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CONTRAT DE NOT'RP !

- Statut du RP : privé
- Tour de jeu : -
- Délai maximum d'attente de réponse : 1 mois
- Nombre de sauts de tours autorisés avant que le délai d'attente ne soit plus pris en compte pour le joueur attendu : -
- Autre : ALL HAIL ENGLISH.

And back alone he was.

Not that it ever mattered. The difference was paper thin, so thin that it made none at all. He had always felt this way, after all. Alone, yet surrounded by people. Surrounded by people, yet alone. It didn't matter. After that short encounter with the boy with the beeping machine on his wrist, life went back to how it had always been. He did see the little girl again, the one he should have killed faster, when she was still alive. It would have been a quick and painless death. He didn't feel remorse, though, when he saw her there, encircled by those rotting creatures as if she was being protected by them. Her eyes were not quite the same as what he remembered them to be. Her ripped clothes were bloody, barely covering the insides hanging out of her stomach. That had been her choice. So he left her like this, because that was her decision, and he respected that. He wasn't going to decide for her. He couldn't even decide for himself. It was all a matter of surviving in the end, and she was not compromising his life. Not that he had anything to do with it, but humans work in a very funny way when it comes to life and death. He had no reason to live, but he had no reason to die either. It was as simple as that ; and so life went on. A long neverending day filled with small unmeaningful events. Walk, stop, hide, smoke, eat, sleep, and then go back to first step and repeat until dead. Or, until you run out of cigarettes because you lost your pack again.

So here he was again. In a supermarket, bazooka on his shoulder in a nonchalant way, his last chunk of cigarette holding loosely between his lips. It was actually a good thing. He was running out of ramens as well.

Woah. Don't aim that thing at my face. He pushed it away with a gentle gesture. It wasn't the first time that Jem had been confronted with a weapon aimed at him—and though he was aware that this tall(ish) guy probably didn't have a case of unstable trigger finger, he was also consciously aware that he didn't get this far in the apocalypse through trust. Better safe than sorry. Especially now. Always choose safe. There is no time for sorry.

Uhuu. Ok. That thing is more silent than it looks. (Also it shoots knives??? How the hell does THAT work. Someone please explain.) Are we done here? We need to move. Do you have a place? Jem was (probably correctly) assuming that Evans wouldn't mind him tagging along. He didn't bother formulating his request more politely, more tentatively. It would be a waste of words with him.

That was already the plan, wasn't it? He had clearly stated he would be coming with him, earlier on. And just like then, Evans didn't show any sign of disagreement. The guy wasn't exactly someone you could rely on and if anything, he would be more a burden than a benefit. But those thoughts weren't even crossing his mind. His survival instinct was not one of those. Putting his knife back in his bazooka, he nodded. Not too far away, he replied softly, before walking towards the exit.

Jem followed. Closely. Not close enough to be annoying, but his closeness clearly communicated he was in need of that bazooka if something happened. Or at least in need of Evans. No shame in admitting it. Among all the things that could get you killed nowadays, pride was a big factor too. Not as big as compassion and friendship, but surely large enough for Jem to avoid it altogether. The city is dying down. He noted as they walked. People keep raiding it. There won't be anything left to eat soon.

Then I'll move when needed. There was no "we". There had never been a "we". It was always "they and him". It wasn't so much out of egocentrism than out of the firm belief humans were meant to be alone, even together. Roads were crossed, groups were formed. But in the end, it was but a one-sided story of which you were the only narrator and actor. He stopped at an intersection, his body pressed against a brick wall as he glanced towards the crossroads filled with those things. Strange. It was clear just a while ago.

How many ? Jem asked in a low whisper. He didn't glance ahead, staying safely behind the wall.

HRP:

The dice have spoken. 12. It wasn't a whole lot, but it was still not less than 3. And somewhere around here was the cause of them being there. His hide-out was only a few streets away, but he couldn't risk having them trace it back there. The streets were large - and they didn't provide much cover. Had he been alone, it would have been another story ; but making up plans for a team wasn't quite his thing. His glance shifted to watch-man as if he was awaiting his call, wordlessly acknowledging his position as leader.

HRP:

What are you looking at me for ? I don't have the damn bazooka. He paused. Do whatever the fuck you do if I'm not around. I can handle myself. Another pause. But don't leave me behind, obviously. Take a detour, whatever. I don't know you well enough to hold your leash. Honest truth from an honest boy. At least he knew him well enough to know he wouldn't be offended.

Could he, though. Handle himself. If he had managed to survive up until now, perhaps he could, yes. Evans couldn't be the judge of that, or at least not yet. He nodded, as the leader had spoken, and told him to stay there for the time being with a hand sign. He glanced towards the streets again, then started moving. Swiftly. Surely. Calmly. A few meters ahead, he stopped behind a crashed car and put one knee on the ground, swinging the huge weapon on his shoulder as his eye aligned with the sights.

So Jem waited. He crossed his arms, still warry of his surroundings (frankly I doubt that that paranoia would ever leave his body), and stayed put. If everything went according to plan, Jem should be unfreezing his ass in a warm, safe place in less than an hour. But then again ; when did things ever go according to plan anymore ?

Bazooka wasn't exactly the perfect weapon to go for in a zombie apocalyse. It was loud, slow, and difficult to carry. Evans hadn't planned that ahead either; but after a few modifications, this bazooka had ended up saving his life more than a few times. He shot the 7 knives he had. One missed, all the others went right through their skull. He got up and started walking towards them as they noticed his presence. In one swing, he pushed them back, sliced the head of 2 with the blade aligned to his weapon. 8 down, 4 to go.

He glanced at his watch. Not even to check his heartbeat. No. Seriously, just to find out how long it took Evans to take out those damn rotters. He had expected him to be a bit faster. They could've gone around, really. It might've taken 10 more minutes, but they could've. Clearly Evans wasn't a thinker. Jem briefly wondered if he'd jump off a roof if he told him to.

If he just had said that instead of telling him he wasn't the one with the bazooka when he silently asked him if he had a plan, maybe, yes it would have been faster. Clearly he wasn't a thinker, indeed. And that was why he had relied on him that time. But now, they were doing this his way ; get rid of them and make sure those were 8 monsters less on earth. And after a few more swings, 12. Swinging the weapon on his shoulder, he looked around. Someone had been there, and not so long ago.

No "ok", no "it's safe", no "you can come out here". Jem waited for some kind of signal, but when there was none, he simply glanced behind the wall to take the initiative himself. All done over there ? If he wasn't, speaking out loud probably wasn't the smart move, but Jem figured Evans wouldn't have stood there looking around with his bazooka on his shoulder if the area wasn't cleared.

Yes. No one was there anymore. Not that he cared about the well-being of that said person, but in a world such as the one they were living in, it was always preferable to know your surroundings. People once glad criminals were locked-up far from them were now living outside the same way they did. Forget about those rotters being dangerous, human beings were far more scarier; that much he knew. We can go, he said as he picked up his knives and started walking.

Jem joined him and looked around for a few moments before he followed Evans. Just to see what he had done to the place. Surely using a gun with a silencer or a crossbow would be more efficient than that huge bazooka on his shoulder. How old are you?

22. You ? He took a small alley, where an average fence was standing between the houses, separating the area. (makes this a little shorter haha)

Huh. He stopped to look at him. 21. I was sure I'd be older than you. Maybe because Jem tended to allow older people to speak for themselves. Granted, they weren't that far in age, so the mistake was easily made, but still. Had they been brothers, Evans would've been behaving like the younger one. You're gonna have to remind me what your name is, though. I forgot.

He gazed back, perhaps to check the tangibility of his comment. He had previously thought watch-man was younger than him, though that was but a matter of perception. Evans. Pause. I forgot yours as well. He couldn't exactly keep calling him "watch-man" either.

Everybody calls me Jem. And that was enough. No need for formal introductions these days. Besides, a one-syllable name was quick to pronounce and believe me, you wanted it to be quick during an emergency. Jem started walking again, since they had briefly stopped for the age-exchange, though it didn't stop him from asking some more questions. You told me you built that weapon yourself, if I remember correctly. What were you before? A mechanic? An engineer?

Jem. Short and simple name. He slightly wondered why he didn't remember it, easy as it was, but didn't question himself any further. He wouldn't be saying his name that often anyway, he thought then. Mechanic. Kind of. It was an occupation, not a job. His feet kept on walking, leading the way down a narrow path. Were you studying ? Working ?

Working. Jem never had the mind to study. Not that he didn't have the intelligence, but he simply didn't see the point. He gave it a try once. Things didn't work out. It didn't feel right. Whereas everyone else seemed to know exactly what they wanted in life and had already planned out the biggest events, Jem felt lost. Like he had been waiting for some of the pieces of the puzzle to slowly fall into place, although they never did. The point was moot now anyway. In a tea house. I think I told you. At least, I might've. I made tea for you.

Ugh, bad news. Not horrible, but still not great. There was a whole bunch of risks involved with having to climb, and not only heart problems. You could fall, for example. On the other hand, zombies weren't great climbers. They'd just have to pray that a crowd wouldn't form underneath the window. Is there another escape route ? Jem asked, just to be sure.