the resistance, the chosen; Is there really a difference?
@d-ylaneriksen
Dylan Eriksen Twenty Eight Civilian The Guardian Living in a constantly moving RV Receptionist at Pine Rest Medical Center Kidnapped by the Chosen as a Child
George considered himself lucky to have avoided crossfire between the warring factions in Old Ashton for as long as he had. Four and a half years must’ve been a record somewhere — he wasn’t sure, nor would he be as his blood pressure had upended itself once the gunshots reached his ears and he was swiftly plummeted to the sidewalk outside his house. It took him a few seconds to clamber into the safety of the RV, something he hadn’t noticed before he was on the ground. “I-I think I’m okay?” he responded, a prominent ringing in his ears washing out half of her words. He hadn’t really felt it, the wound sending a shock wave through him that blinded his senses, but he’d been grazed. It was superficial, yet still bled profusely from his upper arm. “… Dylan? T-That’s right, isn’t it?” Somehow, he remembered her face from the medical center he worked at well before he noticed the red rapidly staining his white shirt.
“Oh, crap...” Dylan spaced a little when she noticed the blood seeping through his shirt. She wasn’t equipped to deal with gunshot wounds, but thankfully it was in his arm. “Okay, I’m going to need you to let me cut into that sleeve.” She spoke, reaching for the scissors and not exactly waiting for permission- she had to see how bad it was. “There’s a lot of blood, but it looks like just a deep graze. Hold this against your arm.” She handed him a dish towel as she gathered up actual medical supplies. “I- Wait, you know me?” Dylan hesitated for a moment, taking a proper look at him. Pine Rest Medical Center. She couldn’t recall his name, but she had definitely seen him there. “We worked together, yeah?”
Boy was Bartek glad to see a friendly face! Or at the very least, someone who didn’t instantly start shooting at him the second he was spotted. Couldn’t a guy simply exist? This time, he’d gotten away simply frazzled. He didn’t dare think about what could’ve happened if she wasn’t there. “Shit,” was all he could get out of his shaken mind. “They’ll be back, probably with more.” With that, he sighed, pushing gritty hands through his hair. That was only if it was anyone but Maggie’s guys. She wouldn’t send people out to him, right? Not so soon? “I’m fine, don’t worry about me. Been through so much worse in my old years.”
Dylan released a soft humourless laugh when he first spoke, her back to the window as she hopped up to sit on the counter. “They might be back, but they won’t bother you in here.” She had helped enough of the Chosen members for them to not aim any attacks at her. Without her, their own people could have died. “I don’t mind if you wanna crash here for the night, or I can drop you off somewhere?” She offered, reaching down below her to grab a coke from the fridge. “Fair enough. You want a drink?”
Why was he cowering? He was so used to defending and running, he’d never even considered fighting back. They hadn’t seen him for sure, right? It wasn’t as if his body had changed that much over the years. Even the people in town knew him, but the Cult knew him differently. That second life would get him killed. “Nothing bad.” He’d dealt with far worse, but he was nevertheless grateful for the help. It wasn’t often people reached out. “Granted, if something gets infected, it doesn’t mean death.” Now he was just rambling to himself. Best to ignore it. He clutched at his arm which had been cut sometime during the run. Now that he looked at it, it was pretty clean. “You didn’t have to get involved, but uh…. Thanks?”
As he grabbed his arm and rambled to himself, Dylan gently reached out for his arm too, tilting it up into the light so she could look at the damage properly. “Better not take any chances though, yeah? Last thing we need is you dropping from sepsis in my RV.” She joked as she pulled out her first aid kit. “You cool with me cleaning it up?” She waved a hand dismissively when he said she didn’t need to get involved. “If no one ever gets involved, nothing will ever change.”
[ PHOEBE TONKIN, CIS FEMALE, SHE&HER ] right, here are the files we have on THE GUARDIAN ——— ERIKSEN, DYLAN. 28 years old, CIVILIAN. current employment looks like a RECEPTIONIST AT PINE REST MEDICAL CENTER. current residence is an RV in MULTIPLE REGIONS for the past 10 YEARS. current views have been noted as OPENLY AGAINST THE COTC. current risk level has been listed as MEDIUM. [ KAYLEIGH, 28, SHE&HER, GMT ]
Rosalie anticipated a lot of things in her line of work, therefore an outright assault by a younger presenting Chosen member wasn’t unprecedented, however an assist was. She was more than surprised when someone offered her a more reliable cover, and she knew she’d be a fool to have refused. “No, no, I’m fine.” she smoothed a hand over her features as a precaution. “Thanks … I don’t — I don’t think I’ve seen you around. Are you Resistance?”
Dylan released a small laugh, shaking her head. “I’m not Resistance, though not from lack of trying... on their part.” She opened her small fridge, grabbing a can of coke. “Do you want something to drink? I only really have coke and water. There’s a questionable carton of orange juice, but I’m not sure I’d risk it.” She took another moment to look past her curtain, out the window. “I’m Dylan.”
Dylan took one last look outside before closing the door to her RV. “I think they’re gone... You should be safe here for now.” She locked the door as she turned to face the person she had found hiding nearby. There was nothing to tell her if they were Chosen or Resistance, maybe even civilian, but they had looked like they needed help. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
[ PHOEBE TONKIN, CIS FEMALE, SHE/HER ] right, here are the files we have on THE GUARDIAN ——— ERIKSEN, DYLAN. 28 years old, CIVILIAN. current employment looks like a RECEPTIONIST AT PINE REST MEDICAL CENTER. current residence is an RV in MULTIPLE REGIONS for the past 10 YEARS. current views have been noted as OPENLY AGAINST THE COTC. current risk level has been listed as MEDIUM.
TW: death, kidnapping
About Dylan
Dylan can’t really remember much from her childhood beyond flashes of arguments between her parents, the lingering scent of vodka and the static buzz of a cheap tv that was broken more often than functional. She’s not sure that her parents were necessarily bad, but she certainly couldn’t remember them being good either. At eleven years old, Dylan was one of the children kidnapped as part of the Communion of the Innocent. While many of the children taken that night were returned to their families, Dylan’s parents never came looking for her. Her only assumption after all these years is that she had been a burden to them and that this was their easy escape.
Her most prominent memories over the next year were of trying to escape from the Children of the Chosen. If she wasn’t trying to escape, she was fighting back against the leaders or crying herself to sleep. They often had to use Bliss to calm her, which is what she assumed messed up her memories, but no matter what she never gave up. She never stopped trying. She would die before she ever let them break her.
It wasn’t until she met Verity that things started to change. Verity was one of the nannies at the cult and when she was asked to guide Dylan towards the light, something switched on within her. She had been loyal to the cult for many years, but seeing Dylan fight so hard for her freedom broke through the brainwashing Verity had endured. She wanted her freedom too.
Escaping with Dylan was far easier than it should have been, but the constant running was something neither of them were prepared for. They knew the cult wouldn’t like that they had left, but they never knew to what extent they would be hunted. Growing up on the run was hard, but it was better than the alternative. Both had changed their names multiple times, but someone always managed to find them. The years passed and Dylan’s face may have become unknown to the cult, but Verity’s face wasn’t so easy to hide.
Some time passed relatively uneventful with Dylan even being able to attend a public school. It took them a while, but eventually they settled down, living under the guise of mother and daughter. It was a foolish dream though... They shouldn’t have stopped so close to Wyoming. Somehow, members of the COTC got word that Verity was close and in an attempt to take her back to the compound, she was shot and killed; not by the Chosen, but by the Resistance. Dylan wasn’t sure if they had meant to kill her, knowing that she used to be one of them, or if she had just been caught in the crossfire as they hunted the Chosen, but Dylan saw it all from inside her wardrobe.
Foster care was good for a lot of kids- she knew that, she had watched countless children find new homes or have their biological family sort themselves out- but Dylan couldn’t handle it. With every new home came a new round of questions, new opinions she didn’t agree with, and new siblings to insensitively comment on her dead mom. Every time she was placed with a new family, she would run. She never really got far, but after two years in the system, they finally released her. She was legally an adult and there was nothing they could do to make her stay.
For a time, Dylan lived on the streets, begging for and often stealing money until eventually she had enough to buy herself an RV. She wasn’t entirely sure why she found herself back in Eden County- maybe on some level she wanted revenge- but as soon as she arrived she found herself helping people. Whether they were an injured resistance fighter or a runaway cultist, she couldn’t bring herself to turn away from them.
Dylan got herself a job as a receptionist at Pine Rest Medical Center where she lowkey steals medical supplies to help people back at her RV. She’s had a few run-ins with the Chosen, but so far no one has recognised her from her time there as a child. Having a different name and no longer being twelve years old probably helped with that, but she still tries to keep her distance.
Living on the streets for so long made Dylan more than capable of defending herself and she’s not one to back down from a fight. It’s that attitude that caught the attention of the Resistance who have been trying to get her to join them for years. No one in the Resistance knows that her adoptive mother was killed by one of them and she certainly isn’t willing to surround herself with people who may not be willing to help someone who has escaped the cult; someone like her.
Wanted Connections
Resistance Member - This person continuously tries to get her to join the Resistance. I imagine they constantly go to her for help with minor and major injuries, maybe even just to hide out for a while. They probably have a banterful relationship and she’s probably quite fond of them despite always turning down their recruitment attempts.
Ex-Chosen Member - Dylan helped this person when they left the cult, even hid them in her RV for some time and kept them safe. Was probably a few years ago and I imagine them being like family at this point. They help each other a lot and Dylan would probably drop everything for them. This person would be her longest friend in Eden County, so they probably met between 5-10 years ago.
Alexei found himself at the bar far too often. What else was there that he could really do? Really attach with? He noticed the woman, looking far too upset for someone drinking at a bar. Why would a human be so upset at getting to leave Earth? It was a luxury not many people got to experience. Most were going to die on that radioactive wasteland.
“Try smiling,” the Synthetic said, knowing damn well he should mind his own business at the moment. He didn’t smile at her, nor did he hold up his own drink for a cheer. “You’re bringing the mood down here.”
Dylan’s attention was swiftly pulled away from the photograph by a nearby man telling her to smile. How typical that behaviour like this would make it on to the USS Visitor. “In all your time talking to women, has telling them to smile ever actually worked for you?” There was an exhaustion to her tone as she put the photograph back into her pocket. “Many apologies for not being drunk enough to forget about my dead friends.” Her tone was blatantly sarcastic as she took a sip of the bourbon brought back by the bartender. Didn’t matter how many pretty dresses she owned now, there was no changing her attitude.
The ship is a giant humming beast and more often than not, despite the actual architecture of the rooms and amenities and extending hallways, the bar tended to feel like both the heart and the stomach at the same time. It was the epicenter, the soul, and more than that it was the one area of the ship where people truly allowed themselves to mourn. Echolas saw it all the time, because he too became privy to spending more of his time near liquor and people, the absolute solitary sanctuary of his room becoming less and less appealing as time passes, maybe due in part to his programming – he yearned for company, for conversation. Pesky desires with no real benefit, an absolute a waste of everyone’s time, but he continued to hover around social hubs, partial friends easy to make, flirtations common, and always willing to be a shoulder to cry on.
Sympathy, bonding, ammunition.
“I threw all mine out.” He says offhandedly, voice a little distant, eyes not locked over her shoulder but instead focused on the rim of his glass before he blinks towards her, all wide doe eyes and frown poised carefully on the edges of his lips as if thoughtful, pensive. It’s a lie in absolution as he never had photographs with anyone to begin with, never had a second of missing another being or any family members to speak of – all he left behind was a shitty apartment and even worse job, he left ghosts, he left demons. He was far more whole here but admitting that would cause a rift, make him seem callous, and so he tilted his head, looked as if he held a sigh on his lips, a shrug on his shoulders, he says, “At least they have certainty, right? They know exactly what’s gunna happen, exactly what they’re gunna get. We’re just gambling.” A short pause and he brings his glass to his lips, eyes meeting her face when he places it back on the bar top. “You know, the grass is always greener and all that.”
Dylan blinked, hearing the voice to the side of her. Tears hadn’t escaped her eyes, but they were beginning to sting and the last thing she needed was to be spotted crying in a bar. She had never been one to be overly vulnerable in front of people. Sure, she could scream her lungs out and cry with anger, but letting people see beyond her tough persona wasn’t easy and she had no desire to break down her walls here in a space ship bar.
Catching the eye of the bartender again, she nodded to her glass. “Make it a double?” Her fingers were still tracing the creases of the faded photograph, but she shifted her gaze to the person who spoke to her. “Is that so?” Dylan understood having a lack of sentimentality. As someone who had lived out of a backpack for most of her life, she would rarely find herself becoming attached to her possessions. But everyone had something they held on to- maybe not a photograph, but something. “Huh...?” Her brow furrowed at his words, “Oh... I guess.” Had she even really thought about that? “Better to gamble with a possible life than to die in a war you never wanted to be a part of.” At least if they died out here, they died trying. Maybe it’ll be a worse fate, but what did she have to stay behind for?
Since the attack by the synths, Dylan felt like she hadn’t stopped moving. The second things had started to fall apart on Earth, she had done everything she could to protect the synths she cared about, but there were only three that she could bring with her. They announced the tickets for the ships and the lottery followed soon after that, but Dylan was never one to rely on anyone else, or even luck, so she did what she had to. Boarding the USS Visitor only continued to keep her busy as she tried to keep up the facade, but now, sitting at the bar, she was finally able to take a breath. How many of her family had been left behind or killed? She hadn’t even had the chance to say goodbye to them and it was bringing up some far too painful memories. “Can I have a refill?” She asked the bartender, tapping her glass. Her eyes never lifted from the worn photograph in her hands and she was too zoned out to realise someone else was nearby.
“I mean, I get that — but how do you really know that?”
Dylan stared at her for a long moment before shrugging, “I don’t. I’m not an engineer. Maybe we’re mere seconds from death, but we’ve clearly all committed to it now.” Surely she wasn’t being serious? She couldn’t possibly think there were no safety measures to protect them from the vacuum of space.
Oliver couldn’t help but huff in frustration, but he knew she had a point. Besides, he was in debt to her for getting him off that planet. “What song do you want, Dylan? You get one song. Maybe just half of the song.”
“Wow... You’re letting me choose? That’s brave.” She teased, taking a moment to think of the songs she could remember. The only thing that seemed to pop into her head was an extremely annoying song from about a hundred years ago. “Okay, I wanna hear an over the top, ballad rendition of the classic masterpiece known as... Baby Shark.”
Cardio was objectively the single worst exercise he could think of. He was lucky in that the nature of his profession allowed him to stay pretty well conditioned without any intentional effort on his part, but without the steady stream of work that he was used to back in Arcadia, well… he had to do something. Abellio was around the corner, and he’d be damned if he arrived any less than ready to pick up some contracts after they’d landed.
And so it was, with annoyance, that Sevrin forced himself to go for a run, making his way all throughout the winding, multi-leveled housing sector of the ship.
After a literal eternity (otherwise known as about an hour, give or take), he slowed himself to a stop for a breather. He leaned his back against the wall he was closest to and took a long swig of water from his bottle. His eyes shut a moment then, tuning into the the steady, elevated rate of his pulse, and took a few deliberately slow breathes to urge it back towards it’s resting rate.
He heard footsteps approaching.. but initially paid them no mind - there were people wandering all over the damn place, after all. Until he realized that they’d come to a stop without having passed him. This prompted his eyes to reopen, his gaze coming to the person standing there in front of him. His brows lifted, curious, and with a layer of mild annoyance to his tone, asked, “Yeah? What do you want?”
Dylan had been heading back to her room after a long and exhausting morning of pretending to be someone she’s not. Looking down at her pristine dress and stiletto heels, she began to wonder if stealing those tickets had really been worth it. She sighed heavily, knowing that it obviously was, but maybe she shouldn’t have went so over the top with the nice clothes. Who was really going to investigate how people got their tickets? Surely there were far more nefarious means that others were keeping to themselves.
As she reached her door, another sigh escaped her as she came to a stop in front of a man who looked like he was having some difficulty with his oxygen intake. Dylan’s eyebrow raised when he looked at her, absolutely not appreciating the tone. “If you could not die in front of my door, that would be super.” The irritation was clear in her tone too as she pointed behind him to the door he was leaning against.
The observation deck of the USS Visitor. People mostly came and went after gazing at the vast blackness that stretched out before them and the unfamiliar constellations that reminded everyone, they were not on Earth anymore. He didn’t really understand the sentimentality of it all, the stars were simply balls of gas burning up in space. That was beside the point anyway; he found himself there because it was quiet, and his programming sought out respite before he would return to the bridge of his ship. He sat there trying to figure out the fascination though there was no quantifiable information he could come up with. He heard footsteps approach. He turned his head to see who it was, “I’ll be leaving shortly if you’re looking to be left alone.”
This ship was insane. Dylan had always known the rich lived excessively extravagant lives, but this was something else. Living on the streets of Sunshine District might have given her a distorted view on what was excessive, but they were literally in space. Never in a million years did Dylan think she would end up here and, despite the stolen clothes and manicured nails, she knew she would never truly belong here. Mostly she had been exploring the USS Visitor in an attempt to learn its layout, but upon reaching the observation deck she decided she deserved a break. Dylan hadn’t seen anyone else as she entered the room, releasing a breath she hadn’t realised she had been holding. How could she possibly keep this up?
The voice to her right startled her and it took everything within her to stop herself from dropping into a defensive position- not that this outfit would have allowed for such movement. “No need.” She replied, composing herself. “There’s enough space for the two of us.” She felt silly for emphasising the pun, but she couldn’t help herself. “Unless you wanted to be alone?”
Living on the streets, Dylan didn’t have a hope in hell of affording one ticket for the USS Visitor, never mind the four that she ended up with. Does she feel guilty for stealing them from a family? Maybe a little... But the synths that came with her are her family and they needed them more than some rich household that could probably get their hands on more tickets. Dylan was able to steal a lot more in the month leading up to the departure, making it look more believable that she was one of the rich people able to afford their own tickets.
