#uninfected

[zorkvh]

telepathically transmitting the image of me kissing u into ur head while u game and we cuddle a little

[the-colony-roleplay]

Wren Phillips | Twenty Eight;  Elite

House: Delma Status: Uninfected Elite Specification: Trauma Therapist

[*TW: addiction, drug use*]

History

Wren was a good kid. A good kid and an exceptional student, raised in a family where grades, dedication and ambition were the stepping stones of success and the key to getting everything you wanted out of life. The middle child of three bothers, Wren was eager to be everything his parents wanted him to be, and though they did put some pressure on all three of their boys, it wasn’t without plenty of support nor was it enough to be negative.

His older brother a varsity jock, his younger, an aspiring musician, Wren’s parents were pleased when he decided to go into the medical field. But Wren wanted so much to meet his parents’ expectations, not to mention his own, that he began to buckle under the stress of the university workload. In an effort to increase his productivity, Wren bought into the black market of amphetamines, using one of the more widely-known campus dealers. He never meant to make a problem of it, never dreamed it would get out of control, but what started as something to help him through his cram sessions, became a daily thing to make him more alert in class, and then a nightly thing, to help him finish his work faster, and then a constant thing to make up for the fact that his new habit was making time for everything but sleep.

It was the weekend before his finals in his third year of university that it happened. He’d been up for three days straight, cramming and high on medication in his desperation to cover everything. On his way to campus on Monday morning, he was speeding through a school zone and was unable to stop on time when a fourth grader ran out into the street.

It was by some miracle that the little girl—Emma-Sophia, was her name, a name that would both haunt and comfort Wren for the rest of his life—survived. Wren spent countless hours in the emergency waiting room that day. Waiting, waiting, waiting—waiting for what he was sure to be bad news, but he prayed to be proven wrong, to anyone or anything in the universe willing to listen. Not for his sake, because he was the last person to deserve it—but for hers. Dear God, if only for little Emma’s sake.

And a miracle came. She’d gone into surgery and come out safely, her fierce little heart still beating, with only some stitches, bruises and a broken arm to show for how narrowly she’d escaped death. Her parents hadn’t wanted to so much as see Wren’s face and he didn’t blame them, but he’d waited until the doctors had come with the news and he’d managed one final look at her through the window of her room, the little machine beeping away as she slept, looking so peaceful, and he cried.

But miracle or not, the incident crushed him.  And what could have or should have served as an irrevocable motivation to straighten his life out, only made matters worse. ‘Thanks’ to his family’s wealth and excellent defence lawyers, he got off easy in court—too easy—which had brought relief for his parents, but a relentless, angry guilt for Wren. He can still hear Emma’s mother’s angry, heartbroken wail when he’d been sentenced only to a year’s probation and a temporary suspension of his student practicing licence, on the condition that he attend court-ordered professional help.

Of course, Wren’s troubles sleeping only escalated, and though therapy served as some outlet to cope with the trauma, he found losing himself in his work to be more effective, and he had several missed exams to make up for. However, for all the ways in which Wren struggled, he was altogether too efficient at hiding them from his friends and family. Customarily of a warm and gregarious nature, he’d slide the evidence of his trauma behind a bright smile and warm, puppy-dog eyes. He soldiered on through the remainder of his undergraduate program, battling insomnia, addiction and fluctuating depression, and by some miracle, finished his first year of medical school in the top ten percent of his class.

Wren was in his second year of medical school and working part time at a small facility in Wales, when the End came. He spent about a year travelling with a group of wandering survivors, searching for sanctuary. With his addiction still an unresolved issue, the first six or seven months were hell for him in more ways than one. In the clan that formed around him, he found support and even friendship, but they were dark days for him and unfortunately, the darkness persisted as his fellow survivors slowly started to fall around him, dying of starvation, infected injuries, or victims of manslaughter.

About fourteen months after D-Day, however, Wren was discovered thin and weak, on the shores of the South of Wales. He was picked up by one of the merchant ships and taken aboard, where he stayed for a few weeks while they completed their run. They nursed him back to health as best they could, then dropped him off into the hands of Colony 22.

Wren Today

Going on five years later, Wren has reunited with portions of the man he used to be and he believes he has his position as a therapist on the CISM team to thank for a great deal of that. Again working with his passion, he finds it has helped to keep him in touch with himself, and within the Colony he is an amicable and approachable individual. He’s grateful every day for being saved the way he had been, is happy at Colony 22 and loves what he does—however, becoming a registered citizen and an Elite did come with its downsides: the exposure and access to medication.

With his addiction not so much overcome as it was simply cut off at the source, the temptation suddenly at his fingertips proved to be too much. Though Wren’s abuse of the meds available is limited in comparison to his struggles before the End (vastly due to the actual supply being rather limited, as well as the extreme guilt involved in taking from the minimal resources they have for those truly in need) it’s something he battles on a regular basis, fighting temptation and succumbing to weakness, a constant roller coaster.

Wren is one of the few therapist who still goes to therapy himself. He has difficulty sleeping, the uppers being only part of the problem, as the incident that had first caused his crash nearly ten years ago still haunts him in his lows, as do the memories of his post D-Day trauma, the deaths that he’d been forced to witness while at his weakest.

Nonetheless, Wren is otherwise still much stronger than he used to be, and is more often than not, high energy, cheery and positive—and as far as some of the crankier citizens are concerned, excessively so. He’s a team player, which is useful in the Games, and he’s always looking to help a friend out, whatever way he can. Though no one is aware of his problem, in theory it is difficult to tell where his natural friendly demeanour ends, and where his addiction begins.

TAKEN

[pandemonshq]

DRACO MALFOY

BLOOD STATUS: pure-blood HOGWARTS HOUSE: Slytherin BIRTHDAY: 5 June 1980 (40) OCCUPATION: Unemployed (Vampire Hunter) STATUS: UNINFECTED

There’s not a lot of things in his past that Draco can be proud of but somehow, his future was working-out to be something far better than anything he deserved: freedom, a wife with whom he’d forged a loving friendship, a son who was already making him prouder than he could possibly imagine, parents who weren’t in Azkaban...and then Astoria got sick. Nothing Draco could brew or buy would cure her of her vampiric infection, but in his searching he learned something else: she wasn’t the only one. For centuries, vampires had been nothing but an exotic footnote in the legacy of magical half-breeds...but sometime in the years since Voldemort’s fall, that all changed. And it’s only getting worse. These days, it seems like there’s a new case popping up every day -- and even if most of them are temporary, Draco knows that it’s a sign of worse to come. He also knows that he’s nobody’s savior, nobody’s chosen one...but someone has to do something. He just never expected that someone would be him.

FACECLAIM: Alexander Skarsgård // Austin Butler

                                                                              READ MORE.

[stay-uninfected]

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Results of the vote: 75% voted YES, 25% voted NO

The twins decide to try the front door, only to find it’s locked. The mare probably didn’t open shop this morning. Bow Snap suggests heading in through the smashed front window, but Key Note thinks they can break the lock on the door.

Should they risk the broken glass, or try breaking open the lock?

[Send an ask with “Window” or “Lock” in order to vote! Anons are accepted too!]

Current inventory can be found here: https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/15qVBK_xUL8GOsSbBorY-WBBm2Qv-9HbPTDBDM6D-hQA/edit#gid=406831843

The way this comic works has been altered! It will now be standard to “choose your own adventure” in the form of two or more choices, where everyone gets to vote. Anon votes are accepted too! Only very rarely will it be free choice, as I realized it’s probably way too overwhelming for a story that’s barely beginning.

The outcome of each action is determined by each character’s stats, which can be found here. Effects and certain items do change these stats, so keep an eye on them.

OCs are always needed for zombies in this story! If you’d like to see your OC in here, just send me a reference!

[the-colony-roleplay]

Clove Modius | Twenty Nine;  Head of Torren House

House: Torren Status: Uninfected Elite Specification: New Wave Reformist, Head of House Pronouns: He/Him

History

In his time, Clove had been quite possibly the most famous art thief on earth, taking from private collections and public museums alike. At heart, he was a showman, though he worked in the shadows, and the pieces he stole never stayed stolen for long (they always ended up back where they had come from, providing an extra challenge to him).

It was from his mother that he inherited his love of art– and it was from his father that he inherited the shadowy abilities necessary to steal it. Watching his mother daub watercolour murals across their home inspired a fervent desire in him; what were the polluted greys and browns of the world around them, compared to this? It wasn’t enough for Clove. He wanted more. It began small, just trinkets taken from classmates, shirts pulled from washing lines that weren’t his.

Of this, his parents were aware. They tried to stop him, but their efforts were half hearted at best. What they didn’t know of was its escalation, over the years becoming grand heists that found their way into the news. The strangest thing to them was how the thief had no interest in selling it on; none of the pieces were ever recovered from the black market; in time, they would simply reappear in their original place. The uniqueness of the crime spree was enough to keep them interested.

With the arrival of D-Day, he should have given up on that lifestyle. He had lived comfortably on the money left to him by his parents, enjoyed his secret heists, and had great plans for the future. Instead of letting the asteroids stop him, though, he took the opportunity to pillage more than ever before. Nobody cared about the art any more; nobody but Clove.

Survival wasn’t easy, but he found herself with a group of Looters, which suited him just fine. They didn’t mind if he wanted to grab ancient carvings and antique jewels, just so long as he hauled his fair share of useful resources too. It was worth it; the theft had never been about money for him, but about possessing beauty.

Clove is no fool though, and when, some months ago, he was approached by a group styling themselves as the New Wave Reformists, he knew they could give him more than the Looters ever could. Without a glance back, he took off with this new group.

Clove Today

The trouble, for Clove, is that the human existence was perfection already. The form was beautiful, whether cast in marble or flesh, and the mind was complex beyond belief. The new Infections cropping up everywhere seemed to him to be a desecration of nature’s finest art. The Infected are little more than a graffittied statue next to his own pure form. Certainly he feels pity for them, because they didn’t ask to be ruined. But the trouble is, they are ruined, and they’re inferior for it.

He’d thought that even before the Reformists found him, and with their guidance his beliefs only solidified. With his criminal past undocumented (famous as he’d been, it had been under an alias and nobody had ever identified him), they had no reason not to trust him. He was just a young man with a vicious streak of snobbery in him, and in the Reformists’ circle, it allowed him to make friends fast.

With Colony 22′s takeover, the Chancellor specifically requested Clove to become part of his team. Though he had few marketable skills to offer, he was strong willed and unshakeable, and he would be happy to have him as the head of his house. Many survivors have high hopes when they first see him, for his soft doe eyes and gentle features suggest a kindness of spirit. These hopes are always dashed in moments, though– if you’re Infected. The Uninfected, he is attempting to take under his wing. Those that protest the goodness of the Infected are poor, misguided little things and he’s eager to educate them.

Concerning gender, Clove never felt particularly comfortable sitting on one end of the spectrum. Not exclusively connected his masculinity nor his femininity, he identifies more as non-binary, although he still uses male pronouns. He has often associated this fluidity to his love of art and his appreciation for the beauty of the humanity. He doesn’t believe there is a right or wrong way to be a person (this being before the infections, of course) and believes it is more pure and authentic to not fall into the traps of societal gender constructs, but to embrace the natural duplicity of spirit.

TAKEN

[the-colony-roleplay]

Josephine Parker | Twenty Six;  Survivor

House: Calyset Status: Uninfected Elite Specification: Teacher Teaches: History and Literature, ages 10-13 Alignment: New Age Rebels

History

For all intents and purposes, Jo was born with a book in her hand. Her mother was a historical archivist and her father was an english professor at the University of Washington, so Jo grew up surrounded by paper, ink, and words. She was reading by the age of three, and by six she was helping her mother in the archive. Her parents chose to homeschool her by teaching her whatever came to mind, whenever they had time. As a result, Jo learned quite a bit about literature, poetry, and history, and not much about science, math, or how to socialize with other people her own age. By the time she joined public school at age twelve, she was well-read and intelligent, but more than a little socially stunted. Needless to say, she did not make many friends. 

She spent more time in the school’s library than on the playground and rarely spoke up in class, especially after she learned the definition of ‘teacher’s pet’ the hard way.  In high school she found some of her people in the debate team and the academic decathlon— none of them close friends, but the closest thing she could get. She dated a bit, but it never went anywhere. Either they didn’t click or they went too fast or she went too slow. At least until her senior year, when she met Rosalind. Jo had gone to a meeting of the art club for a lecture on renaissance techniques, and the two hit it off almost instantly. Or, rather, Rosalind hit it off instantly. It took Jo almost two months to realize their study sessions, impromptu movie nights, and walks around Seattle were actually dates, and even then Rosalind had to kiss her before she figured it out. 

They made an unlikely pair. Rosalind was loud and confident to Jo’s quiet thoughtfulness. While Jo wanted a big family with loads of kids, Rosalind’s idea of a family was a household of pets. Jo preferred the quiet of books while Rosalind relished bold, colourful art. And yet, opposites attracted. Jo majored in literature and history with a minor in education, while Rosalind took as many of the college’s night art classes as she could juggle. On their off days they wandered the city, sketching at the piers or widow shopping at Pike Place. As the days stretched into months, that stretched into years, they began to think about the future. Graduating, adopting a dog, maybe, and teasingly, where they might honeymoon. The night before D-Day, Rosalind had tried to subtly ask what kind of ring Jo liked. The next day, their knuckles turned white as they held onto each other, watching the news while a storm tore the world apart outside.

Like the rest of the city, their instinct was to run to the docks. They managed to secure the last places on board a cargo ship and watched from the deck as Seattle flooded and crumbled. No one knew what was happening or where they’d go next. Every port they radioed for contact either reported severe flooding or just didn’t reply at all. And then other news came in, about what was happening to the inland countries, about the meteors that had apparently decimated the population. The more they heard, the more it seemed like mankind faced its end. Everyone dealt with it in different ways; some sailors drank, Rosalind sketched her parents over and over, and Jo reread the books they’d brought, trying to memorize every last trace of rapidly disappearing humanity.

After nearly a month of drifting, they made port in northern Mexico. The few survivors they found were wary, but allowed the ship to stay long enough to resupply. Jo started chatting with them in the best broken, mixed Spanglish she could muster—and then she started writing. It was just little things at first; who ran the crumbling bakery, whose son had died in the flood. The small things gradually grew into stories. By the time the ship was ready to leave, Jo had filled an entire book with the history of the town, cramming her own notes between the lines. More importantly, she and Rosalind made a decision. Jo replaced her books with empty journals and Rosalind scrounged for any blank paper she could get her hands on. Hand in hand, they waved goodbye to the survivors and set out to document what was left of the world.

The next four years were a blur. Jo collected stories from every survivor they found. Rosalind filled one sketchbook after another with eyes, hands, broken cities, and faces. Somewhere along the way, Rosalind found, then traded an old polaroid for passage on a ship across the Atlantic. They were married, as officially as possible, on the voyage. The couple travelled across Africa, all the way up to Arabia. The intense destruction from the Asian meteor turned them back west into Europe, where they thought they might find more hope.

News was hard to come by in the new world, but the uprising was hard to miss. Jo and Rosalind had their first encounter with the New Wave in the French countryside. A young girl and her father, terrified and starving: they’d been running for days, from what Rosalind could translate. Some people had taken over their camp. It hadn’t been so bad, until they caught one of the boys lifting rocks with his mind. The people beat him badly, and they told the rest of the camp in no uncertain terms that any other “unnatural acts” would be punished. Rosalind had started getting headaches about a month before their encounter, and they’d been getting worse. Both she and Jo knew what came next. And now they knew to be afraid.

After that, they travelled more cautiously. Jo scouted ahead, making first contact with any clans to make sure they were safe before Rosalind joined her. As they travelled down the Iberian peninsula, they started hearing other stories about Crusade groups. Clans disappearing. Bigger colonies being taken over by the Reformists. More than once Jo tried convincing Rosalind to turn back, to find a clan with other Infected. Safety was in numbers, and Jo was terrified of what would happen if they were caught unawares. Rosalind, if she was afraid, didn’t show it. She wanted to keep travelling, to document as much as possible. Those were some of their only fights but Rosalind always convinced her to keep going.

 Jo Today

Of course, Jo’s worst nightmare eventually came to pass. The New Wave crusaders found them by surprise. They’d been camping with a small group; a dozen people, maybe two or three Infected. One minute they were laughing over weak coffee and taking down the tents, the next minute everyone was screaming, running. Someone grabbed Jo, and was instantly thrown back with a wave of Rosalind’s hand. A crusader tackled Rosalind to the ground, another pointed a gun at her head. Jo watched, wide-eyed, as Rosalind reached for her. And then she ran.

Jo didn’t see a single soul for weeks, not until she reached the English channel. Every time she stopped, she heard Rosalind’s voice ringing in her ears, begging her to run. She managed to evade the crusaders twice more, before her luck ran out. They told her she was being rescued by the New Wave and it was best not to resist. They gave her good food, a warm bed, even a classroom of children to teach and nurture and love. It was everything she could want, everything she’d begged Rosalind for. She felt horrible.

Five weeks after her capture, Jo tried to organize an escape. Some of her children were Infected; She knew what it would be like for them when they got older and she wouldn’t let that happen. She’d planned well: supplies, lists of guard movements and rotations, a map of the grounds. But she’d never attempted anything this bold, and one small slip was all it took to raise the alarm. Even then, she tried to get the children over the wall. The first one was halfway up when a soldier grabbed Jo from behind. She remembered hitting him back, grabbing for his gun, and then nothing.

After her recapture, Jo was confined to the correctional ward for a month and given a spare. Her little stunt should’ve earned her much worse, but the Head of her House vouched for her, and teachers were already in short supply. Her punishment she could deal with, but the threat that cut her to the core was the possibility of having her students taken away. As much as she couldn’t stand the colony, teaching was the bright spot in her life, and the children were probably the closest she’d ever get to the big family she always dreamed of. The idea of being stuck there without even that was unbearable. Maybe if she were Rosalind, she would have defied the order. Maybe she would’ve rebelled again, tried to run as soon as she was released. But she’d left Rosalind behind, so Jo kept her head down and performed as expected, all the while compiling her stories.

Jo is constantly battling between her shy, non-confrontational attitude and her desire to do what’s right. She has a strong desire to protect the people she loves, but she’s also terrified of losing everything. Most of the time she finds it easier to just keep her head down and focus on getting through one day at a time. She ignores everything else to the best of her ability— the NWRF’s blatant prejudices, her own guilt, the ever-increasing anxiety that she’s not doing enough and, at the same time, doing everything wrong.

RELATED BIOS: ROSALIND STEIN

TAKEN; Original Character

[the-colony-roleplay]

Mordecai Caleb Lynch-Esmaeili | Thirty Eight;  Elite

House: Brink Status: Uninfected Elite Specification: Dentist Alignment: New Age Rebels

History

Mordecai’s earliest memories were of being raised by everybody and nobody all at once. His mother was either happy and overbearing or she couldn’t stand the sight of him at all. His father was a frail ghost of a man, a hollowed-out shell whose presence cast an uncomfortable pallor over the home that over time, Mordecai grew to resent. Enoch did his best; their sensible older brother, whom his insensible mother hated for as long as he could remember. Mordecai could recall with perfect clarity peering over the windowsill with Reuben the day Enoch had decided to leave for school, watching as she screamed at the proud line of his back never to show his face again. Mordecai remembered gripping his twin’s hand tight and understanding well why their brother went away, and never resented him for it.

Only nine, Mordecai and Reuben did what they could for the family after their brother left, but the boys were no Enoch. Mordecai was already prone to bouts of fiery frustration, Reuben to hand-wringing insecurities. A tumultuous home life bled into school, and not one to tolerate bullies -- not for himself, and even less so for Reuben -- Mordecai lashed out frequently on both of their behalf. About all he could be grateful for was the fact that the school far preferred to deal with calm, rational Enoch than the railings of their mother, and often the worst he had to suffer was the weight of his eldest brother’s silent disappointment on the car ride home.

Sick of being teased for his name, backwoods upbringing, and aberrant family, Mordecai changed the only one of those three that he had any control over: he chose to go by his middle name instead, the still-biblical but far less cumbersome ‘Caleb.’ The reasoning wasn’t, of course, good enough for his mother. Now he understood firsthand how Enoch might’ve felt, to hear her rant and rave about selfishness and disownment. It didn’t have the same ring to it, since Caleb was adopted. He found he didn’t care as much as he thought he might.

Despite this, the rest of the Lynch family settled into an awkward rhythm for a time. Caleb and Reuben tended the farm. Eunice and Dinah kept to themselves. It was almost peaceful, but as with any peace within their family, it didn’t last long.

The first time Caleb remembered questioning God was when their father finally died.

What kind of God allowed a good man to suffer like that for over a decade? What kind of God saw fit for Reuben, the most fragile of them, to discover his eerily cold body that morning? The only blessing Caleb could remember was Enoch’s reliably calm voice over the phone, steady and reassuring, talking Caleb through what to do until he could get there.

Caleb and Reuben reacted to their father’s death to the same extremes with which they reacted to most things: Caleb exploded outward, while Reuben shrunk inward. Caleb felt as though he could only watch as the tragedy Reuben had experienced first-hand pushed him deeper into his own mind and his own issues. As years passed, Caleb’s youthful anger burned and bled itself out over time. Reuben only appeared to even out, a malignant addiction curling and eating away inside him, starting to hollow him out like their father.

Enoch had likely been anticipating much worse news when Caleb called him out of the blue one evening, only to be told with a simple seriousness: I've decided to become a dentist. To his continual credit, the man never questioned it. He obviously had nothing but support for Caleb leaving the family homestead to go to school, and as soon as Caleb did, his life took an unsurprisingly sharp turn for the better. Caleb met Afra Esmaeili, a beautiful and beautifully steadfast woman who knew how to deal with the dry humour and mysterious reticence of a Lynch; she’d already been friends with Enoch, after all.

A few years after she and Caleb met they started dating, and as soon as Caleb finished school he proposed. Caleb’s own largely disastrous family experiences didn’t turn him off from the idea of building his own, as many might expect; instead, he simply endeavoured to build one the right way. Barely a year after they married, Caleb and Afra welcomed a baby boy and, because fate had a sense of humour, a pair of twin girls two years after that.

But again, the peace didn’t last long.

Everyone in the family would have different opinions on what caused Reuben’s overdose. Caleb’s was (and always would be) that Reuben would never intentionally leave him that way. Enoch kept silent on his opinion, but their mother did not. Caleb would never forget the horrendous vitriol and blame she threw, rooting him to the spot even in his anger and his grief. He remembered even better the loud bark of Enoch’s voice, a tone few had ever heard from the typically reserved and level-headed priest. Caleb remembered turning his back as Enoch escorted their mother from the church, her indistinct yelling echoing through the hollow place of worship. After that he only remembered the touch of Afra’s cool, steady fingers against his forehead, or the reliable strength of Enoch’s arms around his shoulders as he finally let himself break down.

If Caleb had any faith left by then, it died with his brother. Instead, he poured his faith into his family: into Afra, into his children, and into the new path he carved for himself with his own two hands. Once again, Caleb rebuilt himself from the ground up. He didn’t need God’s help.

Caleb Today

This time, the peace did last. Caleb is one of the lucky few for whom the apocalypse changed precious little.

Remarkably unscathed, Caleb, Afra, and their children were some of the earliest settlers at Colony 12, able to re-root themselves with the kind of stability most could only dream of in a post apocalyptic society. Drawing on both his rural upbringing and professional life, Caleb carved a comfortable niche just as Afra did, both of them offering help to the steady stream of the small colony’s more transitory occupants. More often than not they had little to worry about from looters, but even when they did, well. Enoch had trained Caleb well with a rifle.

The first complication arose with the newfound abilities; Afra fell ill, and then others at 12 started to follow. To say Caleb was sick with worry would hold a certain poetic irony, because they eventually came to realize that it was his worry that was making her sick. He thought Empatheia suited Afra perfectly, for how in-tune with the universe and others she’d always been. As soon as she was able to joke that she might’ve preferred a husband with more temperate emotions in light of everything, Caleb was reassured she was on the mend.

The second complication arose years later in the form of an automated ping from the colony’s Echo system, limited in scope but steadfast in its simpler duties. One of Caleb’s siblings had entered the system, and as soon as he saw the name, all he could do was laugh; he’d never once doubted Enoch’s resilience over the past six years. It took more than an asteroid to kill a Lynch.

It was only thanks to Afra’s urging—and the strong support system he knew he was leaving his family with—that Caleb eventually felt comfortable putting in for a transfer. Besides, it was easy for him to admit he’d missed Enoch. Even if the bastard hadn’t taken so much as five minutes to write him a message since he’d entered the system.

Colony 22 is liable to be an enormous adjustment from the simple life Caleb has scrounged together for himself and his family at 12, considering training for the Games and the NWRF’s much more overbearing presence. Aligning with the New Age Rebels would come as a no-brainer; from a young age he’s had a strong opposition to any form of persecution, and now has zero interest in entertaining the politics of those who would demote his wife and his brother to second-class citizens. Caleb has matured, and so too have his passions grown more constructive—but that doesn’t mean he’s any less prone to biting off more than he can chew.

TAKEN; ORIGINAL CHARACTER

[the-colony-roleplay]

Persephone “Percy” Evans | Twenty Seven;  Elite

House: Delma Status: Uninfected Elite Specification: Rehabilitation Specialist and Infection Research Alignment: New Wave Reformists

History

Ever since she was a kid, Persephone’s been told she has an old soul. She could often be found reading a book (paper copies only), or having deep philosophical conversations with the adults. She didn’t have many friends her own age; in fact, many children saw her as a bit odd. And though she was quiet around most, deep down she was just a bubbly girl who wanted to help people.

The extent of her compassion came about when she was thirteen and her younger brother was hit by a train. And it wasn’t the doctors or the EMTs who practically brought him back from the dead that most impressed her, but the occupational therapists. Yes, her brother’s life had been saved by the doctors, but if he had been stuck in the state he was in after all the operations, it would hardly have been much of a life. The OTs came in and taught her brother how to eat and speak again. They helped him get used to his new leg and helped him relearn to write. They gave him the tools he needed to become a whole person again, and that’s what Percy wanted to do.

Life after her brother’s accident was hard. Insurance could only cover so much. Percy tried to maintain good grades, but there were a lot of external factors in play. Like her eight year old brother falling into a deep depression. She would often spend her evenings with him, keeping him occupied so his mind didn’t wander to those dark places. Her mother always tried to be there for her children, but it didn’t take long for the stress of working three jobs to get to her. She’d come home grumpy and tired. Percy and her brother, Samson, grew distant from their mother, relying mostly on each other for support. Percy took on the role of Sam’s mother, sister, friend, and nurse.

Percy’s father, who had always been distant, became a rare sight in the household. But it wasn’t until the day she saw her father out with another woman—and a young child—that she truly understood why. Percy, who was usually a calm and compassionate person, was furious. She was heartbroken. Not only did her father have another family, but it was one that was well off; she watched them get into a nice car, dressed in their expensive clothes, and she felt sick. 

When she got home, Percy locked herself in her room and cried. But they were tears of anger; here she was fighting for her brother’s second chance at life, picking up her mother’s slack, and her father had abandoned them al for something better. Something easier. They had been played, and she vowed that she’d never let that happen to her again. This is when Percy grew colder, when she stopped caring about people as much as she once had, because she couldn’t trust them. No more was Persephone that young girl, compassionate girl, because being that girl left her too vulnerable to getting hurt.  

When she was seventeen, she saw some kids she knew as a couple of Sam’s bullies, stealing from a store. It was juvenile crime, really. They’d distracted the clerk and managed to get away with a few packs of cigarettes, a handful of cash from the register, and a case of beer. But they saw her, when they were high tailing out of there, and they knew she’d seen everything. In fact, she’d filmed it on her phone. The next day at school, Percy confronted them, and promised that if they ever even looked at her brother again, she would make sure that they would not only get caught for stealing, but would find themselves pinned for other crimes too. Some that they may not even have committed. Sam was never bothered again.

It was about then that Percy realized something; she was a good liar. She was also perceptive with people. She knew how to manipulate and twist others and their words so she ended up on top. She didn’t use this skill often, but she knew the cards she had and how to play them, and that knowledge gave her power. One night, while walking home, she decided to test this theory. She had just turned nineteen at the time, and a half-cut businessman stumbling down the sidewalk had crossed her path. He’d whistled and come on to her, complimenting her body, her beautiful skin. 

Percy noticed the wedding ring and the Rolex. The expensive tie clip and cheap cologne. Instead of telling him where to shove it, she batted her lashes and smiled. And then she went home with him. It’d been obvious he was rich, but entering his penthouse apartment confirmed it. And she hated him. Not for catcalling her, not for taking a young girl home, but for betraying his family, just like her father had done.

So, she went with him to his bedroom and he messily undressed her along the way. She grit her teeth against the disgust and played along, just until she had him on his back. And then she made her demands: Cash. Enough to pay off her brother’s medical bills, enough to put them both through college. If not, she would start screaming. She would scream and scream and when the police came she would tell them he’d assaulted her. They’ll never believe you, he’d said. And she’d said he was probably right. But they would believe the truth, and his wife definitely wouldn’t prefer it to the lie. And what would that kind of scandal do to his professional reputation? Nothing good, surely. 

So he paid. And Percy never heard another word from him. When she came home with the cash, her mother was scared, for good reason. But Percy promised she hadn’t stolen it; that it was given to her as a charity. A good samaritan had wanted to help out their family. And, since no police ever knocked on their door, her mother had no reason not to believe her.

Eventually, Percy got a job at the local hospital. She went to school during the day, and the nights she wasn’t working at the hospital, she would entrap unfaithful husbands and bribe them. She maintained that deep down, her true passion was helping people, but sometimes helping the right people meant hurting the wrong ones. 

Percy Today

It was during one of her late shifts at the hospital that the power surged, and when Percy looked outside, the whole world appeared to be burning.

Everything was in mass hysteria. Nurses and patients panicking. Sirens going off. Code blue. Code red. Doctors were called from every wing to help treat new patients. The whole time, all Percy could think about was her mother and Sam, but it wasn’t until the middle of the next day that she found a chance to slip out of the hospital. She ran home on foot, dodging fires and damage. When she arrived at her family’s small home, she found it destroyed. The parts that still stood were burning. In a panic, Persephone ran into the rubble, searching and screaming for her family. Her screams went silent and her blood ran cold when she found her mother’s body, crushed and blood. But she didn’t have time to cry. Determined, Percy went through every inch of the pile that was once her house, her room, her whole life, until she found Sam. He was miraculously alive, shaking in the remains of the fireplace and chimney. His prosthetic leg was nowhere to be found. When Percy approached him, he flinched at her touch. Back at the hospital, they confirmed the entire lower half of Sam’s body was had been paralyzed. 

Persephone and Sam ended up in Colony 7, in what was once Georgetown University in Washington, D.C. Life there was chaotic and always moving. Percy told the Elites of her background of study (bio-med and rehabilitation therapy) and she wound up volunteering to help with the injured and recovering survivors coming into the Colony.

It was a couple of months before Sam’s mental condition became apparent: he believed he was a prisoner, the only prisoner left alive after the asteroids hit and he was planning some sort of escape. Only, Sam wasn’t a prisoner, and he couldn’t walk anymore, despite his apparent inability to acknowledge this. He would yell at people, screaming about his innocence, begging for his freedom. And he barely recognized Percy, anymore. She was a warden to him now, someone who was masquerading as his sister. He practically despised her. And yet, she still pushed him around in his wheelchair every day, protecting him with her life. He was her whole world. And it didn’t matter to her how many people she helped if Sam ended up hurt. All her lying and cheating would have been for nothing. Unfortunately, she couldn’t keep him safe forever.

Percy was working late. She was dozing off at her desk reading through files. She probably would’ve fallen asleep if it hadn’t been for the gunshot. At first, Percy thought nothing of it; thought maybe someone had dropped something and it just sounded like that through her haze of sleep. But then there was another. Then another. And another. Persephone raced from her office to look for Sam, thinking that it had to be some sort of raid. By the time she reached the common room, she heard two other gunshots and then, she saw it. On the floor, blood pouring from his head, was Sam.  Several other bodies scattered the floor, some dead, some just wounded, all bloody. As Percy approached her brother’s body, she saw the gun clenched in his fist. In his other hand was a piece of paper, scribbled with the words ‘DO IT NOW’ in red pen over and over again.

When the New Wave Reformists rose to power, they made initial attempts to recruit Percy due to the interest she took in her Infected patients—especially the Deluded. She wanted to learn how to manipulate the conversation in ways that they felt empowered enough to trust her and be honest with her. Having noticed this, the NWRF sought to exploit her skills and sensitivity to help them with research on the Infected evolutions. They wanted her to help run tests and experiments, as they saw her ‘bed side manner’ with the infected as something they could use. At first, Persephone politely declined. To her, the Infected weren’t the problem; just the Infections. It wasn’t until an NWRF Rep promised her a way out of Colony 7, that she told them she’d consider.

In the end, Percy took the chance to leave and accepted the job offer. But she made it clear that she didn’t want to do anything that might make the Infected distrust her. That was how she worked the system; with kindness, trust, and a pretty face. Now, it’s her job as an NWRF Rep to assist with medical and experimental testing in the scientific initiative to better understand these evolutions so that they might have the ability to cure, control or even use these evolutions in a more disciplined manner. But Percy didn’t join the NWRF because she wanted to eradicate or even manage and contain the Infected. She wanted to help them. She didn’t hate the people, she hated that people had to be Infected. Infections had ruined her life, so she now wants to save others from the same unfortunate situation that Sam had found himself in. She wants to give the Infected a choice.

Percy arrived recently to Colony 22 with the other NWRF reps. She likes to see herself as almost a counterweight to some of the NWRF’s brash and sometimes harsh decisions, but she knows nobody else wants her to be. Along with lab testing and experiments, she provides one on one consultations with the Infected and Deluded, and makes a sincere effort to be kind to them and convince them she’s on their side. Sure, most still distrust her intentions because of her connections to the NWRF, but she tries hard despite that. Some of her ways of gaining the trust of the Infected could be seen as unethical, due to her less than transparent approach, but she believes her intentions are good. She’s certainly unconventional in other ways, as well; she’ll purchase from the black market, she’ll let people by when they’re late for tuck-in, she’ll keep their secrets, tell their lies. Some people probably think that she’s just gaining all this information and trust to eventually get them into trouble, but the truth is she likes to take risks. She likes the way it makes her feel when people trust her, and she really does have good intentions—it’s just her methods that are a little... unorthodox.

TAKEN; ORIGINAL CHARACTER