#apocalypse.

[dgrayd]

       "Sometimes you can only get the subpar stuff. That's what makes the good stuff… well, good, isn't it?"

[ajdrawshq]

new ztd playthrough post bc the length of the other one is getting to me. anyway things are happening

[yellow-anonymous]

What is your weapon of choice for the zombie apocalypse?

Mine is the knowledge that they can’t be helped anymore. Just push back the guilt. This is simple: Aim, and pull the trigger. They aren’t human anymore.

[fr0mclay]

i'm thinking about how there's loads of ancient diseases frozen in artic ice and if it melts humanity could be exposed to plagues we can't fight... another potential apocalypse scenario

[painmon-a]

"So, full disclosure, you're... gonna have to fill me on the kinda vamp you are before we do any business." Sometimes being the magic guy has its perks in a community, but sometimes it makes him the middle man for woeful events like this meeting. You know you can learn too, right? Peter had said to one of his leaders the morning before he'd made the difficult journey here, but all he'd received was a snort and a pat on the back for his efforts. "Um— I've only met a couple in my time, but they've both been different. What're your, uh... preferences?"

@2kyears / starter call ( apocalypse verse ).

[dgrayd]

    "Would you come to my funeral?"

@thesongbiird / one-liner call!

[dgrayd]

@chaos--mode sacrificed: “ the radio works. we can’t call for help, but… i found a station that’s still playing music. “

       Instantly, Peter's attention snaps towards the radio. He wouldn't have bet on it being useful to call out to anybody anyway— call out to who exactly?— but to hear that it still provides music makes it a game-changer in his book regardless of pragmatism.

       The end of the world is obviously lonely, but more than that, it's cavernous. With the hustle and bustle of people reduced to nothing, his surroundings both sprawl out before him like neverending carpet and  narrow themselves to a needled tunnel. Its silence is the equivalent of starved termites; it chews through everything until traversing this barren wasteland feels much more like wading through chest-high static than it does making progress. Very little can slice through that primal, hungry quiet.

       When he picks up the radio and pulls it closer to his face, the low hum of a bass guitar fills his ears. It takes a moment for him to locate the rhythm with the volume turned almost to nothing, but the musician in him doesn't struggle too terribly.

       ❛ …makes me miss my guitars, ❜  Peter utters after a long minute of silence, the radio lowered to his lap with a fond but deeply melancholic smile. As somebody with no family to mourn and no friends to his name, he laments the loss of his instruments like most would their children.