longer go outside without an escort and it was only through the continued loyalty of the Warren Enforcer Corps that he was able to maintain his safe haven in the building and the surrounding blocks. He had to win back the hearts and mind of the people. It had been a long war and William didn't want bloodshed any more than the next guy, but he knew that all it would take for Ellis and Stane to prevail was if he stood by and did nothing. William sent for a messenger, his first step was to fight back through words. The letter would call on Ellis for a public debate in the center of the Warren, where all of the people's eyes would be watching.

If Ellis was going to prove himself a real leader then he would have no choice but to except. Perhaps the people might even calm down a little in just to take a moment to think about what they were actually doing. On the podium before the eyes of hundreds was where the first battle could be won. Just as he helped the Warren prevail through an organized and systematic approach to war, he would uncover the truth and secure his position one step at a time.

William took out his pen and began drawing out the plans for yet another scheme, but it could very well even be his last. With the barbarians at the gates there was absolutely no room for error this time.

Name: Damien Marx

Age: 29

Gender: Male

Race: Human, Asian

Appearance: Kind of muscular build. 6' 1'' and has a very smooth facial texture. No real facial deformities to be seen other than a bit of grime from the newly created nuclear wasteland. Very short military cut black hair and pale gray eyes.

Personality: Very ruthless, manipulative, and overall tactical. He's not very outgoing, much of the opposite actually. Damien is more of an introverted person but of course talks to people when he needs or wants to. Even due to Pre-War upbringing, Damien has no value for human life but never kills without a purpose or incentive that is "logical". He's a tactician by heart and by upbringing.

Skills: Very good with any type of gun or melee weapon. Good at fighting both in hand to hand and guns. A strategist/tactician who always anolyzes the whole situation and never leaves a weak spot if possible. Good at hiding his feelings and true motives underneath a very manipulative mask.

Weapons: AK-47 w/ Enhanced iron sights and bayonet. Engraved is "Zodiac A" on the barrel of the gun. Uzi, full sized and upgraded magazine capability. Engraved is "Autocrat Marx". A BerettaM92 semi-auto pistol with Zodiac A again engraved on the barrel.

Clothing: Black Dragon Skin body armor, a Pre-War Fedora, and sunglasses. Underneath the body armor is a leather exterior, cotton interior that protects against wayward shrapnel and the environment while offering flexibility and comfort to the wearer. Combat boots that's built for extreme conditions.

Bio: Damien was born into one of the most notorious families during the 2070s. The Zodiac A was one of the most prominent forces that rallied citizens to stand against the U.S military while operating in the shadows as a sort of revolutionary mafia who wished to end the Cold War with China and unite America under one autocratic banner. Damien's father was the head of this Mafia organization and because of this, got the best education, best living standards, and best training money could buy. At birth, both his father and mother trained him to take over the family business.

But in late 2076, the organization's contacts discussed many things with people around America and decided that a nuclear war was imminent. At that time, Damien was "field commander" of all forces against the U.S and the figurehead for the Zodiacs, at a relatively young age. The family, trusting the contacts, invested billions of dollars into an underground family bunker where Damien and his parents could weather the nuclear war together. The spot for the secret family bunker was in the very place the Zodiac A started, Wichita Kansas. There, Damien met a young woman by the name of Evelyn Manchester, and the two got together.

On October 23, the bombs dropped and after the family relocated into Wichita, the sirens flared, warning the people there of their doom. In the few hours of safety left, Damien and his parents took cover in the 10 acre family vault. As the bombs raged down there, the family kept their studies and training of the outside to ready themselves to once again start the Zodiacs. Their dream would never be realized as both parents succumbed to disease when they first left. Damien being the only known survivor of the infamous mafia.

Damien was a broken person who aimlessly wandered the Kansas wastes, supported only by the Robco Pip-Boy the Zodiacs bought before the war. Damien, used to killing innocents from before the war, was easily able to kill without mercy or reason. But the survivors had one skill Damien never had. Survival. He wanders around looking to see if there's any settlement he can fit in as a soldier or tactician. But mostly, to find Evelyn, who also was in a bunker near the Warren.

Damien Marx

"Where's this Warren place?" Damien asked, staring into a tied up man's eyes. The man coughed up blood and whispered, "South...south!" Damien nodded and another thought came to him.
"Where's Evelyn Manchester?"
"Who?"
Damien growled and shot his Beretta at the man's leg. He screamed in pain and Damien grabbed a defibrillator and held it to the man's face. "WHERE IS EVELYN MANCHESTER?!"
The man coughed up more blood before shaking his head. "I don't know what your talking about..." A second later, Damien sent thousands of watts of electricity down the man and he laid, strapped to a chair, dead. Damien left the small wooden shack and threw his cigarette at the building, immediately setting it on fire.

He headed south, using the somewhat unstable Pip-Boy attached to his arm to guide him. There, after climbing a small pile of rocks, laid the Warren, or at least what he thought it was.

OOC: Short post, not my best work but could you please tell me what the Warren looks like?

Name: Katherine(Kathy) Adler

Age: 18

Gender: Female

Race: Human, Hispanic

Appearance: When it comes to the bare basics, Kathy is in all technicality a bit prettier than the average girl. Her facial structure is symmetrical, owning slightly larger than average hazel eyes, a smoothly bridged nose with a faintly pudgy tip, and about an average sized mouth and lips. Her skin color is of a light, vibrant red-brown color-looking possibly even lighter against her dark chocolate hair color and eyebrows. Yet, four years of almost total isolation in a world unfriendly to all things living have taken an obvious toll on her. Often, her eyebrows are furrowed, her eyes alert and prudent with often the faintest of wrinkles beneath them, into a solemn, perhaps even cynical expression. While not incalculable, there are a significant number of scars throughout her body-some riddling her left arm, a few on the neck, one near the back of the left side of her face, and at least a few on the back and legs. This being due to a few accidents and unpleasant scuffles that left their physical mark on her. When it comes to the issue of hygiene, the girl clearly only doesn't the very, very bare minimum. She rarely cleans herself with water, having few sources of water which she could at all use, almost never combs her hair(rather she cuts it just below the beginning of her jaw line, allowing it to be a ragged jumble of richly dark brown hair), uses the same clothing for at least a year unless there's no option but to rid of it or unless she finds something better, and typically has a layer of grime over herself at all times. A mix of dust, sweat, possibly slight radiation, on the occasion blood, and other filth.
Although Katherine had always portrayed a rather thin frame and body, she is currently a little too lean for her liking-where she is not on the brink of death from starvation, but severely lacks any sort of desperately needed fat in the case she ever has to starve, and to where her rounded face is beginning to thin ever so slightly. Often she lives on stolen products, or loot from corpses, that are of the edible nature-she hasn't yet dared trying to actually eat anything mutated yet. Instead living on products still around from before the war, though it's a limited supply growing more and more difficult to find.

Personality: From the start Adler was a sociable, informal, and well-meaning girl; though she had a tendency to be strong in her emotions to the point of it being a flaw and was notably frightened and cautious after the Great War. Whether or not the girl has any real insecurities about her life or self, none have ever known, but she was prudent, skeptical, and suspicious of anything strange after all the bombs fell. In her years of experience on her own-seeing mainly unfriendly faces, human or not, this attitude of prudence and skepticism has been somewhat reinforced. Possibly, though its hard to be certain, causing her to have slight paranoias on certain matters even. Yet, despite the hardened behavior, she is still very much like she was-still sociable when she wishes, still possibly impressionable in her youth, still curious and fighting to survive with at least some remote form of enthusiasm. And most rarely see-even the enemy, even the threat-her fears and such. If it weren't for the fact that her emotions seem to so powerfully influence her, if it weren't for the fact she was so young even (possibly), Kathy could even be a very charismatic and persuasive girl. However, specific flaws make her far less diplomatic. Yet, in her slightly more independent attitude, she grows to find diplomacy more and more pointless-especially in an environment like the wasteland.

Skills: Very agile and speedy, thus able to sneak fairly well. Otherwise the mix of her experience in the past four years, as well as her life prior, has allowed her to become fairly experienced with repair, small guns(and a very, very little more experienced with other sorts), and general, basic survival-aside from cooking. She has a little knowledge, therefore, in medicine-but only in matters of emergency and basics. If you have some organ or internal issue to be treated, for example, she'll be of no use-but she'll be of use if you have a notably infected and deep wound. Being slightly more intelligent than average, she still has a slightly curious nature about her, but she hasn't actually learned much anything(IF anything) in any other skill/field in all the years she's been by herself.

Weapons: A Chinese Assault Rifle, a Hunting Rifle, a Knife, and pieces of a Plasma Gun(can't actually be used for anything combative or repair wise)

Clothing: Currently her clothing consists of one ridiculously large and long turtle neck, consisting of a few holes here and there, an old tank top below that to make up for the holes of the turtle neck, and the jacket she had since before the Great War. Which also has it's share of tears and such. She wears boots she recently found on another dead individual, who likely had starved or been killed by an aggressive mutant of some sort, that are worn but not so tattered that they are not usable. For the lower part of her body otherwise, she wears jeans in which she cut the bottom to where it was just below the start of the boots, and with most other uncovered holes in her clothing uses rags to make up for anything she needs to.

Bio: Although Katherine had been included in the Upper-Middle Class with her uncle, by the time her uncle had bothered with an application it was too late. The atomic bomb was days later, and even if they had been accepted, the letter hadn't even yet arrived. And so Kathy had stayed in the personal shelter of their house, unaware of where her uncle-or the maid that helped take care of her when her guardian was away-were. By now, she has presumed them dead-and for good reasons. Her maid couldn't have had her own shelter to go to when the drill had sounded, and she hadn't arrived to Kathy's at any point during the two-hour Great War-and as for her uncle? The man traveled throughout the world, more than likely he was in the midst of it when all the bombs fell; so there was little hope he had survived. Even if he had, there was no way for him to return home and ever see Kathy again.
And so, after a few months of being separated and forced to find her own escape in the confusion of the ghoul attack-leaving a group of survivors-she managed to track down her house. Only doing so by a few pieces that weren't simply ashes or so burnt or broken that she couldn't distinguish them, and more so by her bunker. There, she left a sort of memorial of makeshift sorts within a more secluded part of the bunker, in her best attempts to mourn for the two she cared so dearly for, and in a way make up for the fact she hadn't been there with them or able to help them to her best abilities. Since then, she's become a traveler, a loner, surviving as well as she can on her own since fifteen years of age. In one incident, she was badly clawed at her left arm and torso from a fight with several ghouls and from a harsh-though not directly downward-fall in attempts to escape them. She survived, but not with ease and suffered sickness from radiation-if she hadn't treated her wounds so early, she would have been even worse off. And it was not that incident alone which she has experienced notable hardships, ignoring her often empty stomach. Simply one of the more memorable ones.
Before the war, she had been born to parents who didn't want her, who abandoned her-and she never truly knew them. However, out of pity and out of the fact he was related to Kathy, her uncle raised her as his own daughter. He supported her financially well, he was kind and caring, and he helped her learn how to shoot with a gun by giving her the materials and helping her start off with basics-after which also giving her the materials to learn how to repair guns and, to a lesser extent, several other objects. Including robots like Mr. Handy. However, he was a businessman often moving about throughout the world to earn the very money which he so generously supplied and supported Kathy with, and even the maid whom she befriended was slightly distant in comparison to what a relative would be. Kathy thus often socialized at school to make up for the loneliness at home that was common. Kathy, excelling so well at her new hobbies and getting good grades at school, had intended to be an engineer of some sort when she graduated from college-but, obviously, that never happened due to the Great War.

--Katherine Adler

In recent days Kathy had begun exploring lands less often visited by herself-places more up north, overall. The territory she typically roamed had grown more populated-thus more violent and lower on supplies of food and water. Of course, there existed ghouls, people, and other creatures of even more mutated sorts. However, while she edged on the border of being just desperate enough, Kathy had not yet succumbed to cannibalism. Her will to instead starve and grasp onto a very small hold on life persisted-for now. Then, when it came to other food, she had no idea of how to properly cook it. How to possibly digest the revolting and in no way possibly healthy mutants' meat. Or what plants, in the case there ever was any, would be safe to consume. So the only remaining option would be packaged foodstuffs, products remaining from events prior to the Great War.

Yet, the sudden, rapid depletion of the alternative supply in the past month had caused Kathy to experience a kind of unhealthy thinness she had never tolerated before. At all times her ribcage faintly showed, her stomach was beginning to look like a pit-a light, reddish brown valley that curved downward from her ribs and remained somewhat flat thereafter. Bone began to be more directly beneath her skin, despite the fact she had a decently muscular structure, and even her face's cheeks had deflated slightly from the lack of fat. Aside from her facial structure, there was little to distinguish her gender-while she had a feminine frame and shape, she hardly had anything for a bust or bottom-being rather flat, if not worse, throughout her entire body. The pains of starvation were suddenly again noticeable, despite the fact the loner's body had overall adapted to malnutrition of less extremes, and it was hard for her to travel even now while ignoring her empty, grumbling belly.

From her filth-covered face was weary, watchful eyes-faint wrinkles weighing on the hazel orbs that scanned the somewhat unfamiliar terrain. At last, she saw some sort of civilization-a fire producing a dim light. She didn't recall seeing it before, unsurprisingly, but being so ignorant of the place brought quite a few hazards. Of course, she could try to come in with a sunny face-in tattered clothes and worn, starving self and all-but throughout her several post-war years of near total solitude, most interaction with any living thing was hostile.

Yet, what other option did she have? Adler saw no abandoned market from pre-war times anywhere-not even on the edge of the horizon. Food, water was a necessity-one her body required within a small number of hours if Kathy had any intention of avoiding the fate of a corpse. If she could determine the safety of the place on the edge of its structures, she would have a chance of escape-with the aid of her stealth or guns-in the case it was hostile. In the case it was full of raiders or worse.

The eighteen year old hadn't properly interacted with anyone in the past year, at minimum, but she did her best to mask her weakness and her generally unfriendly appearance. Walking smoothly, doing well to mask the shakiness of each movement, she did her best to keep an open look about her eyes. Lucky for her, she had a rather loose and large sweater to cover just how pathetically low on weight she was, as well as fairly thick jeans to bring about the same favor for her scrawny legs. Weakness equated to asking for pain, for attacks. What once would have coaxed sympathetic looks from others now urged greedy, opportunistic ones.

Nearing the place and the fire she had perceived from a distance previously, she gazed about for the closest individual who might notice her, not wanting to announce her presence to the whole of what turned out to be a tribe. Her hands, while appearing fairly relaxed, were purposefully kept near hidden, holstered weapons.

OOC: We'll edit this if Zoey sees the landscape of The Warren differently, it hasn't yet really been established.

Ellis stands looking out the large window in what was Samuel's bedroom. He looks over the town scowling.

If it wasn't one thing it was another. Not even a week since Samuel's assassination and already there was rumor of another questioning his actions. Not just any other either, but the leader of The Warren's Internal Police Force. Already things were getting complicated.

He looks down on the town. From the Warren Theatre where he stood the town stretched out to the South before him. To his right was the doctor's hospital. In the past Samuel had often had to venture down there regularly to get his medications. To his left was that damned William's Police Station.

Further south was the market and general housing, beyond that were the gates to The Warren. It was still evident that the Warren had not long ago suffered from attacks, but the rebuilding was well under way and the gates were once again secure.

It was his now.

After all that time having to play second (or third) fiddle it was his now and he was damned if he was going to let William start stirring up trouble.

He closes the blinds to contemplate how best to secure his kingdom from threats both external and internal.

Name: Mirvin

Age: 12

Gender: N/A Though refers to itself as a man

Race: Robot

Appearance: Mirvin is a modified protectron. His standard weapons no longer work, so his right hand/claw has been replaced with a sawn-off shotgun. His faceplate has a bluish tinge to it.

Personality: Mirvin tries to be one of the guys, trying to crack jokes and the like but his blank emotionless face and simulated voice tend to make others uneasy in his company. Mirvin is completely driven by the final comand his former owner gave him.

Skills: Mirvin is a skilled mechanic, although this is limeted to cars and motorbikes, so this may be a fairly useless skill.
He is good at foraging for supplies and is a quick and keen learner.

Weapons: Sawn-off winchester 12 guage shotgun. This weapon can only hold 2 shots at a time, but Mirvin has a mechenism fitted to his arm which reloads for him. This can hold 8 more shells. After this it takes him a while to reload as his left claw isn't dextrous enough to load the shells.

Clothing: None, has a matt grey paint job.

Bio: Mirvin was programmed as an assistant mechanic and sold to a small workshop that restored old 20th century classic cars. The workshop was quite remote and was unaffected by the blasts when the bombs fell. Most of the human mechanics were at work when the bombs fell and the workshop served as their' home and fort in the following years. The owner of the garage, a man named Frank Horn, was also present that day and survived the war. Initially Horn led the community that sprouted and Mirvin was sent out with foraging parties and quickly grew quite adept at picking through scrap and finding useful parts. The group mostly kept to themselves, avoiding contact with traders and scouts from other settlements. Eventually the workshop was discovered by raiders. Mirvin's weaponry was destroyed in the ensuing attack and several of the former workers were killed. The raiders were eventualy driven off, but the survivors were furious. They blamed Horn, claimed that he had neglected to arm and equip them. They claimed that Horn's insructions to forage for food and mechanical equipment, along with his orders to avoid contact with outsiders were to blame for them being unprepared. They claimed that if they had been insructed to gather weapons instead they may have been able to defend themselves. After the ensuing power struggle Horn was banished. As he was the company owner Mirvin accompanied Horn. Horn eventualy settled in an abandoned shack. Mirvin would venture out and forage food and supplies for the increasingly infirm old man and Horn would perform basic maintinance on him. In the shack they had found a winchester shotgun and plenty of scrap metal. With this Horn constructed a rig that replaced Mirvin's hand. To this he added a loading device as Mirvin had difficulty reloading. This allowed Mirvin to defend himself if he ever ran into anything hostile while gathering supplies. The two remained in the shack for a few years but eventually Horn died of old age. Before he died Horn told Mirvin to leave him and go into the wasteland. He was a little senile towards the end and sometimes forgot that Mirvin was a robot.
He told him "I gotta thank you for all you done for me Mirvin. You're a good man, but you can't do any more for me. I want to be alone for a while. You should go on, get out of here and make a life for yourself."
Mirvin simply stood there. "Where should I go?" he asked.
"Anywhere son, just away from here. Take the shells, ain't no use to me anyhow. You got your gun, so you can take care of yourself. Just get on and try to find other survivors. Settle down, be part of a community, that kind of thing. Just don't come back here."
As this was a direct order from his owner, Mirvin had to comply. He gathered up the shotgun shells and left the shack looking for a life of his own.


MIRVIN

Mirvin lowered his shotgun as the scavengers body slid down the fuel station door and slumped on the ground.

Until now Mirvin had been having a most satisfactory day. His lurching stride had been carrying him along at an average speed of four point six miles per hour. His optical readout had recently flashed across his vision informing him that his power cells had dropped to eighty percent charge.

He had spotted the fuel station in the distance and immediately began heading towards it. Mr Frank had told Mirvin that places like this could hold good materials for salvage and since Mr Frank had never told Mirvin to stop gathering useful supplies he had been compelled to investigate.

As Mirvin approached, the door opened quietly and a young man stepped through, pointing a laser pistol at Mirvin's chest. "That's close enough." He said. "Place is closed, I'd turn around and [censored] off if I was you."

Mirvin halted, "Of course the place is closed for business, my good chum." Mirvin's synthetic voice rasped. "A thermo-nuclear exchange took place several years ago, destroying, to my knowledge, almost all of the continent of north america. However commerce is not the reason I have come here. Mr Frank informed me that monitary transactions are irrelivant nowadays and we must salvage through the ruins for anything we deem useful. Therefore I am here to look for anything I can use on my journey, primarily energy cells."

"Too late man." he scavenger replied. "We're already here. We got us a life and we don't need no robot picking through our stuff."

"You have a life here? Mr Frank told me I must find a life. May I ask, how does one make a life for themselves? Mr Frank ordered me to leave him before I could ask him. May I remain here and share in your life?"

The scavenger almost doubled up laughing. "A robot...Ha..'Live..Haha...Stay here." Eventualy the man regained his composure "[Censored] no you can't stay here. Things like you don't have lives, that's like my old toaster asking to be part of the family. It's kill or be killed now, survival of the fittest. Now get the [censored] out of here before I blow you to pieces."

"Well I regret to inform you sir that of the two of us I am the one who would be deemed 'The fittest'. My bodywork is in the best condition that Mr Frank could manage with the resources I could bring to him, while you appear to be rather emaciated and suffering from minor radiation poisening. I would advise against the course of action you appear to be proposing."

"I've got you in my sights. I'll shoot you before you you can even aim at me."

"Certainly. I estimate you will have sufficiant time to fire two to three shots before I am able to bring my weapon to bear. With a Wattz laser pistol this would cause significant aesthetic damage. However the damage would be neither irreprable nor detrimental to my performance. During this time I would be able to fire one shot with my own weapon, which as you can see is a shotgun. At this range I calculate that a shot striking your body would have an eighty seven percent chance of instant fatality."

"There are others inside, ten of 'em."

"Unlikely, if that were true then I surmise that more people than just yourself would have confronted me. Furthermore I surmise that the laser pistol is the most advanced weapon in your group's posession as you would have bought the best weapon to intimidate a potential threat. I have encountered similar situations in the past while collecting parts for Mr Frank. I'm afraid my orders are to gather supplies and to find a life for myself, if you continue to hinder these orders, Mr Frank has told me that initiating violence is an acceptable course of action."

As Mirvin spoke the young man's eyes grew wider with panic, he fired. The first shot scored a large burn across Mirvin's left shoulder and the second struck him directly in his faceplate, leaving a small crack in it. Mirvin's shotgun boomed in response. The shot struck the young scavenger high in the chest and slammed his body into the dirt.
A scream erupted from the doorway of the station as a young woman charged out screaming obcenities and brandishing a sledgehammer. The shotgun barked again, the shell hitting the woman in the face. Her head erupted as the impact of the shot carried her body backwards, slamming it back into the building's door.

Mirvin lowered his shotgun as the scavengers body slid down the fuel station door and slumped on the ground. Mirvin waited for a few seconds to see if anyone else was going to attack him, looking at the bodies as he stood there. It was a regrettable resolution to the confrontation, but he had his orders. When he reached the conclusion that there would be no further hostilities Mirvin opened the door and stepped through.

Wow, this is a hell of a start! I looked at this last night right before my mom made me go to sleep and saw two posts and now look. And I wanted to be in the top three first posters...

Name: Johnny Collins

Age: 16

Gender: Male

Race: Human, African-American

Appearance: Thin build, strong for his age. No scars yet.

Personality: Quiet unless he knows you good. Not very keen to opening up. Very calculating and feels for everyone. Tends to look at things from all perspectives before anolyzing the best next move. Hates conflict but can turn of all emotion if required to defeat the enemy. A bit of a loner for not having friends in his early years, but not completely solitude. Funny once he gets more comfortable with you, ready for anything, and brave of heart. Willing to put his life in danger for those who he believes deserve it.

Skills: anolyzing the situation and really planning things out. A gifted engineer, even with explosives from playing with mines when he had nothing to do. An avid reader and occasional writer. Hand-to-hand combat. Self taught from the books he reads.

Weapons: None

Clothing: White t-shirt with a backpack and some cargo pants and tims.

Bio: Johnny grew up a troubled boy, socially awkward. His parents were separated, but they managed to work out times where they could alternate custody of him, which was difficult in the wastes. His mother was never satisfied with their way of living, and constantly moved around Kentucky looking for better places to stay. He tended to keep to himself, reading and writing and tinkering with things. He was eleven when the bombs fell, and his mother was dropping him off in an old shack that was thankfully in running distance to the Cloverfield Tunnels. There they stayed for a long time, reconciling their past and putting aside their differences for their son. They had to scavenge for food, and barely survive. After a few months of being underground, once they thought it was safe to venture outside, they gathered what little belongings they had and left for a place to stay. Soon, they found a small settlement that was based off a theater or some irrelevant name, The Warren. They build a house for themselves and for the four years that they lived, Johnny honed his talents, and even found some friends. His father had never taught him to use a gun, for he didn't use them himself, but his friends had given him some experience, and he often went hunting out in the wastes while his parents stayed home unknowing.

Eventually however, the place attracted attention, bad attention, and the place went to war with a nearby raider tribe, forcing his parents apart yet again. His mother wanted to stay and fight, while his father wanted to leave and avoid violence. After a falling out, John was yet again torn from his mother, but this time he didn't know when he'd see her again. At first he was upset at his father for his soft actions, and they didn't get along very well. Then, after a few months, John began to see the error in his thinking, but shortly after that his father was ambushed and killed by raiders. He had never gotten to truly reconcile with his father, and only had enough time to run for his life.

For months on end he was lost in the wasteland, first trying to fend for himself, then giving in and looking for a way back to The Warren at 16 years old. When he had finally made it back, the place was still in turmoil, but after asking around he found out his mother had been killed as apart of the war. He came into his old house now a completely empty man, with a bitter vengeance.

Johnny Collins

There it was. Her grave. Jeannie-May Collins was dead now, and Johnny boy was an orphan, now parentless. He had embarked across the wastes to find his mother, to help fight the battle that she obviously died for, to stand up with the last one in the world he had left to give his love to. Now he had no love, his heart was as cold and dead as her hands, which he held tightly before closing the impromptu casket. They didn't have the equipment to address the bullet wound on her side, so her shirt was still red with dried blood, but at lease she could be seen off before she was buried. He'd taken her body from the morgue at the hospital, and collected her Warren Internal Police Force merits for "bravery in battle" and "distinguishable excellence". Now they were all that was left of her name, and medals won't bring her back.

As Johnny shoveled the dirt back into the ground, with his mother's body in a box underneath it, he thought about who did this to her. He'd heard rumors about hat had happened here. The war with The Notoph, then backhanded trickery by two men who were said to be on the Warren's side. Now the city was as divided as two sides of a bottle cap. Johnny knew which side he was on now, but first thing was first, he needed to pay his respects...

Now, with her buried and respects paid, he headed back to her old house, which was now his by default. He had a plan of action for once he was well rested, head to the Warren's center and demand to see the man with the biggest gun, he wanted revenge.

~Cain Johnson~

I rolled into The Warren. The thoughts of safety fled my mind as soon as I saw the war torn streets. The place was in obvious turmoil, with itself. I knew not of what had transpired, but just looking around I would say this place was divided and their having some kind of civil war. A police whistle cut through the air, a sharp sound. In contrast with the distant rumbling of a crowd.

I continue down the streets, houses vacant. Some of their doors hung open with loose hinges, windows shattered. This did not look like a haven, it looked like hell. I knew I couldn't stay here, maybe once upon a time it was safe, but now, I would rather take my chances with the wastes.

I left the troubled city behind me, continuing on to...somewhere. It was getting dark, well darker, it was already night when I left. The moon offers some lighting, but I needed to sleep. I looked around, not a single fortification in sight. I lowered myself out of my wheelchair and onto the hard ground, I would just have to sleep here.

It might be dangerous, but it would be more so to try tackling the Wastes when sleep deprived. I clutched my rifle close to me and let the darkness over take me.

*
I awoke three hours later and was on the move again, I ate the last of my food for breakfast, but I was not worried. Worrying just made problems, food would come or not, regardless of my worry. It was still dark out, the sun was just begging to rise behind me and in the distance I could see a fire and some faint silhouettes.

I brought out my rifle and peered down the scope. A couple people were sitting around the fire, they didn't look like raiders. The most prominent of the group was the woman though, even after the months of the harsh, wasteland environment, she still seemed to retain her beauty.

I weighed my odds. A large group of people were less likely to try and kill me, they feel more confident and usually don't need to steal from lone wanderers. Unless there raiders, the exception to the rules. But they didn't look like drug crazed morons. I had some scrap metal, and unopened pack of cigarettes that would probably get me some food as long as they didn't shoo me off.

I took a deep breath and moved forward, I was by no means sneaky, and they saw me coming. Their hands around tier weapons tightened by that would to be expected. I raised my hands, showing I didn't have a weapon.

“I'm not crazy,” I said with a strident voice.

“I just want to trade.”

OOC: Seemed like too many people were going to The Warren, so I wanted to even it out. And Kettle, I love your character.

Vincent Reins - Notoh Tribe

Vincent sat on the rickety bed he had been provided by the Notoh tribe. The bed's frame had definitely seen better days as the wood was beginning to rot, the pillows were stained and had a horrible odor to them, the mattress had several large holes in it, and the blanket was very uncomfortable. Resting atop the beside table were Vincent's pair of prized Colt 1911's, his black leather gloves, his mirrored shades, and his green beret. Vincent's rucksack bag hung at the end of the bed. In the corner of the room was Vincent's bolt action rifle which was in fairly poor condition. The only other furniture in the room was a solitary chair which had Vincent's leather jacket resting upon it and a chest of drawers which was empty.

The conflict with Abu Nidel had been a long drawn out affair lasting three agonizing years. The war had left many mental scars on Vincent's psyche but what caused him the most anguish was being forced to flee the Warren which had become his one true home. Just the thought of the Warren brought tears to his eyes. He wondered and hoped the city fared well in his absence but in his heart he knew strife had overtaken the city.

The will to live was becoming harder each day but somehow he kept going. However depression had a stranglehold on him leaving him broken and in a constant state of despair. Losing the urge to get some breakfast Vincent laid back down longing for sleep to ease his pain at least for a while.

--Katherine Adler

To Adler's curiosity and surprise, there was a shape in the distance-clearly in a wheelchair-also nearing the Warren. It wasn't too horribly unnerving, really-it wasn't likely that the figure saw her, and approached the tribe's home in a rather noticeable manner. Still feeling too prudent, or perhaps too paranoid, to simply make such an obvious entrance, the young Hispanic woman instead observed the figure as he or she neared the fire.

And that was when she felt herself jump ever so slightly, her whole body suddenly racked with utter shock-along with immediate feelings of fear and hate. She still didn't have a truly good look on anyone, but the fire's flames defined the figure enough to where she could distinguish with clarity what it was-a ghoul. Kathy had to stiffen her entire body momentarily to suppress the almost instinctual, abrupt reaction of swiping out her Chinese assault rifle and aiming in preparation for the creature to first hiss, and then rocket toward her with crazed, wild, often foggy and deteriorated eyes. Yet, even with the greatest of self control that the loner owned, the youthful wastelander couldn't keep her muscles from tensing, or keep her expression from turning from that of an open one into that of a guarded one. One that showed an expression beyond simple, basic mistrust, beyond even the more simple of anger and fear.

Perplexity joined in with the recent flood of emotions as the damn mutant began to talk, in a raspy, yet possibly vaguely familiar voice. Though that was more likely just her imagination, as it only had the most bare of similarities to a voice of someone she couldn't even recall or bring up to mind.

Forcing down her shoulders into a more appropriately relaxed, confident look, she made the severity of her sudden viciousness relent as much as she could manage before taking a step forward. Now she was by no means in the dark, but not entirely out in the open yet either. Holding a watchful gaze over every living thing-but while she kept an eye on everyone, the one person that eye focused on most was the ghoul in the wheelchair.

OOC: I'm not sure if the practice of placing the character's name above the actual writing involving them is common practice, or if it's required practice, or not. Around here, that is. So if anyone could confirm a "yes" or "no" on that, I'd appreciate it.

OOC: I'll try to make an IC (In Character for those of you who don't know) post soon. Just wanted to post now to say...


I did the whole

~Character Name: Location~

a lot in The Warren and in The Sunshine State and a few people picked it up. It's a good way to remind people who you are writing about and where they are at the moment...but if you don't like it you don't need to.



***ING AWESOME!

I love the new characters. Tickchtock, a while I ago I was thinking of making a cartoon using Inkscape and while I was making little avatars for each character I ended up wondering what would have happened to all those characters who dropped out. Super happy to see Kathy Adler back.

Really glad to see Hircine's Vincent coming to life, I hope you don't mind me having put him with Zoey. I wanted to eliminate some of the old hand "Murrow, Samuel, John, Collie, and Mac" and bring some of the newer guys more into the picture. So I teamed Vincent up with Zoey, since they'd been dealing with the suicide bombing together, and put Larry with Ellis/Stane since he was kind of reluctant to come into The Warren after the bombing.

I'm hella happy to see a ghoul and the fact that he is in a wheelchair adds awesomely to the character.

Finally the robot. God I love the robot. You've done an awesome job of giving him character without just making him a human stuck in a robot's body kind of thing.

I love Johnny too.

Maybe it's a character flaw on my part, but I find characters WAAAAY more interesting when dealing with grief and difficulty then when everything is working out peachy keen. Burying your mom, that's grief I can't really connect with (lucky me) but yeah. Awesome.

Now that I know I won't be all that active in the near future it reminds me how much I love this forum, this community, and just the chance to write and read and contribute to a story better than any I could hope to write on my own. All of our characters only really have CHARACTER because of their interactions with each other. ****! I'm happy.

Yay us!

In case any of you get busy and can't post/read...

Merry Christmas, Happy Channukah, Happy Kwanza, Happy Ramadan, Merry Festivus, Happy New Year, and so on and so forth.

Damien Marx

"The Warren...maybe I'll find some work here..." I thought to myself as I watched the couple lights glimmer in the harsh sunlight of the Kansas area. I sighed and headed down the hill to the Warren. I kept his pistol at hand with the traditional AK-47 on his back. I felt jumpier than normal but it was probably for the fact that he simply wasn't used to the new world yet.

I headed down as quietly as possible with his Dragonskin body armor and the cotton interior providing much needed comfort of both protection and relaxation. I headed down to the Warren, pistol in hand, watching the roads. It didn't seem like a haven for travelers like the man had said. A police siren crackled, an all too familiar sound for me. Even now, after the Great War, I could hear the same sirens ring when we carpet bombed buildings. The good old days...

The sun was still pretty bright so it was obviously morning or at least before 3:00PM. I gripped my AK-47 and watched as the crowds of people walked around, staring at me. Walking the streets was easy enough, spotting a man to find information was tough. Swiftly, I grabbed a man from the alley way and pointed my AK at him.
"What happened to the Warren!?"
"The...the Abu Nidel"
I've heard of some war with the Abu Nidel during our scouting reports before...before my parents died. "Where's Evelyn Manchester?"
"Wh...who?"
At that point, I've heard enough. With one pull of the trigger on my silenced pistol and he was dead. My second kill of the day. The wastes had changed everybody...back in Pre-War times, I've never had to kill this many people, even during battles.

I headed back up out of the Warren, obviously getting nowhere when I spotted a girl talking to a ghoul in a wheelchair. The scene itself perplexed me beyond comprehension. I slowly approached, my Uzi in close reach and spoke loud enough for them to hear. "Who are you?"

OOC: guys just a note the Notah camp with the fire is no where near the warren you guys make it sound like its really close its not, Zoey just been framed for the murder of Samuel and collie she wouldn't be at a camp anywhere near the warren.

also on a side note, i don't know if anyone here plays the Assassins Creed games but i just completed brotherhood WOW heavy stuff. and happy Christmas everyone just in case i forget.

Also the whole name thing and that isn't needed some people do it though i never have

IC:

Zoey placed her head in her hands and then pushed them back over her face and ran them through her hair. I could really do with washing this she thought, she laughed, in all this crap he was thinking about washing her hair. She didn't know what to do, the Warren was her home she couldn't just leave it. She grabbed a bit of Brahmin meat that had been roasting, the meat was good despite the obvious dangers of radiation

"It kinda reminds you of bacon doesn't it?" Sarah walked around the fire, her blonde hair that loosely hung down bounced with each step until she sat down

"Yea just a shame we don't have any rad away, its all in the warren"

"What are we gonna do Zo?" Sarah Lent her head on Zoey's shoulder, she was apparently still waking up, Zoey recalled times having to wake Sarah up to go on operation it never went quickly.

"We're gonna start a evolution thats what, somehow Ellis will pay for what he's done to us" Through this conversation Zoey got angrier, she then calmed down when a raspy voice spoke up, she hadn't even noticed the ghoul in a wheelchair wander up to them

"I'm not crazy, I just want to trade"

"Yea? well we ain't got nothing, everything we had was taken by that [censored] up there" Zoey looked up at the Warren which cold be seen in the far distance. The ghoul didn't bother her, he wasn't the sane ghoul she'd met

"Tell you what have some" Zoey outstretched the plate with Brahmin meat on it.

OOC: Big thanks to Yttrium and Mr.Smiley. I'm enjoying writing about Mirvin and I'm glad you guys are enjoying reading about him. Yttrium I think that your' first post, with Cain kicking ass was great mate.

IC:

MIRVIN

Mirvin moved awkwardly around the interior of the fueling station. The pair of scavengers had hoarded a large number of items within and the small shop floor was a haphazard mess of obstacles. He walked around the room slowly, occaisionaly knocking piles of tin cans over and overturning boxes and barrels as he passed.

Had he still been with Mr Frank, or the others at the repair shop, this place would have been considered a veritable treasure trove. The scavengers had a large supply of canned goods and had stored several bottles of water. Mirvin detected that the water was clean, his sensors could detect no impurities or radiation. These items were of little interest to Mirvin now though. He had no use for either any longer, Mr Frank had ordered Mirvin not to return.

Further back in the room, close to the checkout, two matresses lay on the floor. Mirvin's suppositions had been correct, there were not ten men brandishing weapons. Just an empty little room. Behind the counter Mirvin discovered a small cache of weapons. Two 9mm pistols, a shotgun and another laser pistol. Nearby a small, faded green rucksack lay on the floor. Mirvin picked the rucksack up and held it up before his smooth faceplate. A line of type appeared across his visual display.

+Possable relevent memory file detected. Play+

Mirvin allowed the file to play, a small square appeared in his field of vision and began to replay an argument between Mr Frank and Mr Eddie. Mr Eddie had replaced Mr Frank as leader of the comunity after the raiders had attacked. Mr Frank was waving his arms franticly above his head.

"For God's sake Eddie. This is exactly what I was trying to avoid by not trying to contact other survivors. We're vulnerable here, I didn't want these kind of people to come. Anyone who found us would know that we were virtualy unarmed and eventually attack us."

"But the traders Frank, the ones you turned away. They may have had weapons we could have traded. We're in a damn auto-shop, there's tons of things we could have bartered. We have salvage teams, we could load up their' rucksacks with whatever the traders find useful and then trade them for guns."

"Parasites." Mr Frank spat. "Parasites the lot of them, can't be bothered finding supplies for themselves. Just wander around looking for people to steal from. I won't have them here."

"They're just trying to live Frank. Same as the rest of us. Parasites or not we could have got weapons fron them, you've got to be as empty headed as your stupid robot there not to realise that."

"I won't have them here Eddie and that is my final word."

"You know you ain't our boss anymore Horn. You haven't heard the last of this." Mr Eddie turned and stomped from the room, his face turning a perculiar shade of red.

In the small square, the recording of Mr Frank looked directly at the screen "Ah Mirvin there you are, be a good fellow and fetch me a cup of coffee will you." The recording froze and a small line of type appeared across it.
+Relevant memory end. Replay?+

Mirvin selected no. Mr Eddie had said traders were just trying to live. He began packing several items from the room into the rucksack. The pistols and laser pistol were placed in the bottom of the bag. On top of this Mirvin placed five bottles of the clean water and eight cans of Pork 'N' Beans. The shotgun was far too large to place in the bag so Mirvin left it where it was.

He slung his small package accross his scorched shoulder and walked back out of the building. Dusk had fallen outside. As Mirvin scanned the horizon he detected the heat signature of a campfire five point four miles north of him. He lurched jerkily towards it. The additional wieght had slowed Mirvin's walking pace to four point four miles per hour, but the difference in time for his arrival was acceptable. If traders were looking for a life, Mirvin now had something to trade. The fire in the distance could only have been started by people, maybe the people around the fire could assist Mirvin.

--Katherine Adler
Notah Camp

These guys were friendly to ghouls? Sure, he could speak like a sane human being, but that didn't prove that he was any more reliably safe than a ghoul that could only spew out inhuman grunts, hisses, moans, and the like. And sure, there was a nagging part of her brain almost trying to understand why there was this trace of seeming familiarity between both the ghoul and the girl who suddenly offered him some Brahmin, but Kathy had been alone for years. And she hadn't seen any face at all aside from the occasional ghoul(which hardly had a face, often, anyways), sometimes intentionally, for months.

Finally, she mustered up the courage to break her typical behavior of near silence and seeming invisibility. Purposefully, though not entirely blatantly, she maintained a berth about the ghoul. Though she wasn't really close to any individual. A tinge of curiosity dappled the eighteen-year-old's pale, reddish brown face-framed by richly dark chocolate hair. Long unkempt hair that was cut by a dagger to raggedly hang just below the start of her jaw. The girl did her best to look healthier, cleaner than what she was-unaware of what social standards these people had exactly. Some owned no standards whatsoever, others were stunningly uptight despite-or considering-their environment.

Finally, with this inquisitive look mainly being used to express herself-though she couldn't do more than screen her underlying feelings of prudence and mistrust, especially at any point that she looked toward the d*mned ghoul-she questioned, "Nothing? Isn't there some sort of pre-war structure to look for food, or anything?"

A sort of overwhelming hopelessness and desperation had to be pressed into the recesses of the traveler's mind at the thought. This group had nothing to trade, and if there wasn't some place she could obtain something nearby, she was screwed in the most absolute way possible. Kathy would become, most likely, a dead woman walking. Even now her body shook, though she put significant effort to prevent it from being too obvious, in weakness.

"...What's 'up there?'"

OOC: Thanks Smiley. :] And Happy Holidays(to keep all that short) to everyone too, Christmas is pretty soon.
And I don't have Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood yet Venix, but I probably will for Christmas or around that time-and I've watched the second game(unlikely I'll ever own the second game however), and played the first. It's a pretty awesome game, and it was shocking how much it improved, and how much it complicated, in the sequel. One of the few series I know of to surpass it's previous standards later on.
On the note of the distance between The Warren and the Notah camp, I really wasn't sure-I never mentioned The Warren thus far for that very reason; I appreciate the clarification. x]
As you can tell, I'm gonna go ahead and use the names and such, it makes a lot of sense in keeping everything going without confusion.

OOC: Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays everyone, this is turning out to be a great start.

It wasn't long before the crowd finally dispersed again, hunger was enough to break any riot, as the mob went off looking for something, anything, to eat. William had been spared the harsh fighting in the front line against the Abu Nidal as during the war he was given the command of logistics and counter-intelligence. Those battles had been just as difficult as the ones on the front lines. Every day he would have to worry about the people, if they had enough to eat, whether the municipal services were running, or if the new influx of refugees were suicide bombers.

It was in this way that he began to see the people of the Warren as his own. To see them suffer as they did now, even after the war was won, was nothing short of torture. It meant that he hadn't been good enough. Although he had told himself many times that no matter how many ways you ration it, a handful of grain per person was not enough to feed the whole city. Behind him lay the letter that would seal his fate in the next struggle. The letter challenged Ellis to hold public elections and to meet with him for a debate in the public forums. Though it did not threaten Ellis with any acts of violence, it was clearly a declaration of war.

The letter was short and read as followed:

Dear Ellis,

As I'm sure already know, the situation in our great city has vastly deteriorated since the passing of our great leader, Samuel Jessop. Since you have recently declared yourself the first Consul of the Warren in the absence of a leader, I feel it is my duty to the people as the Director of the Warren Administrative Bureau and as the Chief of the Warren Enforcer Corps to help speed the transition of our government back into the hands of the people. As such, I recommend you to declare public elections in order to help restore the Warren as a shining city in our dark world.

The goal to which we all strive towards will only possible if the will of the people and the state are one. I believe that if we can pave the way for democracy, the people will come to their senses and we can bring civilization back to the Warren. I request that you hold a public debate in Market plaza where we can discuss the city's future and make the election announcements. Once the people can see their leaders carry themselves in a civilized manner, they will soon follow as well.

Sincerely,
William Penn

If Ellis would accept this, then he would be cornered with only two choices, give in and let democracy take its course, or reveal himself as the dictator he really was. Copies of the letter would also be published and made available to the public. If Ellis refused then it would simply another blow to his legitimacy as a leader.

William felt uncertain about this, did he really want a war? He could easily allow Ellis to remain dictator and live a comfortable life. He looked out the cracked and dusty windows of his dark office again, he saw a man get pulled into an alleyway by a thug armed with an AK-47 and never emerge. He could do nothing about that murder, his enforcers had to travel in armed convoys anywhere beyond a block away. This, he thought, would not have happened in the old Warren.

His decision was made, he walked out the door into the hallway where he made a sharp right. He kept walking at a brisk pace and made another right turn where he came upon a large room where various workers where moving about like bees, trying to sort out the Warren's many issues. William then handed the letter to a subordinate, from there the letter would make many trips until the next morning, where a copy of it was posted at every corner and the original lay on Ellis' desk in the Warren Theater.

William said quietly to himself, "Your move Ellis."

~Cain Johnson~

“Thank you.”

I slowly took the plate of meat. The girl who offered it didn't seem to care that I was a walking corpse. Maybe she had seen things that had put her past caring about rotting flesh or maybe she was one of those few people who actually didn't care what a person looked like.

Whatever the reason, I graciously ate. Trying to eat it as quickly as possible, in case their generosity quickly disappeared. I was half way done when a small girl walked into the camp she looked fairly young, with dark brown hair.

At least she tried to hide her obvious unlike to my condition. She sat by herself, but maneuvered it so I was the farthest. To be expected, I got use to the hatred long ago. I kind of could relate, back when I first saw ghouls I wanted to kill them too.

The sudden memory of the even triggered something in mind, this same girl was there the first night. With the guy that was playing the harmonica, I couldn't remember her name. Cathy? And wasn't the girl who had handed me the meat also there? She seemed older but that's what the wastes did to you. I'm sure I didn't look anywhere close to what I use to. Before I could ask my inquires I was stopped,

“Who are you,” a voice full of authority called from the darkness. I turned my head as far it could go. The man who the voice belonged to me, scared and humored me at the same time. His business like attitude from the voice to the clothing, was funny at this kinda of time period. Yet the emotionless eyes reminded me of a murder, a man who could kill and not think twice.

“Cain Johnson is the name. Why don't you seat yourself down, were all eating breakfast.”

When I turned my head back, I spotted movement. It seemed like a person was coming to us on the horizon, the movement seemed way to mechanized though. If it was some kind of robot, I had no worry. I had experience in that field.

“...What's up there,” the small girl asked. I had no clue what she was talking about, I swiveled my head up to the sky that was turning a fabulous range of colors from the sun. Assuming she meant the black speck on the horizon.

“Suppose to be 'The Warren' I was told it was a haven. Looks like a war zone now,” I paused.

“The names Cain Johnson by the way, you might remember me, we met a long time ago.”

I didn't stretch out my hand, that would be going to far, but I wondered if she remembered me.

OOC: I do the name thing because I normally do first person, so I want confusion to be cleared up. Thanks for the comment kettle. And I got to say good job to everyone, one of the most widely ranged group of characters I've ever seen in one RP. Happy Holidays to you all. And AC2 was pretty sick, but I only own the guide. Dark Zerker, in your post you were close to The Warren, but since you approached the camp I incorporated you into it. It alright?

Hot damn! They revived The Warren!


Name: Alistair Saturday.

Age: 23.

Gender: Male.

Race: Human, Caucasian.

Appearance: Tall and lean, clean shaven on the face and has blonde hair ending in a ponytail. He also has a large scar, going over his left eye and down to his neck.

Personality: He is very charismatic and intelligent, and unsurprisingly finished his first PHD before he was legally allowed to buy cigarettes. He is kind and caring to people who are 'good', although still comes across as somewhat gruff and hot-headed. He despises people who use power to hurt others, and seeks their deaths over most else. However, when he feels like it, he can be nasty and brutal, and overall, he is an extremely determined man who will crush everything in his way to reach his goal.

Skills: Is charming and persuasive, and uses this to his advantage. He is also fairly good with medicine and being a doctor, this coupled with his almost inhuman accuracy with his sniper rifle has let him survive longer than most in the Wasteland.

Weapons: A sniper rifle with laser sight and an extended clip, a .32 pistol and a combat knife.

Clothing: A black trenchcoat, a fancy black suit and a pink tie. And a black beret. He also has a pet cat, named Shadow, who tags along with him.

Bio: Alistair Saturday was the son of a wealthy and priveleged family in Wichita, who got him into the best schools available in the area. Unfortunately, at birth Alistair was born with extremely brittle bones in his left leg, this coupled with his severe asthma and heart problems, ruled out any job with physical movement involved. Some wonder how long he was able to survive in the Wasteland. The answer is that he frequently goes out of his way to loot medical centres for his meds, but even this is stretching it very thin. He finished school early, and had already finished a PHD in Psychology at Oxford University. He was travelling back to Wichita to visit his family when the bombs struck. He lived by himself for some time until he joined the Warren, and even then he didn't stay long before travelling away again...

OOC: Someone telling me the scructure and appearance of The Warren in a PM would be swell.

So I had most of these already made, had hoped to make a little Warren comic at one point but never had the time. Thought people might like it.

First Row (Deceased): Dan Brown, Samuel Jessop, Collie, Murrow
Second Row: (MIA) Joshawa Schultz, Eli, Alex Sykes, Daniel Olson, , Jansen
Third Row: Zoey, Vincent, William Penn
Fourth Row: Kathy Adler, Damien Marx, Cain, MIRVIN


Full:
http://mrsmileysmile.deviantart.com/art/Cast-Full-190305423?q=gallery%3Amrsmileysmile%2F26616043&qo=4

First Row:
http://mrsmileysmile.deviantart.com/gallery/#/d35aww4

Second and Third Rows:
http://mrsmileysmile.deviantart.com/gallery/#/d35ax0d

Final Row:
http://mrsmileysmile.deviantart.com/gallery/#/d35ax2r


Had this too, I was thinking of start the cartoons from the Third Thread on

Loss:
http://mrsmileysmile.deviantart.com/gallery/#/d35ax5g


They're all quiet rudimentary but meh. I was hoping to develop them a bit better after I got my drawing pad, but never found the time.

Last one is a few characters from earlier Fallout games.

Generic No Helmet BOS
Harold
BOS
The Master in the Background

http://mrsmileysmile.deviantart.com/art/Memories-190308093

MIRVIN

Mirvin lurched towards the group of people sitting around the fire, replaying the argument between Mr Frank and Mr Eddie. The people arround the fire didn't appear to be raiders, no weapons had been openly pointed at him. Mirvin calculated that given the number of people present, even factoring in the man in the wheelchair who appeared to be terribly unwell, that if these people did turn out to be hostile he would have a less than seven percent chance of survival.

Mr Frank had hated traders, Mirvin had to make the right impression or these people would hate him too, Mirvin knew that if humans hated a machine they would just destroy him.

He strode awkwardly towards the fire and turned to face the group holding his rucksack out to them.

"Hello" His synthetic voice began to rasp and then paused "Friendly group greeting not found. I apologise for that folks. My name's Mirvin and I would first like to assure you all that I am neither a thief nor a parasite. Mr Frank hated them. I have items to trade do any of you have a life?"

ALISTAIR SATURDAY SCAVENGES FOR MEDS.

Alistair opened the old door and stepped into the pharmacy. The lights had blown out long ago; he was going to need his torch, which he pulled from his belt and turned on. He looked around the room. Shelves were empty of everything useful, Rad-X, RadAway and Stimpacks were gone. Maybe stolen after the bombs or scavenged by those settlers at the Warren. Skeletons littered the floor. He kicked them out of the way, and went through the shelves of the dilapidated shopfront. All rubbish headache medication and painkillers. He took them anyway. Might be able to get a buck for them at the next camp.

Then he saw what he was searching for: a jar of heart pills, might keep him going for maybe another week. Maybe. Now he just needed to find some asthma medication and he was all set. It was then he heard the noise- a kind of electric cracking. He took a look into the back room- it wasn't the generator, it was turned off. He turned it back on so he wouldn't need his torch. Alistair went back to the shopfront and looked around carefully- made much easier by the light. Then he saw the door- a wooden door behind the pharmacy's counter. He walked over and opened it.

Inside was a dead man, perhaps only a few hours dead. Wore rags and carried a crappy pistol. It was here he found the source of the crackling; a ham radio. Moving the body, he sat down to take a look at it. Shadow watched him form the doorway. Unfortunately, after about twenty minutes of trying, he couldn't get a single signal. So, he dismantled it and put it in his backpack. Could be useful later. He looked around the store again, and found a bit of ventolin.

But where would he go next? Looted heart medication and ventolin could only last him so long. Then he remembered the Warren- that 'utopia' he once lived in. He felt a swinge of guilt as he remembered abandoning them in the Abu Nidal War. He wondered what had happened to New Jerusalem. Yes, he thought, I'll go to the Warren. Maybe old Doc Murrows can help me. And with that thought in his mind, he left the pharmacy and hobbled down the road. He could even faintly see the Warren in the distance.

"yep that's the warren up there, it's going to hell [censored]in Ellis" Zoey's voice was so bitter even she was shocked. Zoey looked at the girl, she was as thin as a stick

"hey have some I can't deal with any more death right now"' Zoey got up and placed some Brahmin meat next to the girl. The ghoul claimed his name was Cain, he then said something about remembering him then it struck Zoey about the girl as well

"hey yea I remember you, both of you Cain? That night we thought you had died! And you kathy if I remember correctly, we thought you died too. Well [censored]. Here we all back round a fire again, oh I'm Zoey if you don't remember me and sleeping beauty here is Sarah" Zoey motiend at Sarah who was still half asleep in the mid morning sun.

"what happened to you two? After that night?" Zoey posed the question to both Kathy and Cain. Out of the blue a talking robot appeared asking to trade what had for a life

"sorry buddy, my life was taken from me, but I'll get it back Ellis will get his comupennce. You can't trade for a life friend, you just live and that is your life. So what else does a talking robot like yourself be after out here?"