#qwprp

[imabaldwin]

lets do things

[aflord-blog]

/just sittin around in a tree being paranoid and watching for people he can a. steal food/supplies from or b. kill bc ah infection! also eating nasty stale food like hot dog buns and a can of peaches or s/t. very tired n dirty and really wanting a shower and also some conversations bc he's been wandering around totally on his own for prrrobably like several months now wah/

[boku-tachi-blog]

sitting in front of computer thinky face

mb i should put my ira chernova char in another group idk????? why am i playing so many murderous ppl good question????? but mb she'd either be part of the militia or an independent group that specifically hunts down groups like group 2

or

idk

help

[boku-tachi-blog]

WAIT I JUST HAD AN IDEA WHAT IF FOR THE GROUP ONE BADASS GIRLS OR W/E I MADE THIS LIKE FEMALE DIRTY HARRY FORMER-COP GIRL

and like lisbeth salander she hunts down evil men

which is why she's 1000% ok with killing them

(also she'd be the "likes to play with her food before she eats it" type kekeke)

(throw in a few parts lisbeth a few parts kara/starbuck a few parts bellatrix and a few parts clint eastwood and that's the recipe)

(also her face will be ira chernova so c8)

[boku-tachi-blog]

It was harder to learn to be free. He spent the first day of his newfound emancipation looking for food, only to find there wasn't any. The world had changed while you were gone, boy. Scarred its face and sharpened its teeth along a jagged whetstone. Now he shivered and quaked when he walked through ghost streets, sleeping beneath porch decks or in the beds of abandoned homes.

Sometimes he wandered these empty mahogany-lined hallways, stayed for more than a day. One house in particular, he almost considered settling in for good. It was as the family left it -- every pot and pan still hanging from its hooks, towels still folded and wrapped around their rack, pillows still fluffed for a head to hold. He perused the picture frames standing attentively along the mantelpiece. Two daughters, a mum and a dad. Every photo still exuberant with their eternally frozen smiles.

He left, eventually, because the ghosts made him too sad.

From each house he took a souvenir. He wasn't a sentimentalist, he was merely an envious man. He took all of the things he could never have, cufflinks and pressed shirts (that he later mangled into dirty messes), pearl necklaces, ornaments and trinkets. Useless items he kept tinkling in his pockets when he was bored or when the silence was so deafening it made him want to throw up. He found a black shotgun hanging in the garage of one house. He took that too.

Outside of London, a group of men had robbed him. Left him beat-up and bloody, pockets empty, heirlooms gone, but mysteriously, they left the gun. "Goddamn bastards."

He found out why, later. People don't take kindly to people who have guns, so they have guns of their own and point them at each other. It's a Mexican stand-off when he walks into town, and in the confusion, he shoots, he aims, he kills. A small child lay in the dust with a bullet in his head. He himself got away with a slug lodged in his ankle, and he spent the night under a lamp on an empty freeway, carving it out with a kitchen knife, tears leaking from his eyes. But the tears weren't out of pain.

"Goddammit," he growled, the noise tearing his vocal chords to threads, as a picture of the young boy tattooed itself onto the inside of his eyelids, "goddammit."

[boku-tachi-blog]

"You're an artist," he says, "did you know?" He lets a balloon of smoke curl out of his mouth, become a dragon, and then disappear. "I've seen your work before. The cuts and perforations on the bodies -- mon dieu." He shakes his head. "It makes my stomach turn to think about. But that's your trade, isn't it? And you are a master of your trade. The Michelangelo of deformity." He chuckles. "Not much of a talker when you have a conversation partner, are you. Apologies. I tend to let my mouth run sometimes."

He takes the cigarette out from between his lips with two fingers, examines the ash building up at the burning end. "The cigarette that you're smoking. Dunhill, rather expensive, very hard to get, especially, well." He laughs, sweeping a hand in an arc in front of him. "Where we are. But I think you can believe that I'm a man who can make things happen. I can do things for you that no one else can do, and in exchange, you can do things for me that no one else can do. The world, my friend, is at our collective feet. One needs only to use their imagination." Snuffing out the cigarette between his fingers, he asks, "So, dear Leo, what is that you desire out of Lady Freedom?"

There's a long swath of silence, then -- as flat and emotionless as the wall between them -- "I like to kill."

Claude laughs again. "As I thought. Your desires are most basic and primal...not unlike an animal's. Nothing wrong with that, of course. Very well. I shall put the gun in your hand, and in return, you will let me collar you. That is the deal."

He turns over in his bed and tucks the pillow neatly beneath his head. "Lastly, I suppose I should impress on you the severity of my seriousness. I seem to recall your body count totals 52, including those of your parents. Grisly, I must say -- I saw the pictures. However, I am not a cruel man. I am not murderous nor do I even enjoy the sight of blood. I am a scientist, and a philosopher, and relish in man's greatest triumphs. That being said, I have killed a hundred and eighty three people, and that is only to date."

He closes his eyes. The soft wings of Sleep rustle quietly against his eyelids. "Should you ever want to cross me, my friend...it would be best to keep that in mind."

[deadwomansbones-blog]

alexander is gonna be the one dude in the terrorist group that ISN'T down for murder sry

[qwprp]

ay yo!

so, to sort of get the ball rollin' again, we'd like to encourage you to keep on posting in the tag! if you need some inspiration, give one of these ideas a try:

give us the before and after-- a snapshot of what your character was like, you know, before the world ended, and a slice of them now that the worst may or may not have passed. (you could do literal pictures, or you could write something. or, you know, whatever. the world is your oyster.)

create a moodboard for your character. for examples of this, click the links: x x x (alternatively, create a polyvore set reflecting your character's sense of style-- before or after the crisis; whichever you prefer)

go to tv tropes and click the random button. write a drabble featuring or using the trope that comes up.

use a prompt from either this list or this one to create either a graphic or a drabble featuring your character.