Rebuilding Humanity (IC)

[Muirgen]

Pat shook his head as he watched the hunter stalk away, laughing softly through his nose when he tossed the deer carcass on the table. He knew the hunter by face, not by name. Pat was pretty bad with names, but the guy didn't seem to be much in the way of 'sociable' anyway so he didn't count it some great failure on his part anyway. He shrugged.

His attention was for Wade, whose name he actually did know. Good kid really, just took himself a little too seriously, stuffed full of all the insecure pride that only a lost, hurting and rage-filled teenage kid could stomach. Flipping off the hunter like that? There was no need - the remnants of their caravan desperately needed this venison. The only thing that kept Pat from good-naturedly cuffing the boy upside the head, was the fact pride was all some of them had left.

"C'mere Wade," Pat called as he easily lifted the deer carcass from the makeshift table, carrying it to the side of their makeshift 'kitchen.' He smiled at Wade, as easily as he manhandled the dead animal. "I'm gonna show you how to field dress a deer." The kid peered up at Pat from beneath a fringe of light brown hair that probably should have been cut weeks ago, just to keep the possibility of vermin out of the caravan. Curiosity warred with suspicion in the kid's dark brown eyes, and in the end curiosity won.

Wade wasn't squeamish at all, and Pat didn't really expect him to be. There wasn't a single caravan survivor who'd been spared the sight of blood or carnage, all the way down to the youngest among them. He showed Wade how to hold the front two legs around the pasterns pulled taut and straight, to stretch the deer's torso wide as Pat kneeled between the back legs, using the weight of his knees to keep them wide. Pat's low voice was warm, congenial even as he used his grandfather's Ka-bar to slice away organs and open up the abdomen carefully, ensuring the meat wasn't spoiled – precious meat they really needed, that could be used in stews, roasts, even dried into jerky or ground into sausage. Nothing of the venison went to waste. The heart went straight to a pot of boiling water, and would be cubed and possibly even pickled with wild onion later if they had the time. The liver would be fried up imminently, the iron rich organ meat set aside for the youngest among the caravan survivors, or the women who might be pregnant. Even the femur bones would be cracked for the marrow inside, sliced and pan roasted in the bone.

It wasn't easy work, but Pat was patient and thorough, and in absolutely no hurry to get rid of Wade. And by the time the deer was ready to be bled out, the kid was almost smiling, something very like accomplishment in his expression now, his irritation with the hunter completely forgotten.

Pat hadn't forgotten him though. The hot water was boiling steadily, and he let the venison heart slip into the pot over the campfire.

"You might want to go easy on the cooks." The giant man grinned at the hunter with a sidelong glance, shrugging his massive shoulders. The guy looked like hell, exhausted, and Pat decided to go easy on him too. "They're the ones who're going to be making that deer edible – or at least, making sure your meal is."

 

[Dervish]

It took a few minutes for Trent to look up at Catherine as she requested he undertake a personal assignment for her. As she described the lab that was inexplicably tied to her and her father, he watched the flames of the morning fire dance, a mesmerizing tranquility that spoke to a primal part of him about safety and comfort, something that could be snuffed out at a moment's notice. He had been gone for… how long had it been? Certainly several hours, the sun had shifted across the horizon from when he set up his shooting perch and had taken his game. Accepting he would be leaving again, never an appealing prospect, he looked up at Catherine reluctantly with a slow nod.

"Sure. And yeah, I remember. How could I forget a name like that?" he asked rhetorically, immediately conjuring the images of Jason and Anatoly in his mind, sincerely hoping he encountered them both. The Northwest was still largely uncharted territory, so there was no knowing who, or what, called it home these days. As Catherine departed, Trent thought of her father, an idealistic man who turned into a monster as he consolidated his power. Life was bleak enough without it being dictated by a totalitarian who seemed to grow paranoid about people wanting to usurp him. Trent didn't take long to decide to leave with Catherine from Last Eden; his mind had been made up long before he realized it was an option. A part of him didn't want to find whatever it was Catherine's father was hiding in that lab, but he'd pass off anything he found without question. Loyalty was its own currency in this world; someone you can trust could bank favours down the line. He didn't know when or why he'd need a favour from the young woman he called a friend, but it was good to keep his options open.

"You might want to go easy on the cooks." A deep, even-mannered voice said, drawing his eyes upward. Trent had been so lost in thought that he'd scarcely noticed the man throwing chunks of the deer he'd harvested into the pot. He'd seen the affable, bearded man around but he never spoke with him, as far as he could recall; much of his time back with the caravan was spent resting or tending to his gear, or in one of the numerous meetings with the other military guys. Was it Matt or Pete? He couldn't recall the man's name, although he'd sworn he'd heard it before. He mulled it over like a piece of jerky; tough, but with enough plying it would eventually yield. "They're the ones who're going to be making that deer edible – or at least, making sure your meal is." The man, a bear really, said with a large grin. He was far too cheerful for such a grim world.

"You mean you're supposed to cook it first? I've been doing it wrong this whole time." Trent said as a way of reply, a terse smile crossing his face. "And don't worry; I only rib people I like. It's nice to come back from a long patrol or hunt and have someone else worry about prepping the food, among other things. I know some of the military guys give you domestic workers shit for not being as macho as them or whatever, but none of this would work without you. Besides, you don't want to eat their cooking. Trust me." He said, rising up from the log that had been his makeshift seat, rifle cradled in his arm. He blinked slowly before giving his head a quick shake. "Manners, sorry. I don't think we met. Trent. Figured I might as well see a friendly face before I wander off, never to be seen again… or sometime tonight, whatever comes first."

 

[White]

Catherine

Note: My own emotional condition is poor and will be poor for a while, the written may or may not reflect portion of it and may or may not decrease quality

Anatoly closes the distance between him and their coordinator, raising a hand in greeting.
"Hey, Catherine," be begins, coming to a halt. "Jason and I are getting ready to ship off, but we're a bit low on the provisions we'll need to last the journey there and back. Sounds like we'll need a tent, flint and steel, animal traps, reserve food and water. Maybe extra ammo if we have it. We'll be out for what I guess will be a week or two without any contact with the camp, but depending on the weather and the state the highway is in it could be a bit longer or a lot shorter."

Catherine looked up from her papers, papers that made clear whom is to guard what, where, when.

Only now she noticed that the sun was soon to disappear in the horizon. The day passed quickly, considering.
She looked into Anatoly's eyes: "I have seen trent near the campfire. I would like you and Jason to assist him, he will take care of what you three will need. Please make sure to work together."

A young adult approached Catherine from the left. "Catherine, Mercì asked if she and I could swap the posts, she prefered[...].
Catherine answered the young man and moved to check on the other guards and requests for needed ammo, safe spots, unsafe spots.

It is Dark

SCANNING...
No Life Detected
No Light Detected
Machinery defunction
Starting Maintanance....ERROR

Last Eden

"Sergeant Brooks reporting in, Sir!"
"So? Did you find what you were ordered to?"
"The Target gathered a group of resistance fighters. They killed eight of our men and fled the field. Their current location us unknown. Latest scout reports report activites of a truck moving north to the east of our settlement, Sir."
"I see. Leave and extend our scout's reach further to the north."
The man turned, dismissing the Sergeant.
"Tell Ahmed to come to my office."

He sat down on his chair and turned it to the direction of the window. Looking at his work, work of a lifetime.
Knock knock
"Come in" And the body turned to look at the door to greet the arabian man that was now standing between the doorframe.
"You called for me Master?"
"Yes, I believe my dear daughter has choosen to stand against us. I want you to punish her and I believe to know where her and her little resistance decided to go."
The man moved his hand, telling Ahmed to come closer to his desk, giving sight to a small map of the surrounding of the area.
"Do you see this?" The man pointed at a location on his map.
"My daughter wishes to play a game of war and I say, let us play along..."

 

[Doom Spiral]

Anatoly nods, thanking her, and heads towards Trent.
"Hey, Cath said you could set Jason and I up with supplies for the journey Northwest?" he asks. The growing dark of the forest catches Anatoly's eye and raises hairs on the back of his neck, and he decides he'll head off to bed once this is taken care of.

 

[Muirgen]

Pat grinned warmly at the guy - Trent, that was - as he stirred the deer heart in the pot with the blade of his Ka-bar, hoping to keep it from boiling over. He wanted the organ meat thoroughly cooked, but not too tough to chew through easily. Even if he intended pickling it, there was still a certain pride Pat took in making what food they had, more than just a means of survival. A warm and well-cooked meal could do wonders for the soul - or at least that's what his Grandma Peggy always said, and she never spoke a single word that was not the truth (and precious few would have dared claim otherwise in front of her mountain of a grandson).

Pat smiled wistfully at that distant memory, and fought damned hard to keep that smile there when the most recent one reared its ugly head. He needed distraction, and was grateful for Trent's flippant honesty.

"Pat Callahan," he said easily, offering his enormous hand to the man to shake as he sat up. "Good to meet you, and even better to hear from someone somewhere who appreciates a good bite to eat," he said sincerely. Pat almost laughed when Trent talked about the military guys giving the 'domestic workers' shit about not being bad asses, but he didn't. Maybe the guy spent too much solitary time in the woods to give that whole 'let's have a normal human conversation thing' much practice, and didn't really think too much about how condescending that came out. Then again, not too many people looking at Pat ever thought him capable of working words bigger than three syllables anyway.

Heh. No matter, Trent seemed sincere enough, and that qualified as both rare and worthwhile in his eyes. Still, Pat couldn't help but wonder if he really gave off the impression he gave a rat's ass about what the 'military guys' had to say about him, or what he did? Being a walking mountain did tend to give a guy a certain solid self-confidence, a healthy security in his manhood and all that.

"As for friendly faces? Yeah, I have been told I got a certain charm," he said, rubbing his thickly bearded chin and jaw with the fingers of the hand not busy gently stirring the pot of boiling water with his knife.. "Hope you understand though, you're not exactly curvy enough - and way too hairy - to be the kind of person I'd rather be hearing that from."

Pat shrugged with another grin. "Kidding man. So headed out tonight then? Already? Damn, the powers that be don't give you guys much of a rest between hunts, do they?"

 

[Apollyon]

Elijah sat there on the generator; sweat pouring down his half naked appearance. His shirt had been soaked in sweat, and his arms felt like jelly. His back was sore, he figured he must have pulled six or different muscles. He took his bottle of water--part of his rations--and dumped it on his head letting it wash away some of the beads of sweat and cool off his feverish skin. He sat with his head slumped forwards; hair that had grown long in days past, swinging in the wind. His elbows were propped on his legs and his arms dangling between them. His muscular chest bore rippling features along his abs and shoulder blades. More so, they bore a myriad of scars. Many of which showed just how grueling his training was. His parents and grandparents. Though they loved he and his brother, they were very rigid and demanding.

Several of these scars were from obvious combat situations. As they were either bullet holes, or former knife wounds. He also showed claw marks from unknown creatures. The earth had become truly filled with terrifying creatures. Man was one of them. Standing up he sighed looking towards the horizon. Daylight was dying. He walked around the camp until he heard Catherine's voice. He walked in on the conversation, merely standing between the two parties: Anatoly on one side, Catherine on the other. Many would normlly ask "Why are you following a seventeen year old girls orders when you are older than her?" Elijah's analytic mind grasped the situation as:Just because she's younger doesn't mean she doesn't know what's best for the group. A leader is a leader regardless of age, nevertheless rather she was competent was still to be seen. But she had done fairly well so far.

Folding his arms, he let the two talk and awaited his turn to intrude.

He didn't wait long, Anatoly left with his regards noted, leaving room for Elijah to speak his mind. Anatoly was weary, even paralyzed by the black of night. He'd seen innocence burned away the day the war started the day the world turned dark. Now he was a capable scout and a good scavenger.

"I've got good news, and bad news," Elijah began to report. "The bad news is that none of the stoves work off hand yet. Well, not the way they are. Currently we are faced with burned out switches, and blown fuses, which, brings me to the good news." Elijah commented.

"The good news is, they are easily repair able. I need to go to the nearest town and scour the place for stove switches and fuses that can be used in these housing units. That said, I also have an idea on how to convert that generator into a source of constant power--for better or worse-- that wont need to be fueled by gas or diesel."

 

[Dervish]

The hunter watched as Pat mucked about with the pot with a combat knife, a practice that seemed somewhat unsanitary, even in a world where eating something that didn't set off a Geiger counter was considered good eating. Upon stirring the meal, the large man set down his knife and offered a hand for shaking, something Trent didn't hesitate to grasp in a firm, but not crushing handshake. "Yeah, hold onto that charm of yours. There's enough bitter faces around camp to curdle milk these days… not that I've had milk since leaving Last Eden, but you know how it goes." He smiled. "Me, too hair? You should find yourself a mirror one of these days, I thought I was about to get jumped by Sasquatch when you walked up." Trent said playfully, hoping Pat took it in stride. He liked the big man already, and for how little time he spent socializing in camp, Trent always relished the chance for anything resembling a proper social life.

"And yeah, the perks of going back some ways with the boss lady. Catherine wants me to do her a favour as a personal request. It's easier to trust something with someone you know and trust than somebody like say, that smelly bastard with the bucked teeth we picked up three days ago that creeps on the lady driving Unit 3. I'm guessing if I'm heading out already, it means we aren't staying here for long, so I better get my ass in gear." Trent said, stretching out stiff limbs that popped and cracked in protest with a small grunt. "Look, Pat. It was nice to actually speak to you for a change. Try to save some of the Chef's Special for me when I get back, alright?" he said, patting the man on the shoulder before venturing out towards the head of the convoy to Unit 2, a beat up Jeep Wrangler that the military sometimes purposed for patrols.

Opening up the tailgate of the black and muddy truck, Trent set his Moisin up in one of the racks the team had installed shortly after obtaining the vehicle and he placed the rounds for it in the small ammo box that acted as Trent's personal storage. It wasn't locked because trust was important for the convoy, and in a pinch the ammunition or some of the personal knickknacks he kept could save a life in particularly specific situations. He pulled his TAR-21 from the rack, the short bullpup rifle needed a custom lowered set of rack arms to secure it properly.

There was no magazine slotted into the receiver, but nonetheless Trent shouldered the weapon, canting it to the right and he pulled the charging handle back three times to inspect if brass was ejected before holding the handle in place, burying the stock in his shoulder and using his right hand to pull down the plastic block that was the over-sized bolt catch to keep the bolt open. Now secure, he gripped the pistol grip and stock and checked the breach, finding it empty. The hunter then grabbed a 30 round magazine from his box and fit it into the receiver, hitting the bolt catch with his thumb, arming the weapon. An idle flick to safety and bringing the charging handle in place at the front of the rifle finished his pre-patrol weapons prep. All that remained was removing the dust cover from the MEPRO sight on the top of the rifle, which he secured in his left breast pocket.

A few minutes later, after grabbing his patrol rig and provisions, he was ready to go. He set off to the regular meeting spot for outgoing patrols at the head of the convoy to the right side of the lead vehicle, as was standard practice while he waited for Jason and Anatoly to arrive. If Catherine found them and sent them his way, he'd take them with him. If not, it looked like he was going it alone again. He'd give the duo twenty minutes before he headed out. In the meantime, Trent studied a topographical map of the area to plot a route to the facility Catherine had specified. He tersely smiled to himself. Her bastard old man might be back in Last Eden, but he was still managing to be a pain in the ass and ever present. It was true what they said; with power comes reach.

 

[Doom Spiral]

Anatoly watches in mild shock as Trent finishes his conversation with another man and heads off without so much as a glance. Furrowing his brow, he trots after, eventually catching up outside the camp. The dark forest gives him an uneasy feeling and he walks close to the vehicles.
"Hey!" Anatoly says, snapping his fingers. "Hey, space cadet, you going somewhere? Did you not hear me? Jason and I'll need some supplies for our trip northwest. Cath says you're the guy to see."

 

[White]

Catherine

Orange light shimmered from the going down sun in the horizon. Catherine watched this heavenly body disappear in the horizon. Does the sun circle this world?
She did not know. Nobody ever taught her. That would not be a suprise considering how the circumstances of this world changed.
The fresh nightair caressed her skin. This was the first time in a long time where every single one of us could find rest. She closed her eyes, she embraced the cooling air of the night.

Thoughts crossed her mind, thoughts of today.
She hoped Trent will manage to find what they so much need. Anatoly came to her mind. Did Trent tell him that he was meant to accompany him?
Elijah reported back earlier, regarding the stoves. Told him to venture there tomorrow, but to talk to me prior on how exacly to proceed.
There is a lot that still needs to be done, we are gonna have to chop wood.

It is curious that none of them managed to recognize me yet. That I am the daughter of the man they must hate the most now... after he sent troops to bring me back and get rid of the traitor.
Her eyebrowes dropped and her lips curled slightly downwards. She began to stare into the distance as sorrow filled her heart. She felt guilt-ridden by the fact that they had to die because of her.
Traitors will raise... And they will use that argument as a point to see me gone. She just hoped that Trent would succeed, her life may depend on him.
So far they followed her commands. But for how long would this last? She could not see when the attempt was done. More will surely flock here and she was certain; it was only a matter of time before her father would consider his daughter a traitor and bring war upon her. She felt a weight on her shoulders. This is my responsbility and I have to see them get through this.
She felt her heart ache in agony. She knew what her father has done to people, she knew what he is capable of and she knew and has seen more than any of the people here have. Could they win this? If it came to war...? We cannot keep running. No matter where we... I go, he will chase and do everything to make them pay for leaving his little empire.
We need to make a stand.
We will die if we keep moving.
I need to build and prepare these people for what is to come. I just wish we had a choice.
With that thought, she turned and left. The direction? Midnight.

Midnight De Witte

(@Vansalon please tell me if everything is in accordance with your wish when you get the chance to, if it i not I will make the edits based on your thoughts.)

"Midnight." A head turned to glimpse at the person whom was approaching her. It turned out to be Catherine. "Uh, just a moment." Catherine seems to have talent to approach in bad timing. She laid the improvised bandage. It was not much more than desinfected cloth. It still is better than nothing. Midnight proceeded to stand up and turn to Catherine and before she could ask for her intentions she spoke. "I apologize that I need to bother you this late but can you check on Elijah's hand tomorrow morning? He was a bit too... rough with the stoves earlier and it began bleeding." "I can do that.", midnight replied, thoughtfully moving her hand to her chin. "Are there any concerning signs that may imply something worse than just a wound?" "I could not tell you, I am not a doctor sadly." Catherine's face changed into a slightly sad state. "I have him come to me tomorrow morning, he wants to head out to gather some needed materials for repairs on the broken stoves... so it would be good if you could come to me as well tomorrow morning to check on his would. I would rather not send him out with a wound on his own." Midnight noticed Catherines concern for Elijah and nodded. "Will do." "I will see you tomorrow then. Please make sure to get enough rest and not overwork yourself", Catherine said after her eyes briefly crossed the improvised bandage. She then turned and left midnight to her own again.

 

[Dervish]

Trent blinked in mild surprise when he was approached by who had to be Antoly. A reptilian part of his mind also recalled that the man had tried to get his attention at the camp fire, but he had totally spaced out; he didn't even realize someone had been trying to get his attention. Rubbing his eyes, he looked at the Russian-accented man with an apologetic smile. "Shit, I am sorry. I've just been running off way too little sleep and had my mind elsewhere... my own mission, in particular." he extended a hand. "Anyways, yeah. I'm Trent. I was told about you and Jason. I wasn't expecting you for a few more minutes yet." he sighed, cracking his neck. "I figured you guys would have outfitted yourselves, but alright. We'll pick the community military trailer for what you guys need."

The hunter lead Antoly several vehicles back, fishing a key out from his webbing and finding a large, graphite blackened padlock on the side of the trailer. Popping the lock open, he climbed in first and led Jason inside. Inside were a few assorted weapons, meant to be used as replacements if a soldier ended up losing his or her weapon in the field or having it damaged beyond repair. Bins of assorted magazines and ammunition boxes marked with cardboard signs written in black market and secured with zap straps, boxes containing anything from maps, flashlights, sleeping bags to field rations made up the shelf opposite of the weaponry and ammunition. He retrieved a roll of neon-orange ribbon tape and handed it to Antoly, along with a compass. He explained as he tried out a military L flashlight to see if the batteries were still good before screwing on the red-light filter. "Ribbons for marking your path back. Every 100 meters, stop, attach it to a landmark, and mark down where you attached it in a journal. Get your map bearings and do it again every 100 meters, staying true to the compass. It's easy to get lost in these forests, and we've lost our fair share of guys to navigation fuck-ups. It may be a short trip, but believe you me, if you don't know a forest, all of that shit starts to look the same if you aren't getting your bearing regularly. Also, pack light. Fill your canteen, grab a few snack bars, and only carry what equipment you need to get the job done - nothing more. If it comes down to a survival situation, you can usually make the most of whatever the fuck's at hand out there. God knows I've spent my share of time tied off to a tree up in the canopy to wait out predators." He found a trio of cheap watches and adjusted the time so they were all synchronized. He handed two of them off to the other man. "We record when we leave, and how long it takes to make each step of the journey. When it comes time for us to part ways, I'm heading Northwest. We'll mark where we left off, and what time. Depending how long it took us to get to the rendezvous point, we'll figure out approximately how long we'll need to get where we're going, do our shit, and get back to the point. If one of us doesn't make it back in time, assume the worst and head back to camp to report in." He paused. "About covers it, I think. Where the hell's that Jason guy, anyways? I have no idea what he looks like."

 

[Apollyon]

Elijah set another log on a stump. It was his fiftieth. Rearing the utility ax his father had given him for his graduating his engineer training. The once proud moment seemed...far away now. The ax equally seemed like a stranger to him. No more did it have the sentimental value it once did. Now with each log, he swung like a madman. Each time it split a log, he could feel that sickening sensation of bone buckling--flesh sundering-- under the force of the hand held tool. Each time he could vividly feel the expulsion of a sanguinary rebellion. He could see their faces, their eyes staring at him in horror. Like he were a monster before they rolled back into their skulls. He could feel their blood calling out for him from the very ground. Even as he did such a mundane task, he'd catch shadowy figures prowling the periphery of his vision causing him to repeatedly stop and look around only find nothing was there.

"You're tired..." He kept telling himself. "You're just tired is all."

Dripping with sweat, and with labored breathing he lodged the axe head into the stump with a quick and precise jerk of his wrist similar to a throwing knife. The broad head of the axe ripped into the stump which had numerous other 'bites' from the simplistic, but effective tool. The axe itself was made from D2 Tool Steel. D2 was an air-hardened tool steel that offered excellent wear resistance. A good choice for hard use applications. Tool Steel in and of itself, referred to a variety of carbon and alloy steels that were and are, particularly well-suited to be made into tools. Their suitability comes from their distinctive hardness, resistance to abrasion and deformation and their ability to hold a cutting edge at elevated temperatures.

Walking a few feet, he collapsed to his hands and knees starring hazily at the ground. He then felt very nauseated, and as drool slipped from his lips, so too did blood and bile. Again and again he heaved. His sides felt like they were caving in and it looked like it was. The muscles of his obliques convulsing; sporadically seizing each moment something came up. and then, it was over. It had come and gone like a rainstorm or a breeze. That sense of paranoia, that eyes were on him, that sensation of bones breaking as he wreaked traumatic bodily injury upon someone in a fit of maddened rage. That feeling of blood drenching him a searing hot bath. And the voices? Gone. Just...gone. At least for now.

He doubled over, clutching his sides and continuing to choke and cough up his own blood. When he rolled on to his back his eyes that looked up were incredibly bloodshot from the straining and dry heaving he'd done. His voice was shot to hell, he was hoarse. He didn't care, his eye lids were too heavy to keep themselves propped open any longer. As the coolness of night draped itself over his outstretched body like a sheet over a corpse--he fell asleep.