Mind My Wicked Words

Tell the train to wait for me. Solomon | The Wanderer | Afflicted

[solomon-jordan]

beastxfprey:

Mocking or not, the answer has his gaze dropping, following the metal rails that stretch out beneath his feet. He doesn’t really believe in anything out of his mouth, that they’ll either find themselves in AC or that there’ll be anything worth finding waiting for them even if they did. Hope has never been a sensation he’s kept alive and well in his chest, but it’s always been an easier thing to discard when he didn’t have to think too long or hard about anything but his next hit. Now it’s a question of survival, how long he can keep walking, what’s waiting for them in the dark. If there’s anyone with bigger guns at the end of the line, or just more fire and ash. “Fuck that. I’ll steal a motorcycle or something first.” Never mind that he’s too much a New Yorker, well-versed in hailing down taxis and exceptionally less in being behind the wheel of anything. Learning was never necessary, and now it still might not be, because he can’t imagine what the highways looked like. Maybe just piled with bodies. “You really think that? That we’re gonna find normal anything?”

The further they travel away from the opening of the station they were in, the more Solomon’s skin crawls. Weeks to possible months old batteries in his flashlight make him regret not scavenging for some sooner. Though he doesn’t think he can be blamed for not setting collecting as many as possible as his main priority. Stealing a motorcycle however, when given the chance, would be the first thought on his mind and he misses a moment to claim doing so are his sentiments exactly. “Don’t know,” he says this only to buy himself time while he contemplates exactly where he is on the ‘hopeful to hopeless’ scale. “There’s gotta be some place out there that was at least a little prepared for this. Y’know like uh, some doomsday prepper’s compound. Or a military base, there’s a ton of those here along the east coast, and all across the south coast.” Running is a good idea to him but even he understands eventually they’ll need a place to run to. “If I thought everywhere went down like New York I’d have to seriously reevaluate what I’m still doin’ here.”

[solomon-jordan]

jaemacleod:

jae wouldn’t see his words as a ‘complaint’ - probably because he was so wholly used to verbalising just about anything that crossed his mind.  it was a vocal/audial stream of consciousness - not so much a complaint as an observation, a description – or at least, the overly verbose magician would likely couch it in less antagonistic terms.  as he was won’t to do. 

“ah, my friend - if i moved on from every place that served as no good, i fear i’d never have paused to lay my head to sleep.  though admittedly – sometimes – those ‘not good’ places did turn out to be the most - fun.”

he’s very obviously speaking about ‘before’ the whole - hell on earth shindig.  a tone of almost playful wistfulness to those words - longing for the, ‘no-good-but-fun’ times of the past.  and they’re offered with a grin and a rather flamboyant sweep of one hand - though he does manage to hide a small snicker at the faces of those just ahead who were equally dazzled by the man’s flashlight as he had been - and didn’t look quite as prepared to brush it off without displaying their discontent all over their pinched expressions.

“and it’s there that i have to disagree with you - worst case scenario… lets see… the only survivors left in the world are politicians, that would be pretty nightmarish.  OR - perhaps the new prime leader of the human race has been constructed from the semi-living, semi-sentient pieces of celebrity big brother contestants in a frankenstein monster kind of way.  OR - an invasion of giant flesh eating insect like creatures with the face of justin bieber.  though admittedly - before he likely met an undesirable end along with the rest of the populace - i did find his tunes quite catchy.”

the point he’s trying to make ( and there is one, apparently… somewhere ) in a very round about and not very poignant way is…

“there’s always a ‘worse’ scenario.  it’s a matter of perspective.  so make the best of what you’ve got, y’know?”

One man opts to up and leave when the environment isn’t good enough because he believes he can find something better. The other man chooses to stay, out of what, to Solomon, sounds like necessity. Their differences are quickly becoming apparent and interesting the more the guy goes on talking. Without sticking himself on the subject of why and how long a person should stay in an unfavorable environment, he at least gives credit to the man on the grounds that it helps Solomon to have a vehicle making a quick escape possible. Or, it helped.

It feels like one of those cliche ‘there are two kinds of people’ moments, but he knows better than to think people can be simplified down to such a degree. He can at least find it within himself to appreciate the implication that they’ve been both done a good deal of moving around and maybe even sleeping in strange places. And now they are in the same terrible situation and it probably counts for something, but he can’t keep himself from making quick assessments of the the person he’s trying to keep up with in conversation. Given the dangers lurking around them, given where he’s at right now, he has a tough time looking around and seeing how he can turn this into a better experience. 

“I get the sentiment, but I’m walking down a dark tunnel full of bodies and who knows what else with a flashlight on batteries I haven’t changed in weeks. Talk to me when we get out of here and I’ll tell ya what I’m making the best out of.” As they walk, he keeps the light on the middle of the ground in front of them and it’s just bright enough to illuminate the limbs of the few scattered corpses lining the walls. Not a moment later, he voices a second thought with words amiable in light of the oddly jovial disagreement they’re having. “I’ll admit giant flesh eating insects with Just Bieber’s face would be incredibly unsettling though. Thanks for putting that in my head.”

[solomon-jordan]

beastxfprey:

The words draw his gaze before the light flicks on and illuminates the speaker. And it’s almost odd now, the people that are becoming familiar to him that he didn’t meet at a party after a show. He isn’t anything special here, the rockstar tagline is rendered a useless thing. Less than worthless when it’s left him with little skill when it comes to firing a gun at any distance other than pointblank, when the poisons he’s swallowed only serve to make his fingers unsteady. He didn’t even think to carry a flashlight, and now he’s standing on rust-stained ground with the smell of death in his lungs waiting for someone else to light the way. “Thanks,” he manages, the word muffled by his unfamiliarity with it. But the question just has him shaking his head, and if his brother has a better plan than the one he sketched out for him, it’s nothing he’s been trusted with. Either because it doesn’t exist or because he simply can’t predict it. “This line goes to Jersey. Couldn’t tell you how far into it we’re going. Atlantic city if I”m lucky.“

The limitations of the group and being a part of it haven’t left Solomon’s mind since he met up with them back at the police station. He remembers thinking they wouldn’t be able to move too far all at once, and he finds himself still agreeing with the thought. Off the top of his head, he can name at least eight major cities far enough away to possibly be unshaken by the destruction of the city they’re fleeing from. He knows which of those cities he would rather be in, for the sake of getting into contact with people who will be willing to give him food and something to drive if they ever see clear streets again. But walking is a problem, walking with this many people makes it an even bigger one. The sound he makes in response to Atlantic city is close to a scoff because of it. He wishes he was left with his gps and not two dirty maps in his bag. “If you’re lucky huh,” he isn’t mocking, just considering those words as he meets Eli down by the tracks. “ ‘S gonna take us at least a month to get down there at this rate, and I think I’ll miss seeing the sun shine.” The comment is under his breath but loud enough, and he doesn’t really think they’ll remain in the tunnels for so long, but that’s his humor. He continues talking as he walks ahead, leading the way. “If we’re all lucky it’ll be peachy keen down there and we can all get back to some sense of normal.”

[solomon-jordan]

jaemacleod:

he’s left blinking a little, but no harm done.  the guy probably hadn’t known jae was there, peering into the gruesome scene until the light had swept past anyway.

“every fibre of my consciousness, every bead of self-preservation and a few hind-brain primal instincts are wholly in agreement with you there, mate.”

not that the guy had explicitly said that he thought it was a bad idea, just referenced bad idea in general, but jae’s not going to be picky and just go with the inference, flow, thing… whatever.  no, jae isn’t particularly enjoying the romp into the dark ( he can’t imagine that anyone’s getting a kick out of it ) - and he’s heard more than a few quiet mutterings about the groups last ‘encounter’ as testament to the uneasiness of the others too… he can’t blame them.  it’s not exactly the ideal situation to be in, regardless of the state of the world beyond.  and it’s not as though it’s even a fear of the unknown… maybe more a fear of the known.  not what ‘could’ be down there with them, but what ‘probably was’.

“but, as they say… needs must as the devil drives.  and i’m pretty sure little horn is out there cruisin’ around somewhere in a white cadillac, chrome rims, uber pimp upholstery, slammin’ sound machine… the works.”

why not?  it wasn’t that hard to imagine that someone had to be getting some kind of sick enjoyment out of all this.

“where as we – are decidedly in the cheap seats or… the shit hole.  metaphorically and literally…  so it’s probably wise to heed said warnings and get the hell out of dodge asap, huh?”

The other man vividly words his agreement and perfectly vocalizes what Solomon is feeling in doing so. He envies the man’s passion, never mind the tone of his voice. Complaining had practically been conditioned out of him at a young age, the urge to do so pulled out of him more and more with each flick on the nose he got for it. Even now as an adult, his complaints come in the form of roundabout observations regarding his predicament. It allows him to let others complain for him as he endures whatever ails him.

More comments come and he can barely keep up with what the guy is saying. The confusion becomes evident in his expression, a smirk at the words and furrowed brows at his guess for what they mean. It’s been a long time since he’s had a conversation with someone who seems so book-smart. He keeps quiet, using what intelligence he does have to dissect the meaning from those colorful words and form a response of his own. “Uhuh,” he shines his light ahead of them, pointing it downward when a few people turn back with annoyed gazes. “If there’s anything I know, it’s that there’s no point in stayin’ some place that’s doing you no good. This tunnel’s creepy as hell but worst case scenario is we run into exactly what we’re running from.”

Slipping into humor underscored by fear is something he’s become too comfortable with, but he doesn’t think about it now. “Worst case scenario is the whole fuckin’ country looks like what we’re runnin’ from and we just gotta keep runnin’.” It’s grim, but it’s similar to the reality of the world he was already living in.

[solomon-jordan]

jaemacleod:

fingers run over the dust thickened trunk of a sedan.  not too sure what the colour is in the ever encroaching darkness ( maybe silver, or perhaps a weird beige - he’s not sure why anyone would ever buy a beige car ).  this doesn’t feel like a good idea.  then again, being left alone in that church didn’t feel like a good idea either.  strength in numbers - or… something.  the light at the end of the tunnel ( as he’d turned back to take a look ) seemed to be a rather obscene irony as they walked away from it, a red glow, narrowing down to a single point and then… nothing.  like a star blinking out of existence.  he squints into the car, two bodies propped in the front seat, a grotesque parody of something ‘normal’ if not for the leathered, semi-rotted skin, open eyes as the fluids left the body and peeled back lids against sockets that were mostly now just a home for flies.  and he might think to search the vehicle - opening doors here and there, if not for the knowledge of the stench that would billow out with a swarm of corpse born insects.  the flash of light passing by from the other side of the vehicle is just enough to burn the grotesque image vividly onto the back of his retina, and he blinks, not turning away fast enough to spare himself the macabre detail or the strange blobs of colour that settle into his vision immediately after - not quite able to clearly see who’s there.

“ah, thought i was the only straggler back here.  should probably get a shuffle on and catch up, huh?”

A particular level of alertness comes with every state of Solomon’s being. The environment around him and any changes made to it are often logged away to the back of his mind in case they become important to his own survival. After living on the road for so long, the need to adapt and be ready for danger comes as second nature.  But in the tunnel, partially illuminated by his flashlight, his senses are becoming a nuisance. The noise of the rocks crunching under the weight of those ahead of him helps to drown out all the other little echoes traveling down the tunnel. But every so often his gaze jerks up in the direction of someone stepping on broken glass or coughing from the miasma of corpses and distant gasoline. He doesn’t know when he started falling to the back of the group but he’s sure he did it on purpose. Less people to talk to means a little less to worry about, even as he flashes his light on the car and the gruesome display inside. He lowers the light when he sees he might have blinded the other man. “Yeah,” the agreement is in the word and nothing else. It’s probably just his nerves that have him feeling like they’re walking toward more danger. He lets his boots drag against the rocks. “These bodies are starting to feel like a warning. Can’t imagine most people would think heading down a dark, abandoned tunnel ‘s a good idea.”

[solomon-jordan]

beastxfprey:

If there’s some part of Eli that’s grateful to leave the church, the feeling can’t settle into anything comfortable when they follow the broken sidewalks back to Penn Station. The city rendered some shattered mockery of what it used to be. Eli trails along with hands shoved in his pockets, sweat-slickened palms holding tightly onto the handle of a gun. It’s still not enough to steady him, finding himself stopping at the top of the stairwell leading down into darkness. The floor still stained with rust and bodies lying desiccated across the entrance. He clears his throat, watching the bobbing of a flashlight somewhere in front of him that does little to illuminate his own way down. “Anybody else got a light?”

Reaching the top of the steps, Solomon stares down into the darkness with the closest feeling to terror he’s felt since the city began to crumble. He sees the bodies, smelled them before even getting this close, and practically feels the darkness curling its finger at him to step inside. These aren’t the problems, these are aspects of the world around them ending that he had gotten used to back when they settled into the train station. The problem is where they’re going. But if it’s within his right to declare he’ll find another way around, he ignores it for fear of seeming weak for being afraid of tunnels. “Right here.” He replies to Eli, wondering if the pitch black tunnel was frightening to him as well, or simply an inconvenience. He flicks on the flashlight he was already holding, shining it at the bodies as he gets to the edge of the first step and hesitates moving any further. “Any chance you know how far we’re walking?”

[solomon-jordan]

wesley-kelley:

Wes didn’t stop to think till he’d hit the glass. The noise has him looking around, a small slip of habit, as though they were still living in a normal world, as though some cops were gonna pop out of nowhere and bust the pair of them. Like they were a couple of teenagers, practicing pointless destruction with only a small treat at the end of it all. Only it’s not fun and games. It’s two grown ass men, living in Hell on Earth, eyeing food like jewels. Candy was like crack in prison, especially for those like Wes who didn’t have anyone on the outside to pay for their commissary, so not that much has actually changed for him. 

Wes looks around, see’s the man wave at those who jump at the sound before his attentions return, partially, to Wes. He scoffs. Yeah, things aren’t so simple as they felt for a few, brief seconds, but he’ll take the little moment’s where he can find them. Especially if it means he gets to fuck around, he clicks his tongue before he’s squaring up. Standing like he’s stepped up to the plate, ass stuck out, feet squared, bat swung back behind him. 

“I’d let you have a go, but I already loosened it up for ya,” Wes flashes a grin the man’s way, “Can’t have you stealing my moment.” He swings. He scores! The sheer strength of it and the violence rings out loud and clear with the glass cracking, falling and the bat hitting against the machine’s inner mechanisms. Wes whoops – like he just scored the home run. “You’re welcome.”

Disapproval shines in the eyes carrying some of the looks pointed at them and Solomon wonders, humorously, if they’ve never seen anything worse. What looks like two men causing a disturbance to some, feels like a temporary reprieve from the harshness of the world outside to him.  Alone, he would have spotted the vending machine and went at it with his axe like a madman; chopping away at the glass until it shattered and he could greedily collect its contents like an animal. Instead, Wes is accompanying him, semi-unintentionally, and he’s having a bit of a good time. It comes as no surprise to him that many in the group are in no mood to joke around, but Wes is easily reflecting his refusal to be too serious. Even in light of the apparent apocalypse. Even in light of how low their resources are. Though he still plans to greedily collect the vending machine’s contents, perhaps less like an animal while in another person’s presence.

He doesn’t bother looking around when the bat connects with the glass for a second time. If there’s anyone to blame for the startling noise, it’s Wes for not managing to break the glass the first time. “ Thank’s, man,” the phrase is indifferent and very much a reaction to Wes’ welcome as he steps forward to the machine, smirking at the mess. “A swing like that makes me wonder if you ever actually played ball.” The glass crunches under his boots and he reaches for a few bags of chips before eyeing the Reese’s. His smirk widens. “I’m gonna go ahead and say since I caught sight of the vending machine first, I oughta have dibs on that pack a’ Reese’s.”

[solomon-jordan]

charliexhall:

He has a few questions for her. She might verbally choose to ignore the first but it sticks in her cranium like a wad of gum - an frustration every time she takes a step and feels it cling to the concrete below. She can’t move without thinking of her family, about where they are and what they’re doing. If they’ve attempted to contact her every day or if they’re sitting by their TVs waiting for news of her survival. Or if they’re too busy fighting off the monsters at their door too and she hates acknowledging that there might be a chance the rest of the country mirrors the city. Charlie answers the second question instead, the weight of the phone heavy in her jacket pocket. “Nah,” she informs him honestly, “Battery’s dead now anyway. No luck. I have a charger, but the city’s got no electricity it seems so that hasn’t been helpful either.”

In asking the question, he wasn’t particularly hopeful Charlie had managed to get a call through, but hearing her answer still pulls at the weight on his shoulders. “Shit sucks,” the words fall blunt from his mouth without much thought, “feels like years since I’ve sent a text or seen the news.” He looks at the clock that had brought him into the conversation, “feels like the world’s stopped moving.” Being ‘off the grid’ isn’t a foreign feeling for him, but this is pushing it. It’s forced and out of his control and he supposes the unpredictability of it all combined with not knowing what tomorrow will bring is what helps to keep him so frustrated. These feelings aren’t going to help him relax, he realizes, and he tries to bring a bit of humor back. “I wonder if you can use spark plugs on a phone like you can with e car ta’ power it back on.” It sound improbable, but these are desperate times. 

[solomon-jordan]

wesley-kelley:

Wes slips his bag off his shoulder so he can unclip the bat from his bag. He would have happily spent his time sulking alone in the station, but this guy was proving easy company for Wes. Plus, he’d offered up an easy and fun distraction: smashing shit. Breaking things, preferably not himself, always proved a good distraction. Although before he always knew the consequences of it, time in the hole, threatening with the cops being called. Now it’s no longer just Wes, he can shift the blame from himself. 

“C’mon man,” Wes feigns childish annoyance at the question, still fiddling with the straps on his bag, “You get a cool ‘Hey, Stranger’ and I get ‘Last Minute Shopper’? Like I’m a soccer mom or some shit. Tsk.” 

He drops his bag straightening up with the bat in his grip looking over the vending machine, “My name’s Wes and I call dibs on the Reese’s. Batter up!” He calls out with a grin, not even waiting for the man to return the favor with his own name, They can have a chit- chat over some snacks, anyhow. Swinging with all his strength into the glass. It doesn’t smash through completely – as he kinda expected it to. The glass fills with cracks, slightly caved in where the end of the bat landed.

Looking to the vending machine once they get there, his only real response to the nickname dilemma is a barely concealed laugh. While he is receptive to the act, he doesn’t think, and hopes, the guy isn’t serious. It’s all Solomon knows him by, really, and anything referring to his height, hair color, or apparent choice of weapon simply felt less entertaining. The subject is soon cast out of him mind in favor of checking out what the vending machine has to offer and he can’t say he’s entirely disappointed. It’s far from a proper meal, but there’s a whole line of skittles in there and what’s even better is that there’s a single pack of Reese’s left precariously perched at the edge of a shelf. There’s practically a spotlight on it until he catches what Wes says before yelling in warning of his swing.

Trying to decide whether or not he’ll fight the man (verbally, because he’s not a psychopath), he smirks when the glass doesn’t break completely. The sound of the collision pulls a few worried pairs of eyes their way and he ducks his head, waving in a ‘nothing to see here, citizen’ sort of manner. When he looks back toward Wes it’s more of a side glance than anything and his words are lightly mocking. “ Strike one.”

[solomon-jordan]

Fetch

[solomon-jordan]

maya-brenner:

There’s fear in her chest that’s building slowly. She knows they won’t be able to outrun these hounds and she knows she’s not a good enough shot to hit a moving target. Barely a good enough to hit a stationary one. She knows Solomon, knows more about him than she knows about a lot of people, but she doesn’t quite know how he handles himself with a gun. She imagined him more of a fist fighter type of guy, but that helped very little against the hounds that were at their heels. She was already starting to breathe a little hard even before he pointed out that they’d be tired long before the hounds were and she couldn’t agree more. 

When he points out the alley, she nods her head, urging him to take his own advice and go that way. “Sounds good. Maybe we could hide,” she tells him, though even as the words leave her mouth, she doesn’t know if that’s a smart idea or not. They’re dogs, they’re hounds, would they run right pass? Sniff them out? She doesn’t know how these creatures work, but she’s not going to stick around or debate strategy while giving them the chance to close in on them. So she veers towards the alley, making sure Solomon keeps at her side as much as she can. They’re in this together and they’re going to get out of this together. Somehow. 

“What about here?” she asks, winded already as she points towards an open door coming up on their right at the end of the alley. She doesn’t know where it leads, but it’s a metal door and she’s hoping it’ll close and lock behind them. Maybe affording them some time to come up with a better plan. 

The word ‘hiding’ brings a bitter taste to Solomon’s mouth. On some basic, animalistic level, running from a fight feels wrong and he blames it on half a life spent strong-arming his way out of conflicts. He has to remind himself they’d be hiding with good reason. It’s dogs with glowing red eyes, leaving clouds of smoke they’re running from; an unfamiliar threat that will take some thought to overcome. Turning into the alley he spotted, Maya at his side, he tears himself from the thoughts not pertaining to his survival. As he bolts down the alley with her he doesn’t catch sight of one dog mistakenly sticking to the straight path while the rest turn down the alley; all he hears is the dent the dog makes in the car it crashes into.

It would be nice if the rest of the dogs were just as dumb, but they aren’t so lucky.  The rest of the pack continues after them, a few even appearing to attempt to circle around them when Maya finds the door. An entrance left open in such a way makes him wonder and worry about what might be inside, but going in is better than staying out; especially when they could run into a dead end in the alley. “Yeah let’s go,” he’s already heading for the opening when those words come and once they’re both inside, he pulls the door closed as fast as he can. With his hands on it still and looking for a lock, he can feel the metal heat up as the dogs scratch at the other side.

Adjusting his grip on his hatchet, he steps back from the door and catches his breath. “Hopefully they can’t fucking open doors.” A comment made half in fear and half in desperate humor. He figures not much is out of the question at this point. He turns around and looks at Maya, then at the place they’ve just run into. It could be a show venue or a store, but he doesn’t know by the current state of demolition. ”You okay?” He asks with a glance back before peeking around a corning into another section of the building. There’s higher ground to run to but it could be unstable, and the lingering scent  of burning wood and rubber from outside has him wondering how long it’ll be before those dogs find another way in.

[solomon-jordan]

charliexhall:

The voice isn’t familiar to her ears, but the face is when she tilts her head to watch the stranger. There’s a spark of recognition in her gaze before it fully registers just how she knows him. The rooftop. It feels like years since that day, every week feeling longer and longer when she isn’t able to find sleep as easily as she used to - in the comfort of her own bed with the bustling city noisy beneath her and neighbors bickering about loud television sets and barking dogs. Charlie shrugs at the question he poses, never spending any amount of time on wondering how she would change the time on the clock. She never intended to. “I don’t know,” she offers as she stares up at the intricate metal work, “A ladder, maybe?”

Her answer isn’t hard to come by and in truth he cares about where she would find a ladder as much as he cares about when he’ll be able to get another haircut; and that is to say, very little. It was small talk for the sake of small talk, but now he gives it up in exchange for more meaningful conversation. “Shit, you’re right,” he intones, feeling bad for trying to mess with her. He tries not to think about how his sister, if presented with the same question, would have taken his words as a challenge. This time his eyebrows draw closer in genuine curiosity. “What do you wanna change the clock for, anyway?” A second thought comes and he has a slightly more important question. “Have ya been able to get your phone to work since you tried it on the roof?”

[solomon-jordan]

aureliazaher:

“And yet they’d much rather have arrest me who’s done nothing but appreciate, no, worship booze.” There’s a sly smile on her lips, taking ownership of the lifestyle she’d led. So many sins on her hands and a trail of broken laws left in her wake, it should have been freeing to think that any punishment she might have faced had they ever managed to catch her would now never come to pass. Instead it took half the fun out of it. It had been the adrenaline rush that had kept her hooked, an addiction to the natural high that the body produced if you exposed it to the right circumstances. Their little heists and lifts never got old, the thrill never wearing off when they were so above everyone else. Untouchable. But now that was all tainted when almost everyone had left laws behind in favour of self preservation and she was lumped with the majority instead of standing apart and above.

The only thing that set her apart now was her choice to get drunk rather than find a way out of the city, her selfishness keeping Solomon there too. Only person in New York stupid enough to place a kick over their own safety. But it wasn’t like she really had anything left to lose now when she’d known that her habits would resort in her demise being earlier than it should be and she’d embraced that.

There’s a thoughtful tilt of her head as she considers his question and the idea intrigues her. However, human nature is generally predictable and the need to put a value on things, to qualify them, stemmed from the need for order. Something she could only imagine people would cling to al the more now as their lives descended into chaos, something she was still strangely at ease with. Maybe because her life had never had much stability, it was easier to accept disorder when you’d never had any structure to begin with. “Money might go but food will be the new money. So, steal everything you can.”

She admits to worshiping booze and while Solomon’s first instinct is to judge her for it, he immediately rejects the opportunity to act as if he knows any better. He’s willing to guess there is a good gap between their ages, but he knows all too well being older doesn’t necessarily make one wiser; and with the nomadic lifestyles they both live he can’t rightly think he’s more experienced either. If he knew better, he wouldn’t have stopped at a liquor store in the first place. There will come a moment when he feels dizzy enough, when his limbs are just heavy enough to be a distraction from all that surrounds him, that he’ll leave with or without her. But it’s important to note he had in stopped, has started to drink, and is chatting with her as if the city around them isn’t in ruins.

Instead of passing false and (no doubt) unwanted judgement, he mentally commends her for being able to admit to her fault, and whether she recognizes it as one is really none of his business. He shows his admiration for her shamelessness in the way he smirks back at her, and he shows his envy in the way he looks downward after, tapping his fingers against the bottle in his hands.

Food will be the new money, she says with a certain confidence that makes him laugh. Modern luxuries will fly out the window if they completely lose electricity and phone signals, people will run for whatever will keep them alive and relatively happy; he supposes she’s right. He thinks deep that the answer he gives and pauses after it to let his thoughts coagulate. “I’m bettin’ everything that won’t go bad within a month is already gone.” The pause isn’t too long. “But I’ll pick up all the cigarettes I can find. Best time ‘ta take advantage of someone’s addiction s’when they’re desperate and you need somethin’.” It’s a particularly dark idea but he doesn’t correct himself. He takes another swig of wine instead, finding the light burn nothing in comparison to what he’s had in the past. He’ll sit a while longer and talk with Lia, until he feels like he has to go, or maybe until he feels content with staying right here.  

[solomon-jordan]

Quick! You and the rest of the group have to repopulate the Earth. Who do you... "partner up" with?

Creepy. That’s super creepy. I’m gonna have to tap out on this one, man.

[solomon-jordan]

Any thoughts on the group?

Nobody’s died and I haven’t had to fight anybody yet. I’d say they’re good people.

[solomon-jordan]

Meet the Survivor

Solomon Jordan

[solomon-jordan]

aeryndewitt:

Aeryn was already fed up with the fact that she had the nightmare again, now she was dealing with it and the fact that there was a witness to it. She remembered why she was reluctant to join groups; she didn’t like the fact that there was little to no privacy anywhere. Her gaze shifted toward the group, who didn’t seem to notice her waking up like this guy did. At least she was far enough away from most of them to have been left alone, save for this guy.

“No refunds,” she muttered, rubbing at the back of her neck. Sleeping on a bench wasn’t as comfortable as she hoped, but it was better than sleeping on the concrete floor. She turned her head at the glint of one of the hatchet blades in the faint light of the station. “You always sharpen axes next to someone sleeping? That’s some horror movie villain level bullshit.”

Reading the look on her face and the way she rubs the back of her neck, Solomon finds he can relate on a basic level. She’s well within her right to be snappy with him, and he figures he ought to apologize for his previous quip, knowing he isn’t privy to whatever fearsome imagery jolted her from her sleep. Lately, he’s had to remind himself more and more of how he isn’t the only one dealing with the negative effects of what’s happened; the result of a habitual selfishness and a distant, but growing readiness to ignore the pain of others.

It’s the distant lack of concern that drives him away from asking if she’s okay yet; slight indifference in the guise of not wanting to encroach on her personal space. “Or some heroic action movie level bullshit,” he easily replies, humor in his voice but not in his expression as he sets the hatchet down and rolls his shoulders. “You never know when you’re gonna need a guy with an axe.”

[solomon-jordan]

Fetch

[solomon-jordan]

maya-brenner:

Maya’s eyes go wide at the sound of hounds coming their way. She doesn’t need his confirmation to tell her they’re following, that they’re going to have to make a decision quickly and he gives her two options. Fight or flight. She knows which one sounds better to her, knows that her aim with a gun isn’t the best. She’s only fired it a handful of times and most of them had been at an unmoving target, held in place by Nacio’s magic. There’s the thought that they should go find him, go get him to use that magic against these, but they’re too far away from the station and the sounds of howls and gunshots echo from that side as well. 

It has her turning to look over her shoulder at the station. The feeling of being surrounded threatens to overwhelm her. Danger exposing itself all at once and her gaze settles back on Solomon, caught in a slight panic that perhaps this is it. Perhaps the world has finally caught up with them. She stifles it down, quiets it forcibly because if there’s one thing she won’t do, she won’t give up. No matter the situation, rolling over and letting this world consumer her wasn’t an option she was going to give into. 

“I’m not looking for a crash course,” she tells him, reaching out to pat his arm as she starts moving, making sure that he’s really set on running with her and hadn’t just thrown it out as an option he wasn’t willing to do. There was no shame in trying to outrun the danger, or avoid it altogether. Not every encounter needed to be met head on and she figured they’d have a better chance it they kept their distance, kept some ground between them and the hounds that were making their way swiftly up the street. “We’re running,” she tells him, picking up the pace and heading away from the station and the commotion happening there. 

No more than two months could have gone by since the fall of New York, but Solomon wouldn’t have needed the time nor the chaos to know he would fight beside Maya if he had to. By his own design, she knows more about him than most and more about him than anyone else in this group. It makes her a lifeline of sorts, something, like the act of having to sleep on hard floors, that hasn’t changed. She’s one amongst a handful of friends he’s never asked anything of, never guilt-tripped into giving him money or spending a few nights in her home. There isn’t time for him to think about why that is now, but if watching over her like some kind of rookie guardian angel will make up for all the rambling and information she’s patiently sat through, he’s willing to leave it be.

Despite his thoughts, he’s relieved as ever when she tells him they’re running, because it’s exactly what his instincts tell him to do. First he follows her with a jog, speeding up to a run that has him breathing faster to keep enough oxygen flowing to his brain. Adrenaline and dread are coursing through his veins as the hounds draw nearer and he looks to the streets ahead of them for obstacles they can use to their advantage. “We’re gonna get tired before they do,” he comments, not quite out of breath but reminding himself of his limits as the station pulls further out of sight.  They’ll need to find a route that will buy them a little more time to make up a plan to get out of this. Or if they’ll lucky, darting around will do just that.

“Look,” he points ahead of them to an opening between two buildings, “We could run through the alleys and try ta loose ‘em.” He takes a quick look behind them, getting a glimpse of the hounds barreling through the street littered with cars and debris. Distress peppers his tone. “-Or we can fuckin’ break them up at least.”