The Last Of Us: New Hope OCs, canon backstory Morgan Avana (Move your mouse to reveal the content) Morgan Avana (open) Morgan Avana (close) Age: 24 Height: 5'7" @Coma Heather Wright (Move your mouse to reveal the content) Heather Wright (open) Heather Wright (close) Age - 23 Height - 5'5" @Rainjay Corpus Christi - Texas Naval Air Station Corpus Christi - Quarantine Zone Heather was barreling down the halls of the place she called home- which really was only a refurbished section of what was once a naval air station- as she rushed to make it to the Hole before evening began to fall. The rubber soles of her boots squeaked on the concrete floor as she ran, the only sound in utter silence. Everyone was probably working in the newly settled fields, or perhaps with guns training. If they weren't, they were waiting in line at the rations building in futile efforts to find even small scraps of food to bring home to broken families. Heather had been there yesterday and even though she had a handful of ration cards to offer, she only got a small box of what used to be canned soup, and was told to go on her way or face the consequences. She chose the former, rather than face whatever punishment would be dug up for her. It was well known in Corpus Christi what happened to those that struggled with the soldiers. That said, sometimes it was a better fate than slowly starving to death. A small sign that read "EXIT" was sitting crooked on the wall above the heavy metal doors that lead out of the housing block. In the dim light, Heather could see a small spider building it's web in one of it's corners, among the torn wires and dust. She skidded to a stop and slammed her shoulder against the doors, which made shrill cries as she pushed them open. She squinted in the dying day light, placing a hand over her eyes so she could see across the clearing without burning her eyes. Once she noted the path was clear, she raced across the dusty makeshift streets to the next block, and slipped into the crowd of survivors that were heading away from the rations buildings and towards the family blocks. At Corpus Christi, the several buildings that once were used to train new soldiers now were used to house survivors. People were split up into family blocks, meant for those with children and grandparents, and single blocks, where couples without children, or those living alone, slept. Some other buildings were converted into cafeterias, and others were bunkers and weapons storage. The open runways were used for training, and every morning young teenagers ran laps on the hard asphalt surface, sprinting through obstacle courses and wrestling on thin tarps. It hurt Heather's heart to see these kids fighting, fighting for their lives before they even grow up. Even she, only two years old when the infected struck, had been put into a similar training system, although she hadn't become the soldier they'd all wanted her to be. She'd passed her training, and worked as a soldier for some time before she hurt her knee, and although it managed to fully heal, she was given leave from duty to rest and recover. Ironically, that was the last thing she was doing with her free time. Please let him still be there. He has to still be there! Her stomach was doing flips as she pushed through the crowd and into the empty street beyond. Jorge's family lived in the block that was furthest away from the others, and the least occupied. It was too close to the Zone's borders for most to feel comfortable staying there, which provided a great opportunity. Jorge had a direct passage to the outside through the Hole in his front room, and had no qualms about protecting it, even with his two kids living in the same apartment. Heather thought him insane- but perhaps his trigger-happy insanity was better protection for the children than the patrolling soldiers ever could be. Once, an infected had managed to slip his way up through the Hole and into the apartment, but it's head was blasted into chunky bits before anybody could even open their mouths. However, today he was going into the Hole with them, and he wasn't going to wait for her to get there before closing up access. She'd been warned several times- Don't be late this time, Heather!- but it wasn't like she could help it. She had orders to follow, like anybody else here. It wasn't in her to disobey and draw attention to herself. She raced through the overgrown streets that lead to the final housing block, and pushed open the doors- even squeakier than the ones at her block- and raced down the abandoned hall to Jorge's apartment. She counted off doorways as she ran, jumping over piles of trash and broken bottles that littered the floor. There- there it is! The door was shut, but when she reached for the handle and turned it, it opened without a hitch. Jorge stood in the small entry way, his arms crossed, a beer sitting on the rickety slab of wood he called an end table. His shoulder leaned against the haphazard walls, which creaked as he shifted his weight. His eyebrow raised when he saw her, windblown hair and all. "Yer late," he said to her. His voice held a thick accent that hadn't managed to fade over twenty years of living in a quarantine zone. His heavy way of speaking had always amused her, and the corner of her lips tilted upwards in a smile. "I thought you would have expected less of me, Jorge. Are you going to let me in, or will I have to fight you for the privilege?" she teased, drawing the small pocket knife from her boot and tossing it in her hand. "Girl, you thi-" "Jorge! Just let the damned girl in, would you? You're too drunk to stand upright, nonetheless aim straight. Do yourself a favor and just shut up!" Heather smiled. Jorge's wife, Paula, had an even thicker accent than he did, and was usually twice as crabby. She loved seeing Heather around, but whenever her husband decided to use his left brains, she wrangled him back into line. The older woman- she perhaps was only forty or fifty years of age, but was already graying at the roots- came from the kitchen, wiping her hands off onto a ratty towel that she flung at Jorge before she pushed aside the bookcase that covered the Hole. She may be old, but she was also strong. "Thanks, Paula. Want me to take Jorge along with me?" She made the offer politely, but the woman shook her head. "No, he'll only disrupt everyone. Nobody needs a bumbling idiot interfering with their lives. He would probably get shot first thing." The woman sighed, grabbing Jorge's beer from the end table. He protested, lurching forward to grab it from her hands, and promptly collapsed onto the bare concrete floor. "I see what you mean. Good luck, Paula!" She knelt by the Hole, threw her light backpack down, and jumped into the darkness. It was only a few feet of a drop, but she stumbled at her landing and fumbled about for a light. Her fingers clasped around one of the many flashlights stored down here, and she flicked it on. She was standing in the remnants of a basement storage room. The storage rooms had been in disuse since the main entrance collapsed a decade ago, making it nearly inaccessible. Even from the Hole, there were only a few directions one could go in- one of those being simply out, through a newly made tunnel. Thus, the pathway was linear and easy to follow, apart from bits of uncleared debris laying here and there along the path. After a few minutes, she could hear voices from ahead, and could then see the faint light of candles and lanterns. The Fireflies. It was here that the quarantine zone communicated with Fireflies based at Ward Island. The Hole lead to a storage locker very close to the edge of the Zone's fences, and through tunnels the Fireflies built themselves, it lead past the edge and out towards the coast. There, you had to travel over land- or by boat, if you had one and wanted to row it across the water to the Island- to reach the Firefly base, an old university that had been secured into a Zone of it's own. The soldiers never spoke of it's existence to the survivors in base, but you could catch snippets of hushed conversation near the patrols as men and woman glanced anxiously towards the Island's position in the distance. The entrance to the storage room had no door or working lock, so to cover most of the light a blanket was tossed over the old door frame. Visitors knocked five times in a rhythm to signal that they were friendly, and then someone would pull aside the curtain for you. Heather knocked- five times, the way she had been taught not long ago- and the curtain was snapped aside. "Heather. How pleasant of you to finally join us."