Ewan Manning (staleaudio) wrote in immune_ic, @ 2011-12-05 01:02:00 |
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Entry tags: | # 2011 [12] december |
WHO: Ewan, Noah and Olivia
WHAT: A typical booze supply run.
WHEN: Sunday, 4 December,
WHERE: The surrounding area of Grand Central
RATING: Medium-High-ish, on account of a lovely infected doggy and some leapers.
STATUS: In progress.
The past few days had been an intense struggle for Ewan between the urge to replenish his supply of alcohol and the urge to indulge his current period of unusual laziness. He would have had no qualms whatsoever with remaining inside of Grand Central for a week or so, just playing guitar and sleeping, as he often did when he was feeling a bit on the morose side. The anniversary of his first and only number one hit was quickly approaching, and he couldn't help thinking of just how quickly that would be followed by the anniversary of the outbreak in London. During his youth, he had never really been one to put much stock in commemorating specific dates. His parents' anniversary was never a 'thing'. He hardly ever remembered birthdays. These dates though, were not dates that he would ever be capable of forgetting, and the holiday season was always a particularly unhappy time of the year for him as a result.
What he needed now was booze, and preferably lots of it. In times of deep depression like this, only a nice bit of self medicating made him feel any better. Not that it actually helped much, but it did dull the pain a bit, and that was better than nothing. Thus, after only a few days of sitting around and procrastinating, he finally decided that he needed to get out there and stock up. It helped, too, that his request for company had been answered. At least he wouldn't have to go out on his own.
He prepped himself as usual for a raid, stashing his things a short ways down one of the disused train tunnels. His material possessions, just a guitar and a little metal award, weren't really worth much in this day and age, but he was paranoid about losing them anyway. He knew that material things should have been the least of his worries, but he couldn't help the emotional attachment he still held to them. They reminded him of his life back when it had been successful. After ensuring that his things were safely out of sight, he tugged the napsack that he carried on raiding missions onto his back and headed back into the station at large, making his way toward the only easily accessible exit. Once there, he leaned against the wall, waiting for his two volunteers to show.
Reaching into his pocket, he tugged out his well worn pair of brass knuckles and slipped them onto his fingers. One of the first things he had learned about life after the outbreak was that a weapon should always be nearby even in a safe place, and that said weapons should be in hand the moment he left a safe place. Although he would have rather preferred that his little group not run into any zombies on their outing, a part of him couldn't help hoping that they would. With this seasonal depression came a seething anger toward the infected, and smashing a few skulls in might make him feel better about things just as well as the alcohol he hoped to find.