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JANUARY TEST DRIVE MEME
You awaken to godawful static overlaying a female voice that's too monotone to be anything but a recording. The static makes it difficult to understand the warning, but it's clearly a warning if your surroundings tell you anything...
You're buckled into a sturdy seat bolted to the wall behind you. Around you, there are dozens of others like you, some awake and others still unconscious, but it seems most of the seats lining the walls are occupied. The lights are dim, likely auxiliary lighting, leaving you mostly in the dark. You smell smoke and hear the sizzling crackle of electrical systems popping and shorting out. Some of the seats were jarred off the wall, leaving the occupants either wounded or dead. Count yourself lucky all you have is a headache and various aches accounted to whiplash.
You appear to be in a drop ship or an escape vessel of some form but the pilot is dead and the hull bears a massive gash where it buckled under the impact and sheered off. Through the door-sized opening, you can see vegetation. The air that wafts in is heavy with a humid heat, but it's obviously breathable.
Once you make your way outside, you'll see greenery: Trees, grass, and shrubs tangled with vines that grow wildly and suffocate the trees they climb. In the distance, behind the ship, you can make out a sandy desert that seems to stretch on endlessly. Forward through the trees, however, you may see a crumbling wall, but more importantly, you'll see signs of civilisation. Buildings and other structures seem contained within those decrepit walls. Maybe the natives can fill you in on what's going on, because the last thing you remember isn't being in an escape shuttle. As a matter of fact, you don't remember much about your arrival or where you are. But it's going to be a bit of a hike, better get moving. Though you might want to grab the backpack of supplies under your seat before you go.
With that, the power dies, leaving the drop ship in the dark, crackling and groaning as the hull cools from its catastrophic re-entry.
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[Usually because you could cut a limb off, but still... it was survival.
The kid came over and Daryl grabbed his arm, shoved his shirt up. Studied the cuts. He was taking the evidence seriously. Despite the firm grip on Tommy's arm, his other hand ghosted over the wounds in a light, careful, and decidedly gentle touch.
Daryl's eyes flicked warily from the arm and to Tommy's eyes at the question. He was starting to think they were talking about very different things. With a growl and a sneer, Daryl let go and pushed the kid back. Not hard, but whatever gentleness he'd had was gone.]
If your 'cranks' talk, then they ain't walkers. But walkers are dead. They kill and all it does is make more. Mercy is a bullet through the brain of those about to join 'em.
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It's surprising, though, that there's that trace of gentleness in it. That's not something he's terribly used to, with the kneejerk response always being to distrust it these days. But Daryl's in the same boat as he is, here. ] Don't even need a bite. The Flare's airborne.
[ He mutters, stepping back, as his mind's already jumping to the same page Daryl's on. If he's certain what they're talking about is dead, and something as severe as a bite doesn't pass it, when the Flare only takes being breathed in, that can't be the same thing. 'Cranks' is a term everyone in his world knows, and then there's the case of Newt... How he should be dead, how he remembers things differently. All of it's just... different. ]
Yeah... I dunno. How'd it start? The Walkers? [ Cogs are turning, Thomas's natural want to solve the problem sinking in. ] For us, solar flares hit. Everything around the equator, between the tropics, was fried. They call it the Scorch. A containment facility was destroyed, and the virus got out. It deteriorates the brain, and over a few weeks, you go whacker. They're still alive, they just... don't look like it anymore.
How's it happen with yours?
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[Daryl leaned back, put his weight on one foot as he went back to studying the kid. The cogs in his own head turning just as hard. One hand came up so he could bite at his thumb while his head dropped and he had to look up from under the heavy layer of bangs to see anything. The uncertainty and wariness in him obvious.]
Jenner never said how it got started, just that it did. And that once it went global, it didn't take more'n a few weeks 'fore everything went to shit.
no subject
[ No hope. Even the survivors won't have a world left, couldn't possibly survive once the virus infects everything. Unless they move up to Antarctica and live on polar bears, but even then, if the virus is still inside them, trying to reproduce and rebuild would be pointless.
The sorrow isn't masked on Thomas's face, never having been that talented, or concerned, about concealing emotion. Not for something like this. It's sad, in that kind of hollow, empty way, but there's a respect he holds for Daryl, in that he's still struggling so hard to survive regardless. Most probably aren't the same in his world. ]
How many are still left?
no subject
[He offered a small, one shouldered shrug. They got by well enough. Walkers weren't ever going to stop being a danger, sure, but it was the other living left in the world that had proven to be the ones you really needed to watch out for. Not all of the living were still people in Daryl's book. But they were living.]
Don't know. Ain't no way to be sure.
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I’m sorry. [ it feels like it doesn’t mean much, and the emotion of it all is written on his face. thomas was never very good at concealing that. even with all they’ve been through, he’s still just a kid. a silent moment settles, thomas not sure what else to say that wouldn’t sound pathetic, and eventually, he clears his throat, moving on to the present. problem at hand. put it behind him and work on something. that’s how he survives. ]
Well, that shuttle sure as shuck didn’t come from nowhere, so there’s gotta be at least some people around here. We got this tech-- [ he tugs the ear piece free, holding it up ] --Maybe we can find a way to contact them.
no subject
[Daryl's lip curled. He didn't need pity for living. Life was hard, but it wasn't all bad. He didn't even bother commenting on the rest of it. He had his group to gather and discuss where they were going from there.
Daryl walked off, muttering to himself.]