The Stand Mafia- Bio Thread

Name: Matthew Border
Appearance: 6'1”, skinny, messy longish black hair in dire need of a trim that seems to be constantly in his light blue eyes.
Place of origin: Chattanooga, Tenn. Matt joined an adventure seeking friend from college who wanted to move out west. He was sick of home anyway and had never been close to his adopted parents who felt Matt should be far more grateful (read perfectly behaved in every way) for his good home.
Occupation: Administrative Assistant (studying to be a Geologist)
Mode of transportation: Powered Scooter
Items being carried: His MP3 player with a full back of batteries. A set of walkie talkies. A box full of packs of Cheese N Crackers, A spare set of clothes, a large flashlight, toothbrush and toothpaste, little travel bottles of shampoo and soap that he had lying around,his cellphone/camera (habit okay!),palm pilot (another habit) a lighter, sleeping bag, a machete he had used for hacking back the forest that was intent on reclaiming his backyard...oh yeah, and a comb, as an afterthought.

History:

Matthew Border was the unwanted child of Tina Dalton. Some unwed young mother who may or may not have been pressured into giving up her baby boy. He didn't much care really. He was adopted by Susan and Anthony Border to be the role model child of their fruitless marriage.

Someone had forgotten to inform him that he was not allowed to be a disappointment. Matt was plenty bright, a fact that had given his adoptive parents great joy early on. He just did not care to “apply himself” as his adoptive father repeatedly intoned over the dinner table. He was not bad looking either but he was a shy introverted child. Susan,therefore, drug him around to every neighborhood social that -might- conceivably involve getting him to talk to some friend's daughter in the hopes of sparking some interest in him through one of these torture sessions of awkard moments. Instead,it had become wide spread news that his adoptive mother was on a campaign to get him a date which had the predictable results of making absolutely certain that he never got one.

College was freedom despite the fact that his parents insisted that he live at home because his A-B grades were not high enough to merit his being released from their watchful eyes lest he become the party animal they were certain lurked just underneath his reclusive surface. He was able to be himself in the large faceless mass of students and no one cared.

He wanted to live on campus as much as humanly possible and only went home to grab cold left overs from the fridge and to sleep. Spending massive amounts of time in the Student Rec room had led him to meeting the local gaming group. There he met Ron. Ron Walden was just cool. Sure, he played table top roleplaying games but somehow that was accepted as just one of his quirks. A liberal Arts major and seemingly the most well known person on campus, Walden was friends with everyone and what's more, they were friends with him. So, Matthew was quite surprised by the special attention and strong friendship of a guy who was invited to every party, game or event known to college existence. After two years of study, Ron became bored with the Eastern US and wanted to travel. He asked Matt to come along.

Much to his parents dismay, Matthew said yes.

And that was how he ended up in Seattle.


*****

Name: Vern Barns
Appearance: A portly man in his late 30s with thick blonde hair and black glasses. Vern stands at about five foot ten and while he was once in fairly good shape he has in recent years gone to seed. He wears collared shirts with various company logos on them, the kind you can get for free at tech shows, and khaki pants. He has hazel eyes, blue and brown and rather startling on his otherwise undistinguished face, which is mostly buried in a full, but neatly trimmed, beard.
Place of origin: (note: This will be taking place in the Seattle area in the beginning so where ever you are from, you should currently be living or have some reason to be in or around Seattle ) Vern was born in a small town in Northern California, but since then he has moved up and down the west coast, following his various professions. He has lived in Seattle for four years.
Occupation: Network Administrator, and no, he wasn’t much fond of it.
Mode of transportation: Vern knows how to drive many classes of vehicle and is willing to operate a wrecker to remove abandoned cars from the road.
Items being carried: – Although some might look at Vern and think ‘tech geek’, in truth he happily chucked his cell phone and blackberry out the window shortly after the flu ravished the city and hasn’t felt the need to raid stores for battery operated electronics just yet. Instead he carries a small notebook with a pen shoved through the spiral, a large pack of chewing gum (to help with munchie cravings), and a cigarette lighter for lighting candles since the outage.
History: Vern has spent a good portion of his life bouncing around; from relative to relative after his parents were arrested for growing marijuana on their property and then fled to South America once they were released, and then from job to job once he turned 14 and was able to get a worker’s permit. He’s worked as a bus boy at a local greasy spoon in Washington, a park ranger at Yosemite, a logger in northern Oregon, and a truck driver up and down the west coast. He got into computers while working a night time security beat for a start up IT company and when that went south he headed for Seattle to see if he couldn’t make a living tooling with networks.

There has been very little in the way of personal drama in his life, in spite of his somewhat dramatic circumstances. Vern learned to adapt to change and disappointment from an early age and takes most things in stride. His early experiences have, however, affected his ability to form lasting, healthy relationships; he tends to bounce from crowd to crowd just as he bounces from job to job. He continually wipes his own slate clean and starts over, and though he won’t admit it to himself, a part of him is looking forward to using the flu to do that yet again.

****

Name: Vera Noble
Appearance: A tall, built woman in her mid twenties with long black hair and a thick, square jaw. Vera is in excellent physical condition and can often be seen wearing something sporty that shows off her well toned physique. Her eyes are a flat, steely grey, though quick and intelligent for all their lackluster appearance. She tans easily and her skin is currently a warm shade of amber from time spent out of doors.
Place of origin: (note: This will be taking place in the Seattle area in the beginning so where ever you are from, you should currently be living or have some reason to be in or around Seattle ) Vera has lived in Seattle nearly all her life, though she did go away to college at UCLA
Occupation: Professional Homemaker and Volunteer
Mode of transportation: For now, a good pair of walking shoes.
Items being carried: Vera fancies herself a survivor type in spite of her urban lifestyle. She has a brand new water bottle slung to her back, along with a hip pouch with some essentials – a flash light, matches, sunscreen, chap stick and the like. She wears a compass around her neck, a gift from her husband – inside there is a photo of the two of them from when they were dating.
History: Vera was raised by her parents – a mom who could only be described as super woman and a dad who was the image of responsibility. She had a privileged early life and her mother did her best to make Vera aware of her advantages by taking her along to do volunteer work for those less fortunate.

Volunteerism became a way of life for Vera throughout high school and college. She earned a degree in social work while attending UCLA and chose to use her education to help people. After she married Kurt, a police officer she had many seemingly chance encounters with until she discovered he was going out of his way to see her, they decided he brought in enough income for her to volunteer full time. Kurt and Vera were a good match – both public servants, with idealism that was tempered with experience and a general sense of pragmatism. Kurt taught Vera to relax and unwind, and Vera taught Kurt how to take better care of his health. They were well liked in the neighborhood and Vera was often times seen jogging in place while chatting with a neighbor in the mornings or pulling their fat basset hound, ironically named ‘Skinny’, behind her in the evenings. They figured they would work on kids once they got the hang of the dog.

Vera buried Skinny in the backyard a week ago, the day after she said her goodbyes to her parents in a downtown hospital and three days before she buried her husband. The day after she said goodbye to Kurt, she was jogging along when she discovered a flyer.

It had taken her quite some time, living on the outskirts of the city as she did, but at last she had made it to the Space Needle. After a sigh, she wrapped her hand once around her compass and gave a little squeeze, then started up the steps.

Name: Kyle Evans

Appearance: 6'2, black short hair, slightly tanned skin, bright blue eyes. He has a very slender frame which he covers with button up pressed shirts, a loose tie and matching slacks. He is a perpetual squinter and is a conspiracy theorist.

Place of origin: (note: This will be taking place in the Seattle area in the beginning so where ever you are from, you should currently be living or have some reason to be in or around Seattle) Kyle is originally from Las Vegas and then relocated east to Nachton. After a few eye opening incidents that involved his theories to be correct, he headed West to Seattle to write for the Seattle PI.

Occupation: Reporter

Mode of transportation: A yellow cab he found with a full tank of gas and the keys still in it.
Items being carried: A handful of PDA batteries, 1 PDA, a prescription bottle containing little yellow pills, a dead cell phone with a large smiley face and poison control yucky face stickers.

History:

Kyle can't catch a break. Ever. His exploits throughout the years had left him a recovering alcoholic, currently addicted to an underground drug that did more damage to his mind than his body. His theories made him the joke of his peers and his popularity made him a target of ridicule from the same crowd, but a very very rich man. His choice of women...questionable. Heading to Seattle was more out of necessity than choice, but he's fairly sure what he was running from died with the superflu.

****

Resting his head on the glass front door of a Starbucks, Kyle cried as he realized he could no longer brew fresh coffee with the power outage happening. It would be permanent and he'd have to figure out how to make a fire with some sticks soon enough. He turned just in time to have a marigold colored piece of paper be blown directly into his face. Grabbing it he turned it over and read the message.

There are others. He hadn't seen anyone else alive in several days...at least he thought it was several days. Time was going by in a blur, as was his mind. Crumbling up the paper, Kyle made his way towards the shadow of the Space Needle in his yellow cab.

NAME: Estaban De Santos

APPEARANCE: 6'2'' inches of Latin steel over a hunk of architecture stolen from the gods. Dark hair, dark eyes, and an accent guaranteed to make women swoon.

PLACE OF ORIGIN: Madrid, Spain

OCCUPATION: Male underwear model

MODE OF TRANSPORTATION: Vespa...vroom, vroom baby!

ITEMS BEING CARRIED: A Gucci backpack, Evian water, a comb, hair products, moisturizers, tweezers, lip balm, a large supply of Magnum condums, red scarf, gloves, black berry cell phone/personal organizer.

HISTORY: Estaban, originally born Bob Shumacker of Broken Field, Texas, quickly discovered the power of his amazing good looks in high school when he used his 'talent' to seduce a number of female teachers into giving him good grades, jewelry, and other perks for a 'job well done.'

College, despite his rather high marks in high school, was a total waste of time, as far as Bob was concerned. One night, near the holidays as the dutiful son wended home after another miserable and possibly last semester of college, Bob stopped in a little tavern just off the Interstate. And a star was born...

Bob discovered that most people have no idea what a Spainish accent is, nor do they have any expectations when you speak with an accent other than trying to get you to repeat phrases that they find humorous.

Bob went home with the Johnson twins and several free drinks for telling people over and over, "My name is Estaban. I am a great lover or womens.", and an evil thought on getting out of the doldrums.

Shortly thereafter, Estaban from Madrid signed a six figure contract with Sean Jean, and a life of ease; easy women, easy sex, easy money, and an easy life style were born.

That is, until the damn plague hit. What had started out as a three day shoot up and down the Washington coast had turned into a nightmare where the Captain of the small yacht had died enroute back to the coast, Sea-TAC, the largest airport was shut down, and Shelly, Bob/Estaban's personal assistant had gone out to score some coke and had never come back.

Lacking anything better to do, Estaban spent the last few days in his penthouse suite until the mania died down, venturing out only to raid adjacent rooms for water and all too quickly putrifying foodstuffs. Since he's pretty much collected all the readily available resources, and can no longer bear the smell of the few decaying bodies in the hotel, he's decided to hit the streets and see if anyone out there can recommend a good hair stylist or maybe cook that just perfect quiche that he loves...

He located the Vespa (basic black, which is good as it matches his coat and gloves) in the lobby of the hotel after an exhaustive climb down innumerable stairs. There was no one around to claim it, the gas tank was nearly full, and the keys were miraculously in the ignition.

As he started it, and drove out through the lobby doors and on to face his destiny, Estaban thought, "Eet is true, fortune favors the good lookings..."

Name: Carly Gables

Appearance: 5'4", a chubby 150 lbs, very long, dark brown, wavy hair that she usually braids, or wears in a pony tail pulled to the side of her head, tucked behind her right ear. Carly wears glasses to read with, and when not sitting on her nose being used, almost always has them on top of her head That is unless she's outside, and then her prescription sunglasses rest in place of the reading glasses. She's not pretty, but she has large, expressive eyes, fringed in sooty black lashes and a round, bee-stung lips on her generous mouth. She laughs a lot, and because her cheeks are so pudgy, you often don't actually see her eyes. People often say the word gnome comes to mind when asked to describe Carly.

Place of origin: Carly moved to Seattle with the company she worked for, a little over six years ago. She was born in southern California, and left behind her mother, father, two brothers, and one sister.

Occupation: At the moment Carly provides day care for three sisters ages of five, three, and ten months. The girl's parents work for the firm Carly and her husband had worked for, and Carly has known Jack and Felicia since moving to Seattle.

Mode of transportation: She drives a late model mini-van.

Items being carried: Being around children so much, Carly carries a huge satchel type purse, full of things she or the girls might need when away from the house. Snacks, wipes, small bottles of water...crayons, color books, and a coupls super balls...then she also has a brush, and comb, barrettes, and pony tail holders, her wallet, pill box, keys with a swiss army knife attached...her cell phone, and a small cosmetic case with lip gloss, hand lotion, a nail file, and mirror round out her pack.

History: Just prior to moving to Seattle, Carly had married one of the company's attorneys. After they relocated, she quit working there the following year, mutally deciding it was time to have a baby. Unfortunately, after trying desperately for three years, Carly found out her husband was unable to father children. They then tried donor sperm, but when that didn't work either, after six months, they decided to adopt instead.

Sadly, Carly's husband was killed in a car accident a little less than a year ago, before any adoption proceedings could be finalized.
It was providence when Jack and Felicia lost their day care provider, who moved to the east coast. Felicia and Carly were having lunch one day shortly thereafter, and when Felicia lamented about her predicament, Carly came to her rescue immediately. For Carly it was a matter of caring for the three girls, or getting some other job.

Not that she needed the money, for her husband's insurance had left her pretty well off. But she was not one to just sit idly by, and watch the flowers grow. She needed a purpose...a reason to get up in the morning...and until she had a child of her own, which she hadn't given up hope for, taking care of someone else's would do just fine.

As it happened, Jack and Felicia had just taken the girls to Hawaii for a two week vacation, and Carly now had those two weeks to do things around the house, and catch up on whatever it had been that she'd kept busy doing, before the girls took over her life.

The first two days she stayed home, cleaning, mending, rearranging some furniture, and potting some plants. On the thirs day she decided it was time to go grocery shopping, and just get out of the house. As she drove along I-5, she was startled to see virtually no traffic on the road at all...almost as if it were 3am on a Sunday morning. It just didn't make sense at all, and spooked her so that she decided to make a quick trip to the office, in hopes of seeing some old friends, but more importantly finding someone who could tell her what was going on.

"I knew I should have watched Regis and Kelly this morning..."

And blamed her lack of knowledge on missing her source of news for the day.

When she neared the Space Needle, a piece of purple paper blew onto her windshield, directly into her line of vision. Pulling the car over to the side of the highway, Carly parked, got out, and angrily ripped the paper from the glass. Once she'd read the paper four full times, she mechanically got back into the car, and took the first turn off that would lead her straight to the Space Needle.

Name: Kassidy "Cookies" Maldonado

Appearance: Age - 15, Hair- Black, Eyes - Green, Complexion - Light Tan, Height - 5'9", Weight - 125lbs, Clothing - Girl Scout Uniform, black leather trench coat, combat boots

Place of origin: Born - La Jolla, CA. Moved to Seattle a year ago. (Ballard)

Occupation: Like, no one has an occupation anymore. Du-uh! But I was like the Girl Scout Cookie Sales Champion of the World. Twice. I'll probably win by default this year. Want to buy some cookies? You know you want them. And only I know where they are now.

Mode of transportation: Schwinn Retro bicycle, Kiddie Rider on the back

Items being carried: sign up ledgers, warehouse keys, address lists, 1 person tent, canned goods, bottled water, mess kit, spot sell boxes, Beretta 9mm in a shoulder rig, extra ammo, 25' mylar, 50' rope, starter kit, leather oil & polish, baseball bat, baseball glove, balls, change of clothes, environmentally friendly beauty products (cuz you gotta have hope)

History: Ma and da were always on 'bout th'Pocalypse. They don't gotta worry about it now, though. They're in Heaven. I guess they were right about all those things I shouldn'ta done...'cause I'm still alive, and it's Hell on Earth time. I was sad at first, but at least they don't have to see their world fall apart...that'd be pretty hard. I'm still getting used to things, so maybe it's best that I lived and they died. Kids'll have a better chance of building something new and lasting since we'll adapt better to th'environment forced upon us. We were like learning about that in biology, how things like adapt to the changes around them. Like these crazy moths in England that used to be white, then the industrial revolution happened and they like turned black and now that its over they're like white again since there's less coal soot there. So we'll change to fit the times. Not everything's gotta change. Maybe we'll bring some of the old good things with us, too. Like baseball. And cookies. Not everything has ta change.

I grew up in San Diego. Ma was Mexican. Da was Irish. Both were Catholic, and I guess I am too. Baptized an everything. They did their best to raise me right - after school programs, sports, the Scouts, things like that. We all did pretty well until the whole hormones thing started happening and I got ta be a bit more of a handful. I think they hated me just a little for awhile there. I think I hated them, too...just for a little while. Then I wasn't growing as fast, things seemed to make more sense to me, and we started getting along again. We moved to Seattle last year - ma got a better job up here, da transferred with his company and it was good timing for me since some of the people I used to run with were heading to a bad place. I bet most of them lived, too.

The move North was a clean start for me. Things were looking up. Now it is a really, really clean start. I want things to be better than they were. I don't know where to start, though. Especially with some of the crazy folk that have been left behind. Sometimes I think it really might be Hell. I don't know where to start rebuilding. But according to this neon little flyer, someone does. We'll see what he has to say up at the needle. If it sounds good, I guess I'll go. If it sounds like bullshit, then I guess I'll stay. It'll put that camping merit badge to the test, for sure. Either way, I'll miss having an Uli's down at Pike Place. Just another memory.

I made some new merit badges for this...um...crazy period. Before people can get things running again. The other day I made my Looting merit badge when I had to get food from the market. There had been some people there getting meat. The died the other day, but it didn't look like they had the flu. I got canned and preserved goods. Nothing fresh except some raisins, if they count, and one apple that looked ok. The meat smelled bad. I guess they don't get their badge since they're dead. I'm glad we had all of the camping gear in the house, still. There was a lot of shooting over there by Outdoor World, and I don't want to test out that First Aid merit badge, thanks. Oh, I also made a grave digging merit badge. I read that they're supposed to be six feet deep. That took a long time. I put ma and da in separate boxes, but I couldn't lift them. So I found one big box and put it in the hole and then slid them in together. Now they get to sleep like that forever. Kinda gross, but I think they wouldn't mind. Filling it all in was a lot easier, but it was like there wasn't enough dirt to fill the hole back up, like a bunch blew away. Or ran off during the rain. So I used some potting soil and put some flower seeds in. I put their spare desk nameplates on their headboard, since those'll last ok in the weather.

This is like the worst week ever.

Name: Henry

Appearance: The weight of the world shows heavily on his face. Deep lines marr the ruddy face that struggles mightily to hold up the rather bulbous nose and bushy eyebrows. The grey hair is scragly but not too unclean, the cops picked me up a while ago and let me spend a night in the tank to clean up. A ponderous belly keeps him alive on long cold winters. Being of smaller stature at 5'6" helps in finding good spots and boxes to sleep in. Several shirts layer upon one another over grey sweat pants, topped all with a dingy brown coat that reaches his worn black boots.

Place of origin: (note: This will be taking place in the Seattle area in the beginning so where ever you are from, you should currently be living or have some reason to be in or around Seattle ) I've seen jes about evrywhare really. Born in Murfreesboro, Tennessee ovar half a centry ago.

Occupation: Homeless person

Mode of transportation: Mah feet werk jes fine, thank you.

Items being carried: A battered and rusted shopping cart of indeterminate age and origin holds all his earthly posessions. A battered box holds pop top type canned goods; vegatables, fruit, soup, and beans as well as dried fruits, beef jerky and some candies. A discarded outdated ladies purse holds ball point pens, gaudy ladies lapel pins, buttons with slogans and a dead guys watch. An old plastic lunchbox contains bottle caps from antiquity to recently found discarded metal caps. Covered by a tarp is an old fashioned lantern with a little kerosene in it still, a ratty scratchy blanket given out by the shelter last winter and a spare tin mug and plate. At the top of the cart is a backpack containing a radio with batteries, matches, a plate, bowl, mug and small kettle in blue ennamel with white flecks, several eating utensils in cheap stainless, plastic and disposable plastic nestle inside a torn cloth that resembles a dish towel. One spare shirt, gloves, scarf, hat and a pair of shoes are stashed in a plastic tub that is secured to the bottom of the cart as a sort of emergency stash. Tied to the handle on the left side is a plastic bag, full of other plastic bags while key chains dangle all over the rails.

History:
I'hve been a bum for forty years. Mah pa tossed me from tha farm when I wer 15. Said ta git a job, he was done feeden soo many mouths. An it wasn like ther was sixteen o us, jes us four kids bu ma died da winter afore an pa didn like havn ta cook fo us all. Mah brother an I hopped a train ta Memphis an tried ta git jobs. We labored a while till we got nough, den hopped da nex friegh train ta Virginia. We did that fer abou twenty years. We were what ya woul call Hobo's. Ridin da rails all over tha country. Mitch died o cancer a coupla decades ago. Jes wasted way in da summer an was gone.

I been here a few months, afore tha dyin start'd. Jes sleepin under a bridge in some big concrete pipes lef for constrution. Mah cart goes anywher I go. Da cops pickd me up coupla weeks ago an lemme sleep in da jail an git a bath. Why they think I wanna go ta some church o sheltr is beyon me. I thankd em kindly fo tha box o food an bath.

I wer pickin up trash alon tha road an spotted tha note. Got meself a watch an a pen as well. Lef da bags o trash nex ta a dumster an made mah way here. Werkin a cart up stairs aint too hard, ya jes gotta go backwerds.

Name: Emerald (adopted last name for military use only) Tares

Appearance: 5'5 Shoulder length curly blonde hair style pulled back in a bun. Very Pale with Grey-Blue Eyes, Slim 20's style figure (boyish in other words), 31 years of age. Has a heart shaped scar on her neck from when a previous foster mother hit her hard enough for her ring to indent and permanently mark her. Wears 20's inspired clothing generally in her off time like Pencil Skirts/Cut off pants in gray and black tones. She Smokes cigarettes with a long 20's style cigarette holder. Currently and on duty she wears scrubs or the standard military uniform with hiking boots wide brim hat in Camouflage and Green/Brown tones.

Personality: Emerald is not forthcoming, she doesn't volunteer information but learned early how to charm someone. Using her long lashes she can pretend to be coy which came in handy with many military men through out her career. When doing her job she is very diligent and has a photographic memory that easily recalls information pertaining to patient/medical data. She is very military rigid in how things are run and how the structure of Command falls, as the corps saved her from falling in to mediocrity she doesn't take criticism at all well when pertaining to her military unit. She doesn't like 'strings' so never thought of having children or marriage. Short-term relationships work best.

Place of origin: A drifter of sorts. Orphaned at the age of 5 Emerald who doesn't remember her last name moved from foster home to foster home. The earliest family she remembered living with was in New York, New York.

Occupation: Lieutenant in U.S. Army Nurse Corps - Specializing in Critical Care/Emergency Room. She runs her own team of nurses when they are in the field.

Mode of transportation: Covered Army Jeep

Items being carried: Large back pack standard issue, dog tags, 1 bed roll, 1 pillow, 1 canteen, 1 package of baby wipes, hair & tooth brush, small tube toothpaste, sun glasses & Sun Block, wide brim field hat, 2 packs of smokes, a gold cigarette holder, 2 automatic weapon issued by the Army Corps, (One in belt and one in her shoulder holster) a lighter, first aid kit standard issue for field work as a nurse, extra field uniform, 1 weeks worth of field rations, whistle, 1 role of tape, flash light, folding shovel, Monocular Model 26-2024W, ammunition, extra pair of socks, accelerant to start a fire, dry matches, her military key card, flask of Whiskey, Tube of Red Lipstick, wallet with her passport, drivers license credit cards etc..


History:Emerald was born then abandoned in some form that no one is able to tell her. Being angry with them she was transferred to foster care and then subsequently to a different foster home every year after that until she was granted independent living at the age of 17. With very little effort in school Emerald realized how she had acted stupidly instead of making something of her self she had managed to drag herself down. With no money and no place to go she joined the army and found a new purpose. Becoming a critical care and emergency room nurse she was shipped off to the Middle East, Japan, Korea, Australia and many other exotic locations dealing with the needs of their soldiers. Before the flu epidemic she was stationed in Tibet working with orphaned children much like herself over seeing the resurrection of a military hospital there.

As word of the accident spread a special military unit was mustered and sent to quarantine the area and Emerald was one of the Nurses. Working with the sick every day with no cure in sight sickened her. The entire special unit was wiped out accept her. Emerald stayed until the last man died dragging him to a mass grave she pushed him in saluting. With no military or anyone else in sight there were no options left she was forced to fend for herself and use the survival skills she had learned over the years. Suiting up in standard Military field gear she left the deserted Military camp and headed toward the Canadian border hoping there would be a working military base along the way. As she traveled Emerald had to create a cover story incase she ran in to anyone; however the story she made up (Stealing everything she had from a military base with intentions of fencing it) was useless because everyone was dead. She had not met one survivor other then herself the entire way up the West Coast until she hit Seattle and found that flyer...

Name: Temperance "Tempy" Jaxx
Appearance:
5'6, red hair to her waist, athletic curvy frame, well tanned
currently wearing a pair of faded jeans, a tight black "wifebeater" tank with a soft red flannel button up shirt (looks like a man's maybe?) over it and well worn in cowboy boots.
Place of origin: Someplace in the South by her accent but her drivers license says an address in Seattle
Occupation: musician, she thinks
Mode of transportation: an "aquired" H3 filled with non perishable foodstuffs, camping equipment and various other scavenged items. She really didn't check too hard to see before she took it.
Items being carried: Accoustic guitar in a hard black leather case with a shoulder strap. Large soft leather tote / purse with various items like makeup, mints, perfume, a wallet with money and credit cards, a dead cell phone, a couple of unlabeled homemade CDs,

History:
Something bad happened. Tempy has figured this much out. Exactly what she isn't sure. About the first thing she really remembers was wandering down the street with her guitar case on her back and clutching her tote bag to her shoulder. Her head hurt some and when she touched her temple she found a nasty knot. She continued to shuffle down the street, jerking away from each dead body she came across with slowly quieter shrieks and yelps.

By the time she came to a corner convenience store she was pretty much numb. It was like waking up and seeing you were the last person alive on the planet. Except she was quite sure she had to be dreaming, or rather in a particularly vivid nightmare. When she saw a couple of guys coming out of the Quik Stop she perked up. Someone else not dead! Walking over quickly and calling out a greeting with a wave, she ducked when one of them swung a bat at her, yelling for her to stay back. Something inside of her snapped and more out of instinct than any conscious thought she swung one leg out low and swept him off his feet, following with a few quick punches to the face and throat until he stopped moving. The second one lunged at her and she managed to toss him off and into a heap against one of the cement and metal light posts. Panting lightly, she blinked a couple times before straightening and beginning to giggle hysterically. Apparently she knew kung fu.

Turning slow circles in the lot completely at a loss, she finally stopped long enough to pull a bright flyer from against one of the large hummer's wheels. Her brow furrowed when she read it and her eyes swung to the obvious needle standing tall over the city. Shrugging, she decided what the hell did she have to lose. A quick search of the men produced a set of keys and a couple packs of dark cigarillos. Lighting one up, she took a deep drag and headed towards the Space Needle. The obvious gas fumes inside the vehicle made her roll the windows down but she kept her smoke. Seriously, what was going to kill her now?

Hey Temp, Roz threatened me too! *giggle* Signing up ma'am!

Name: Angelina Moore

Appearance: Dark black hair with streaks of blue dyed throughout; porcelain skin that looks as tho it's never seen the sun; piercing blue eyes; she stands about 5'6" tall, very lean and fit. She prefers to wear jeans and t-shirts when she's just hanging out, but always prefers her leathers for performing.

Place of origin: Born in East Texas, to a family who had made their money in oil way before she came along.

Occupation: Wanna-be rock star

Mode of transportation: Some snazzy looking sports car her father bought her for her 16th birthday 5 years ago. It was about time to get something new, but doesn't look like that's going to be happening any time soon.

Items being carried: Suitcase full of clothes and toiletries, her purse with a cellphone that doesn't do her much good anymore, a can of pepper spray, some lipstick, few business cards of people she was supposed to be meeting in Seattle, a cooler that had stuff in it but that's all gone now, blanket and pillow in the back in case she needed a break from driving on her road trip.

History: Having grown up in Eastern Texas, and coming from a wealthy family, most folks thought Angelina would grow up and maybe go to college and then marry a man from another wealthy family who would take care of her. Most folks were wrong. Angelina "Angel" Moore wanted more from her life than to be some trophy wife. Her father supported her desire to become a singer, and paid for voice lessons and sent her to the best school. Of course he thought she would sing something classical, or at the very least, some good ol' country music. Imagine his surprise when daddy's lil girl announced she wanted to be a rock star.

Angel had been on the road for days, driving up from Texas to Seattle to meet up with some friends from school. They had dreams of starting their own band, and since three out of four of them actually lived up in Washington, it was decided that's where they would start.

As Angel drew closer to her final destination, people seemed to be fewer and farther between. At first she thought maybe there just wasn't as big a population up here, but she soon realized something was really wrong.

She'd been driving around Seattle for a full day, searching for the address her friends had given her, hearing nothing but a dead line on her cell phone when she tried to call. With about a quarter of a tank of gas left, she was parked by a curb, leaning against her car when a flier blew at her and slapped into the window beside her. With a tiny bit of hope flaring to life in her chest, she hopped back in her car and drove off in what she hoped was the right direction.

Name: Lincoln Forrester

Appearance:
Lincoln is 60 years old. Six feet five inches in height. Short cropped grey hair and clean shaven, leathery olive complexion, pale green eyes. Physically fit, trim and muscular. Is faster, stronger and tougher than most men half his age. Wears clothing and equipment 'requisitioned' from an Army Surplus store. Olive green t-shirt, tiger stripe jacket and fatigues. Combat webbing and boots.

Personality:
Lincoln is a quiet type, he is in constant pain from his injury. On good days he endures mild headaches that makes him prone to being insensitive, impatient and distant. On bad days he suffers from migraines that turn him into a nasty, callous individual. Thankfully as he's gotten older he's learnt to bury and contain his feelings. Still most people think he talks funny (his voice is strained), he has a mild sweat going on and looks as though he's about to cry most of the time (the pressure behind his eyes does that).

Place of origin:
Lincoln is an orphan, birth parents unknown. Born and raised in Seattle, Washington. In and out of various juvenile detention facilities. Given the choice between enlisting or being sent to jail, Lincoln enlisted in the US Army.

Occupation:
Former Captain, United States Army Rangers. Served two tours of duty in Vietnam. Medical discharge in 1974. Trained as a watchmaker and was very successful in this profession.

Mode of transportation:
Lincoln rides Charely, a spotted brown stallion with an attitude. Charley is big, surly and mean. The pair get on swell.

Items being carried:
Lincoln wears a backpack stocked with spare military issue clothing, a first aid kit, shaving kit with cut-throat razor and leather thrup, personal hygeine kit - dry toothpaste, two bars of unscented soap and two packets of wet wipes. One sleeping bag, one man tent, dry matches, accelerant, cooking utensils, sharpening kit and collapsable shovel. Spare bottles of water and food rations. 50ft of nylon weave rope. Spare crossbow cords, bolts and a maintenance kit, sewing kit and boot polish.

In his army fatigues and jacket Lincoln carries a compass, waterproof maps, a smaller first aid kit, multi-function tool, k-bar knife, food rations, binoculars, a water canteen and a dynamo flashlight. Slung over his shoulder is a light-weight polymer scoped crossbow and a holster full of a dozen bolts.

Aside from his saddle, stirrups and bridle, Charley puts up with carrying a pair of saddlebags loaded with various rations and tools, and a thick rolled up blanket with a machete concealed inside.

History:
They say Lincoln Forrester has the luck of the damned. He was born into hardship, dragged up by his bootstraps and kicked through the school of hard knocks, and finally found purpose in the god awful killing fields of South East Asia.

But Lincoln Forrester is a dead man walking. There's a piece of shrapnel lodged inside his brain that can't be removed. It's been there since January 2, 1974 and one day it will kill him.

Each day since then has been a minor miracle. The headaches Lincoln gets remind him that he's living on borrowed time, somewhat ironic given that he decided to make his profession after the Vietnam War as a watchmaker.

Lincoln thought the 'Big Bug' would have finished him off and he's pissed off that he didn't die. He lost his wife, son, and three grandchildren during the bad times.

Still, Lincoln's a survivor and a realist and if he's going to die then he'll try to do it on his own terms.

Name: Dirk Spurley

Appearance: 5’8, He wears a sharply pressed Italian suit, and image is clearly important to him, though he has unfortunately gained a strange inky splodge on his shirt which he cannot seem to shift. Dirk has extremely chiselled good looks spoilt terribly by a missing front tooth, though this doesn’t seem to affect his confidence. He has a full head of jet black, gelled hair with a curious circular bald area on the top right of his head.

Place of origin: London, England

Occupation: Clowning Consultant

Mode of transportation: Unicycle

Items being carried: A suitcase containing a packet of spearmint gum, half an apple, a plastic toy of Han Solo. A balloon animal training manual, a variety of clown noses and a big pair of shoes.

History: Dirk had wanted to be a clown for as long as he could remember. Dreams of laughing children, squirty flowers and falling off chairs better than anyone else in the world consumed him throughout his childhood.

It was on one fateful day in his teen years when he was in a tragic accident with a washing machine, and his dreams of a career in clowning were quashed forever.

Distraught, he contemplated committing suicide.

The thought of never in his life feeling the pride of donning a pair of clowning boots and balancing atop a wobbling ladder while a fellow clown staggered back and forth trying to balance it drove him to the very pits of despair.

But then he had an epiphany. A way to give his life meaning. He may never be a clown himself, but he could help others out there with the same simple dream he once held so close to his heart. He would train young aspiring performers, and be remembered forever as a mentor to the best clowns in the business.

And so began his quest. He set up a successful Clown Consultancy firm in London, and quickly opened offices in over 25 countries.

Spurley Clowning Consultancy - Everybody loves a clown.

Dirk was the personal mentor of many of the 20th century great clowns, from Jack Sudfuddler, who played Ronald McDonald in the adverts, to U2 front-man Bono.

The Seattle offices became the biggest branch of the firm (Seattle being the clowning capital of the world) and in 2003 Dirk set up head offices there.

Name: Angus McNickenstien

Appearance: Shaggy red hair that needs to be cut, Green eyes, tall and lanky

Place of origin: Edinburgh, Scotland

Occupation: Street Sweeper

Mode of transportation: Skateboard

Items being carried: Red floppy top hat (it’s great for keeping the sun out of his eyes), A daisy because it was so cheerful, A push broom, several Brittany Spears CDs, several cases of Schweppes Shandy, has a collection of soiled photos of David Hasselhoff (taken with a telescopic lens). A packet of cheese crackers.

History:
Angus started life with high ambitions to be a bagpipe player, but because of his stumpy thumbs he opted instead to become an alcoholic. He won the annual “Best Beard Competition” no less than 23 times, but had his medals stripped in 1996 when it was discovered he had no beard, and was actually using a wad of cotton wool, spray-painted red and sellotaped to his face, as he had yet to become fully pubescent.
To this day he is still unable to sire a beard he could be proud of, and things got worse for him when he was exiled from the country for wearing a coat in spring. He drifted for a few years, until he ended up in Seattle, which he pronounces “Saturn” due to his low intelligence. He makes his living as a street sweeper, but pretends he works for NASA developing super-rocket pants.

While looting a music store for more Spears CDs he found a pink flyer about a meeting at the Needle. They would certainly need his expertise! Finishing off a bottle of shandy, he headed straight there.

I'm new here (My character will proabably much more trustworthy than the sinister Lemmy101 )

(managed to not be threatned by Roz - Agreed to come out an play before she had a chance to!!!)


Name: Nickie Myers

Appearance: 5’2”, waist length curly black hair, usually worn in a French braid, curvy, dark blue eyes, usually described as “cute as a button”, 19 years old

Place of origin: lives in a loft in Pioneer Square – grew up Port Angeles

Occupation: waitress at Duke’s, student at the UW

Mode of transportation: before the plague, a bicycle or the bus. After, Honda Elite Scooter

Items being carried: black leather backpack containing Excedrin (prone to headaches), dark sunglasses, windbreaker, lots of spearmint gum, a handful of Slim Jims and a small handgun w/ammo that she looted from some pawn shop. A hunting knife

History:

Nic grew up in Port Angeles, on the Olympic Peninsula. A rather quiet community, with a large dose of retirees, she longed for something a bit more exciting and upon graduating from PA High, opted (over her parents protests) to go to Seattle. She had no desire to end up at the paper mill, like her father.

Seattle was everything she hoped for – and still easy access to the mountains she loved. It was disappointing to only be able to find work as a waitress, but she was young and had huge dreams of what would be in the future. She opted to live closer to work than to school, and shared a loft with 2 other girls, Mandy and Sasha.

Neither of whom survived the hell she found herself in when Captain Tripps struck.

She had no idea why she had been spared, but Nic was determined to survive the aftermath. Her size came in handy, allowing her access to areas she would not have squeezed into had she been just a bit bigger and she had managed to stock up on quite a bit of food when she found a bit of lilac paper. She almost passed it by: after all, the streets were littered with all sorts of rubbish. The worst were the bodies, not only of the homeless she was accustomed to ignoring, but others as well. Vendors, shoppers, tourists… none had been spared. Ignoring them took an act of will-power Nic had not previously known she had. Standing up to her father had been one thing… but this? It made her wish she had never left home. And with no power, there was no way to confirm if her family was okay.

But that lilac piece of paper… even in what had once been a rather colorful and vibrant area of town, it stood out.

She read it standing on the corner of Yesler and 1st. Frowning, she looked north, to where the Needle stood, hiding behind the towers of the Emerald City. Things were creepy enough on her own – it might be better to be around others. Hiking her ever-present backpack higher up, she started the Honda Elite she had found and headed for the Space Center, dodging things she preferred to avoid identifying. This would not be a fun trip.

(Note to Mods - lived in Seattle for 13 years - if you need any help with details, lemme know!)

"What?"

Hank's head reflexively jerked back in shock, causing him to strike the rapidly swelling bruise on the back of his head yet again on the asphalt. For a moment he did nothing but blink rapidly, at once trying to clear the galaxy of stars that had exploded into his vision like the birth of a new universe even while fascinated by the display of lights. It took him another moment to realize whos voice had startled him so much: his own. Reality began simultaneously streaming in from multiple directions, coalescing into a tentative view of the situation that had just passed.

First came the understanding of what had just happened. He had apparently been asleep or otherwise unconscious, and had just woke. Next were the twin realizations of where he was: a convenience store; and why he was there: food. His whereabouts, relative to the entire United States rather than just the immediate area, struck him as if the sign he'd passed on the highway earlier that day had snapped itself off its supports and come crashing down on his head.

"Welcome to Washington".

More specifically, Bellevue.

Hank sniffed. His nose was running. He sniffed again. No, not running. Bleeding.

The rest of the world sprang to life in his head so suddenly that it caused him to lurch forward into a sitting position. His eyes focused in time to see a familiar blue van go squealing out of the parking lot, leaving in its wake the smell of smoking rubber tires and partially burnt hydrocarbons, and laughter. He allowed himself the briefest instant to be amazed at how the human mind could dilate time, turning the mere seconds since the attack into hours. Now, the opposite was taking place, time seemingly contracting as his van sped down the empty street. He scrambled to his feet and began the futile pursuit, loosing a stream of expletives so long it could have circled the globe and slapped him in the back of his bruised head.

After a minute or so, when the van was reduced to the size of a matchbox toy, he recycled some of his curse words and threw his middle finger at the grinning eskimo that he hated so much emblazoned on the van's rear doors. His only means of transportation, along with all of his belongings, was gone... but at least he would never have to see that stupid eskimo again. Or so he hoped. His therapist would have said that he hated the eskimo because it's comically slanted eyes reminded him of himself. His therapist would have been right.

Hank's real name was Wong Hung Wo. On his first day of school, a frightened, fragile, and highly impressionable Hung sat red-faced as his teacher stifled a laugh while struggling to figure out his name. Was it Wong? Or was it Hung? The other students were perceptive. Perceptive and perhaps a bit cruel. They didn't know why the teacher laughed, they only knew that she did. It wasn't until a few years later that the general harassment resolved into genital jokes, and along with the standard racist remarks, forced Hung to become Hank, and Hank he remained. From that central point, his self-hatred spread like a spiderweb of cracks in a mirror, distorting his view of himself, his culture, his family.

Too bad his therapist was dead. He could have used a nice chat.

Too bad everybody in the whole world was apparently dead. Everybody, except for him, and the two men who had just materialized out of thin air, knocked Hank out with a right cross and stole his company van.

This was the worst business trip ever.

He wasn't sure why his boss had wanted him to travel halfway across the country to attend a seminar in Washington. For that matter, he wasn't sure why anyone would choose Washington to hold a seminar on installing a certain brand of compressor into central air conditioning units. Why not a nice, hot, central air conditioning unit-rich state, like the one he should be in right now? Why hadn't they held the seminar in his home town of Houston, where he knew which convenience stores he would be robbed at, and knew to stay away from them? Why did he have to travel across the country to get carjacked?

Why did they want his van in the first place, he wondered, as he looked around at the cars lined up in neat little rows in the parking lot.

Karma, perhaps. Punishment for some horrible atrocity he obviously committed in a previous life.

As he turned to head back into the store to replace the food that was speeding away in his van, he noticed the piece of yellow paper clinging to his lower leg. He snatched the paper from the front of his blue jeans and examined it.

"Seattle, huh? That's only a few miles from here" he said to himself. He had been talking to himself a lot these past few days.

For a long while, he stood contemplating the paper and it's contents. Suddenly snapping out of his reverie, he folded the paper, stuffed it into his back pocket, and trudged back into the convenience store, wiping the blood from his nose and mumbling curses at the world and whoever else might be left in it.

No harm having a go I guess hehe...

Name: Jet Brady

Appearance: She stands at around 5'4, her figure slender, but with the curves in the right places. Her hair is long with a slight wave and dyed a vibrant red, contrasting her stormy grey eyes. She is not what people would call beautiful, but is striking in her own way, people notice her. She is wearing blue jeans with a white vest and steel toe capped Caterpillar boots. She has a dark brown suede jacket too.

Place of origin: (note: This will be taking place in the Seattle area in the beginning so where ever you are from, you should currently be living or have some reason to be in or around Seattle ) Jet is from Dunfermline in Scotland, (a bit north of Edinburgh), and came to America to visit a friend in Tennasee. She decided to make a trip of it and stopped at a few cities too, including Seattle.

Occupation: Student, studying French.

Mode of transportation: None yet, but she does have her drivers lisence.

Items being carried: A backpack with what she would tak on the plane with her - bottle of water, passport, tickets, doorkeys, digital camera, purse with a few dollars in cash, and a credit card.

History:

She woke with a start. She lay still in the gloom for a moment, listening for what had awoken her. Then it struck her and she sat up suddenly. There was no sound at all. Complete utter silence. She looked at her watch and cursed. She had missed her flight by 4 hours. She groaned, realising she must have fallen asleep while waiting for a taxi. She was still fully dressed even. With a sigh she stands up, grabbing her bag and jacket and leaves her room, mentally noting that no one had come to chuck her out.
She enters the hall, leaving her room door open, only to find the hall is shrouded in gloom too. The power must be out, she thought. And still not a sound. She could feel the hairs on the back of her neck rising. Something was not right here. She took the stairs down to the main lobby and went to the desk to check out. The receptionist was slumped over his desk, unmoving.
Thinking him asleep, perhaps nursing a stinking hangover, she prodded him gently. "Excuse me?" At the prodding she froze....he was too stiff for someone sleeping. Looking closer she could see no movement of his chest and stepped back hastily, realising he was dead. She was horrified, she had never seen a dead body before, but she was also not one for screaming. She looked around the rest of the foyer, only to see more slumped bodies littering seats and waiting area's.
"They're all dead..." she said to the silence, as she picked her way through them to the exit. The low lying evening sun caught her full in the face, making her blink from the glare. When her eyes adjusted she found the street littered with bodies too. "What the..."
The only sound now is the wind whistling gently down the street, herding litter like a flock of sheep before it. A small lilac peice of paper got caught up in a mini current and landed on Jet's midriff. Peeling it off herself, she noticed the picture of the space needle. She slips her jacket on and gets comfortable with her rucksack, then heads towards the Space Needle she see's in the skyline.

Name: Dr. Anthony Parnell

Appearance: 5'11. Dr. Parnell appears to be an athletic man in his mid 40s - a fact that he
is proud of being in his early 50s. His hair is always just slightly unkempt with a full semi trimmed facial hair. Any chance he gets he prefers to wear comfortable earthy colors with a nice safari hat (handmade in Africa). After the flu hit he promptly threw out all his dress clothes figuring no one would really care anyway.

Place of origin: Pikeville, KY

Occupation: Professor of Geology (now Earth and Space sciences) at UW. Field of specialty is Volcanology and current research includes summer excursions to Mt. St. Helens.

Mode of transportation: Walking - complete with walking stick

Items being carried: Walking stick, Magnifying lense, Geologist hammer, bottle of diluted h20, small bag with precious (to him) minerals/rocks, water, dehydrated food, sleeping bag, small pup tent, compass, pens, paper, maps of area, extra hiking shoes - Vasque (the store won't need them now) - external frame backpack

History: Anthony grew up in rural appalachians on bluegrass, and grits. Most kids couldn't wait to leave, but Anthony actually enjoyed the "home" feel of the area and spent most of his childhood exploring the local woods and creeks. As he got older his little trips turned into real hikes and he would collect neat little tidbits he found from them. After high school he reluctently left to attend Northern Arizona University. He'd heard the hiking there was amazing, and wanted to give out west a shot.

Immediately Anothony fell in love with the place and spent all of his time outdoors. Unlike Kentucky, Arizona actually had tons of cool rocks and Anthony was hooked. He was also hooked on Carol, who wasn't into rocks at all but loved how excited he got over such a silly thing. After 4 fast years he had a degree in Geology, a marriage, and was heading back across the country to study at VPI. Ironically his area of expertise was Volcanism - He moved from a Volcano rich area to one void of them to specialize in it. He found this rather amusing and made sure to tell everyone often - only the other geologists laughed.

A PhD, and several teaching jobs at community colleges later and Anthony landed a job at UW teaching. He was an extremely happy person with everything he wanted in life until the flu hit. He buried his 2 kids a week before he buried his wife while he was helpless to do anything. Every night is now filled with nightmares between the "strange" dreams and every day the lack of sleep takes a bigger toll. He tries to remain stoic and upbeat outwardly, but Carol would have known better. He tried to lose himself in research but who cares about the fine details of what a volcano is doing when it seems the entire goddamn world is dead. Hopefully some fresh (not dead) faces at the needle will bring him a little light - the paper he'd found had given him hope, and maybe a big damn tiring hike would help him get a little sleep.

Name: Xrystal Morgan

Appearance: 5' 4'' with shoulder length straight light brown hair. Hazel eyes with long dark lashes. Slender typical dancer's body with the exception of 3x the boobs of the normal ballerina.

Place of origin: Seattle.

Occupation: Dance Instructor

Mode of transportation: '67 white mustang convertable.

Items being carried: A duffle bag filled with basic dance supplies. 2 pairs of point shoes. 1 pair of high heeled tap shoes. 1 pair of soft sole dance shoes. 3 pairs of tights. extra leotard. several music CDs. multiple hair bands. hair brush. hypo-allergenic make-up samples. Voodoo doll of George Balanchine.

History: Xrystal was the only daughter of Greg and Marcia Morgan. At the age of 4, her parents enrolled her in ballet class. Xrystal proved to be gifted with excellent turn-out. When it was recommended that Xrystal be taken to academy in New York for training, her parents argued and eventually split up. Xrystal moved to New York with her mother and began the intense training of a destined ballerina.

At the age of 15, genetics happened. Xrystal developed boobs. Under different circumstances, being curvey would not be a bad thing, but tape and press board were not enough to give her the flat silouette desired for a dancer. Even with all of the begging, Xrystal could not convince her mom to pay for a reduction.

Angry, Xrystal moved back to live with her dad in Seattle. At the age of 17, she is working as an instructor part-time to save money for the surgery. Having gotten her GED, she is able to focus on teaching her classes and her own studies in dance. She will the star of the American Ballet Company one day, just wait and see.

Name: Lanna Rose Denmark
Appearance: Blonde hair cut short around the level of her chin, fair skin to the point of being pale but with a beautiful complexion, blue eyes with long lashes, five foot six inches in height, slender but athletic. She appears in her twenties but is actually in her late 30s.
Place of origin: From southwestern Texas, she has worked hard since graduating college, and finally took a vacation. Her first ever, to Seatle. Perfect timing for a disaster to strike of course.
Occupation: Nurse
Mode of transportation: walking then a bike found by a dead teenager. He wasn't goint to need it and she was tired of walking.
Items being carried: backpack with id, some cash and traveler's checks, camera, various clothing items from her bigger suitcase left at the hotel, personal hygene items, pepper spray, keys to her home back in Texas and her car (also back in Texas), and a sturdy steak knife scrounged from the hotel kitchen just in case.
History: Lanna had been excited to finally have saved up enough for a real vacation. She had worked hard saving up so she could stay in a fancy hotel and take her time seeing the sites. Her parents had waved her off after hugs at the airport, and that was the last time she had seen them. She had called them when she got to Seattle to let them know she had arrived, and since then nothing. She had woken the next morning and found herself quite alone in the hotel. Well not quite alone, there were some dead bodies. Ok a lot of dead bodies. She had tried to help at first going from one body to the next, her nursing background kicking in. But there was nothing she could do. In a daze, she had tried to call 911, nothing. She ran outside to flag down a policeman only to find the same kind of scenerio there.

Calm, such as she found in the midst of crisis in the ER filled her at that point. This was no time to panic and go off without thinking. She would panic and collapse with the shakes later. She went back to her room and gathered a few things in the backpack she had brought for site seeing. Then heading down to the kitchen she looked for a suitable knife. When things were crazy in the ER sometimes people became dangerous. She didn't want to be without some way of defending herself.

Back out on the street she started walking. She didn't know where to go, she just knew she needed to get out of there and hopefully find someone else alive. She had been walking for two hours when the flier found her, she couldn't say she found it as it had blown into the back of her head. Reading over the brightly colored paper, much in contrast to her emotional state at the time, she looked around. The needle? She paused to pull the siteseeing map from her backpack pocket. It was a bit of a walk from where she was. Looking around she found a fellow laying near a bike. She frowned and bit the corner of her lip.

He wouldn't need it anymore, and she did. Stowing the map and the flier back in the pocket of the backpack, she got on the bike and started peddling.

Night settles over Seattle and the party of survivors that has managed to make it to the Space Needle are ready for sleep after many drawn out hours of pouring over maps (which Vernon ingeniously gathered together in anticipation of everyone agreeing to leave the city), choosing a route, and planning for a journey.

Seattle was an empty shell of what it had once been, but it would be some time before the bodies turned to dust. They would rot in the summer sun, freeze in the winter, blend with the flowers in the spring, and still the bones would linger.

That was not a pleasant thought to anyone.

In addition to the problem of bodies, though, there was another matter, something no one in the group could quite define but which hung over all their heads like a death sentence, or, in this case, a –life- sentence. It was the need to start over, to rebuild and somehow prove that they had survived this, that they were not merely dying out more slowly than their neighbors. To do that, they needed to leave their dead behind.

Of course, that journey would begin with a single step, as is the way of journeys, and that first step would be taken in the morning, after a good night’s rest. And so the party settled in for the night, staying, by unspoken agreement, in the Space Needle. Vern, who seemed to think of everything, had raided a camping store for supplies, and there were sleeping bags for all. There were still several hours of whispering even after everyone was safely huddled in their makeshift beds, and some lay awake for quite some time with their thoughts. Some thought of a new home, a new hope. The chance to start over, to become someone important in this uncaring world. Some worried, wondering what was waiting for them on the other side of this journey, if this would all be for nothing. If humanity would die out after this last generation. One sick individual bitterly reflected that the flu hadn’t quite finished the job and perhaps someone ought to, to put this floundering group of people out of their damn misery. After a while, though, even the most persistent fell soundly to sleep.

Perchance to dream.

Everything changed when they woke up.

/ooc Okee snugglie bunnies, this thread is now closed. Go to sleep now, so the magical PM fairy can send you your role in the night. And let me reiterate – you are –not- to share this PM with anyone else, for any reason, because that would be cheating and cheating is wrong.