Who: James Cole jamescole & Deirdre deirdreofamber What: Interrupting a scavenger When: Sunday, May 10, afternoon Where: Loveless Park Rating: Audience Discretion is Advised Warnings: Language, potential threats of violence, discussion of crazy events, gore, and oh yeah, some mentions of dead aliens. Sucks to be a Necromorph in Test City. Status: Closed/COMPLETE
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Life as a Scav sucked. There weren't a huge number of options available for people like Cole after the plague. Those who'd survived -the immune like himself- fell into only a few categories; Cole didn't meet any of the criteria for any of them except for the life of a Scavenger. Foraging for a life of his own was all he really had to count on considering how young he'd been when his old man had died. His mother wasn't even a memory for him, not really. They were talking about it being 'Mother's Day' or some shit.
Cole only cared about finding out if there was a way back to where he had been or if there was a way to fix what he'd screwed up. Cassie was doing well. They'd patched her up in the hospital enough to where she wasn't going to die. He'd figured she would. Again. No matter what he did, she always seemed to die. It was something he was becoming used to which was sick, wrong, unnatural. The whole world could die, sure, but Cassie? She needed to live. Cole needed to make sure she lived.
He'd made his way to the park where he'd been picking through the remains of the corpses left over from whatever invasion they'd had. Those things had virtually nothing on them. They were all rotten flesh and poison stingers. Fantastic smelling, too, which meant they weren't even good for food. Cole knew there was food in the apartment he'd been placed in, but he didn't trust it. No one gave away food where he was from and this place? It wasn't so different from what he could tell.
Hunkering next to another body, he started rifling through its pockets which were buried under slack skin, "Never though I'd have to be doing this again."
Cole had hoped The Splinter Project would ensure he'd never have to steal from a corpse again. All it had done was turn him into even more of a murderer than he had been before. He'd stopped counting the deaths he was responsible for when they'd gone over the double digits. Time was slippery on him. Since he'd forced his own paradox, he didn't feel as much as if he were dying from the jumps, but did it count if he died? Would he be responsible for his own death? He was responsible for his life. Everyone he knew had made that abundantly clear for him.
"This one's mine. There's nothing on it. You might as well move on."
He called it out loud enough for whoever was moving in his peripheral vision as a warning as much as anything else. His gun was still loaded. It was in his pocket. Ramse hadn't come through with him, but the gun? Cole still had the gun. He wouldn't hesitate to use it either.