After the End -WE'RE FULL FOR NOW MESSAGE ME IF YOU REALLY WANT IN-

DEAR READER: For anyone, not cool with violence, drugs, sexuality or any other explicit activities, just a heads up, my RP contains them. This by no means endorses any of the above, however, as it is a dark Role-play, it will contain these atypical dark themes.

I am not liable for loss of innocence/sanity/Godliness if you read this and suddenly decide you're horrified.

You've been warned.



Fifteen years. I stroke the date on the sheet of paper. October 23rd, fifteen years to the day. I flipped through my older journals. Found my oldest one, dated 2013, complete with doodles of monsters, videogame characters, and album art recreations. I opened to October 23rd.
“I’m not one to really pay attention to the news, but fuck me, there are more and more cases of people getting sick. The epidemic’s gotten worse and worse. Like some kind of… Movie. Like the shitty zombie ones Kelsy love so much.”
I shut my eyes tight. I had doodled a picture of my window in the margin of the book, complete with a tree, and view of Toronto. I looked outside my current window.

Ruined buildings, smoke from fire pits, and patrols. Gunfire from the north wall, patrols beating people for not remaining inside during curfew, babies crying, a voice on loud speakers alternating between, “Any and all Infected are to reported immediately”, “curfew is now in full effect, any people found outside designated dwelling will be tried in front of martial council.”

I ran a hand over my scruffy chin and slurped down the beer I had so recently traded for. Tasted like piss. Another shallow reminder of Before the Outbreak. Before the people got sick, Before the people died, Before the spores grew, Before all of this happened.

I returned to my most recent journal with a grunt, scrawling down on the paper.
“Today, the food riots spilled into the north QZ courtyard.”
I sighed, slurping down more of the beer and looking out the window. I could just make out more shouting from the north. I returned to my journal.
“North Toronto Militia killed all the protestors. Gave supporters have of the month’s rations. The rest of us given an eighth. Many aren’t being fed. They justified the cut of food being low because, ‘the bulk of civilians in the north are dead’”.

I stopped writing and looked back out my apartment window. Another bout of gunfire. This Zone is going to fall. Just like the Western Zone. Just like the Eastern Zone. Just like all of the world has.

I return to writing my journal,

“I have to leave.”

END OF IN CHARACTER BACKGROUND
Beginning of Setting Description!

Anyone here heard of the Last Of Us? It’s a videogame, basically focusing on a Zombie outbreak. Except. It spreads via spores growing near orifices, i.e mouth, nose, eyes, anus, groin. That fun stuff. Basically, it controls all muscle in your body, and for a short while, you live while it eats you alive, and uses your body as a puppet to go and spread itself, along with find sustenance.

So, basically, yes.

Plant Zombies.

Setting info: (MANDATORY READ GUYS, I'LL LIST EXTRAS IN THE POST UNDER THIS)

Fifteen years after 2013. So, we’re looking at 2028 as a start date. If this continues, I’d love to expand our characters and our setting forward in years. But, we’ll see how we get on.

The World: By 2028, no one in Canada really knows what happened to everyone else. It’s assumed they fell back to helping themselves. Or died. Rumors of cures in France, the Middle East, China. Rumors of entire countries falling and being destroyed either by revolt or by infection. No one has an answer.

Canada:
In Canada, the infection spread like in other countries; slowly at first. We had the luxury of hearing about the U.S having Austin Texas become bombed to stop the infection before martial law was declared here. We had an idea of what was happening. It still didn’t help.

Quarantine Zones are set-up in all cities, and the Gov’t of Canada starts trying to segregate low-risk and non-infected people from infected and high-risk people. When martial is declared, Canada follows the US’s lead and starts maintaining city-states in Quarantine Zones, and harsh measures are inflicted for cities outside of those zones. Napalming streets becomes the norm a year after Martial Law. Riots are thrown, people die. The infection spreads through chaos. Vaccines are introduced almost monthly. Some help for a bit, others make the infected worse, resulting in stronger variants.

Soon the Gov’t loses contact with the world as it all goes dark. Canada, like the US is a dead country. No one knows what happened to the rest of the World. But for fifteen years, no help arrives. No vaccines prove effective. Life is fading.

Toronto:

The RP takes place in New Toronto, a QZ in the ruins of Toronto, capital city of Ontario, during the Fall, a short while before the snow starts. Toronto had three QZ’s. As of 2028, on the North still stands. The East is run by a group of rioters/survivors turned raiders, who have a deal with the North Toronto Military forces to leave eachother alone for now. The West fell to infected a decade ago, and is a ghost town, mostly used as a rest stop for Militia.

The city outside of these zones was purged early on by the current leader of New Toronto, a dictator named General O’Conner. The General is an assumed name. He was a mayor elected half a decade ago. That helped people move back into the city, leading to people voting he get full control of New Toronto… But the infection spread again.

This QZ is on its last legs. Food is running out, and the QZ is running out of space for its people. More people are becoming infected because they leave the city walls looking for food due to being bitten or breathing in too many spores growing from infected hives. The militia is also killing people. Anyone who leaves the wall without proper gear is considered infected, and shot dead, then burned in a pit. The Raiders to the east are taking in survivors in droves. The Militia insists this will be their downfall due to infection, but it’s obvious they fear the Raiders numbers.

Basic Rules:
Site rules, naturally.
I'm liberal on cursing. If it's in character, fucking do it.
Character rules. Basically, I have a plan for a plotline, I will guide us towards it, but I'm very open to ideas and changes based on who joins and who wants to do what.

Think of it this way. We're writing a character focused story. Together.

Combat is simple. No dice rolling here. If you want to win, you write it in. If you want drama, write it in. Keep in mind, bullets are finite, and not always the best solution.

Storywise, do what you want, but keep to the aesthetic I'm trying to create. The world is overgrown, and people are no longer in control. Remember that the only thing our characters have is eachother. We don't all have to work together, but try to at least join in knowing that we will try to mingle, okay?

Keep in mind, we're normal people in the RP. Normal people who are survivors. We're not world shattering Mary-Sues. Okay?

ALSO, if you're planning on leaving, please for the Love of God, WRITE IT IN STORY WITH US. Thank you.

OHKAY. THE REST OF THIS STUFF ISN’T A MANDATORY READ, BUT I DID GO THROUGH THE TROUBLE OF WRITING IT. SO READ IT, THANKS.

Infected Info:

Basics: They can be killed by destroying the body, or killing the brain either via trauma (blunt objects, bullets, anything) or cutting off Oxygen, which the plant uses to control the body. Basically the spores grow around the brain, and the “coral” grows from the skull down. The longer the person is infected, the worse it gets. The people from the initial outbreak have become “Hives”, non-mobile corpses mashed together where they drop. They spew spores that breed more infected. If you breath too many in, you the fungus grows.
The fungus itself controls the body. No one knows if it kills you first, or if you remain partially alive as it manipulates your brain function to mindlessly spread spores/sustain the fungus.
Fungus sustains itself via meats and the meat of the body it “possesses”. Could be anything, from humans to mice, the infected will eat it.
Curiously, the fungus only infects humans however, hinting at a weaponized past.
Spores also can't animate the dead, instead the infection typically starts with a living host. People often kill themselves to "die as themselves".

Tiers of Infected:

Runners: The most basic tier. My source material (The Last of Us) just lists them as what happens when spores start to take control of your body and kill you. They have fungal growths akin to coral growing on their skin, usually around the head, then spreading around the body. It cries out in pain, moans and breathes in Oxygen like a human, and breaths out (non-infecting) spores. It spreads spores via bite or prolonged exposure to breath. Usually prefers biting, as the fungus absorbs nutrients from the host’s body. Some runners also display terrifying hunting intelligence, able to stalk prey.
Here’s a picture, Rights to the Artists and Naughty Dog
http://images.gameskinny.com/gameskinny/3124afdd3f81616541087f406cc479da.jpg


Clicker: These infected are any kind of infectee that has “lived” as infected for many years. They have grown huge faceplates and other “coral” like plates on their bodies, usually focused on the head. The plant now uses Echolocation to find prey, constantly “clicking” to hear prey. Often slow moving, but very difficult to kill due to their faceplates. Also known to be impressively fast.
PICTURES! http://cf.shacknews.com/images/20130204/infected_female_hn_03f_24567.nphd.jpg

And there’s Bloaters, but I doubt we’ll be using them, since their rare. And stupidly deadly. They’re basically huge walking fungus, with a body inside, almost completely destroyed by the ever-hungry fungus. Their drive to find more “food” for the fungal growth makes them very, very, very aggressive. They can kill whole patrols. They also breathe Infectious spores.

Here we are
http://th08.deviantart.net/fs70/200H/i/2013/204/8/d/the_last_of_us_bloaters_by_hitomi_leonheart-d6eqbr5.jpg


Hives are my own take on environmental spore factories; basically they’re bloaters that got too old and big, or are heaps of dead infectees or corpses that weren’t burnt. They have fungus growing through their bodies, eating carrion, and releasing spores into the air. Because they have no motor function, these fungi rely on luring small animals other than humans with rotting meat or a sickly sweet smell. They’re the reason why rats and other vermin have been dying off.
ARTS!
http://cf.shacknews.com/images/20130204/infected_door_24567.nphd.jpg

Aaand, Bios will be up here, message in the CBox if you want in.

Faith is joining, just a heads up. So that's her and I so far. We have room. Just keep in mind, I'm looking for people who want to try and commit to this a bit. I want to see this RP do well here.

I'd also like it to bring back that old RP spirit we all had. It might be fun, lol.

I'll post my bio when it's done in this text, after we get shit started, post bios, and then post your opening scenes

Name: Aaron Thorpe
Sex: Male
Age: 29
Nationality: Canadian, with a mixed family line of natives, European peoples.

Build: Fairly stocky. He’s lightly muscled and fairly lean, but otherwise unremarkable.
Height: 5’8”
Weight: 180lbs, ish
Eye Colour: Plain brown.
Skin Tone: Farmer’s tan currently, with a bit of natural red in his otherwise white skin, thanks to native blood.
Hair: Short-medium length, finger brushed back out of his face, although often times a few 3 inch strands cover his brow. It’s Black, with a few reddish brown highlights.
Facial Hair: Currently faint stubble (Traded his shaving cream for a beer), however he prefers to be clean-shaven when possible. The goatee is black, while the chin is dark brown to brown fading into his sideburns.

Apparel;
Head Area: Often wearing a toque or similar piece of clothing, due to the cold. He also wears a scarf around his neck when he can.
Chest: He wears a plain dark red plaid button up long-sleeved shirt; with an old black band t-shirt underneath. The name has mostly worn off, along with a bit of the art. Over his button up shirt is a rather worn faded black leather jacket. Along the shoulders and small of the back on the jacket are three patches sewn over old nicks and tears in the leather. Most patches are gray or black.
Pants: Faded navy blue jeans, with (yes) long johns worn underneath.
Footwear: Black socks, along with dark brown and fairly worn out hiking boots. He typically leaves them scuffed up to look less valuable. People have been killed over shoes.
Accessories:
He carries a bandanna that can be tied over the face, obscuring it from cold wind, not often worn.
Also, he has a stolen gas mask. Essential for dealing with spores.

Weaponry:
Since guns are illegal, naturally Aaron doesn’t keep them with him in the QZ, however he is of course, a hunter. Stashed in his domicile, (basically a room in an apartment complex) under a floorboard is a Remington Model 798, along with a (stolen) Sig Sauer P229, with a 13-bullet clip, of 9x19 Para. . The pistol is often worn when hunting, carried in his rear waistband.
Remington has 13 bullets left, while the SIG has one full clip along with four loose bullets.
(For anyone Reading this, I researched the guns found in and around Toronto/Ontario, these are both relatively common, with the P229 used by OPP and the Remington just being common in general.

Job: Essentially, he’s a “Hunter” for the North Toronto Quarantine Zone. He finds supplies in the city, brings it back. He’s also, a smuggler. Bringing contraband into the QZ, stuff like drugs, illegal food, people, guns. Anything that people would require, Aaron finds.

Personality:
Outspoken and angry. He was fourteen when the infection hit. He lost his dad within a day of the outbreak in Toronto. Killed by looters. His mother was later raped and murdered by raiders a year later. His oldest brother ran away from the QZ to join some movement in the US called “The Fireflies”. He’s lonely, and terrified of being alone. As such, anyone he gets close to becomes as kin for him, and he is fiercely protective of them.

He’s also quite bad at dealing with sorrow, as it’s bottled up and manifests as anger. When fighting, he’s pragmatic. Having his family killed by humans and not infected has also taught him one important lesson.

”Trust the Infected. They’re predictable. People aren’t.”

Name: Ivy Brookes
Sex: Female
Age: 24
Nationality: United Kingdom. Born in England to a fully Scottish family, she immigrated to Canada when she was 11 so while her original English accent mostly stayed, her general Canadian knowledge grew

Build: Slender, but has developed slight muscles in her adult years
Height: 5’6”
Weight: 120lbs
Eye Colour: Green
Skin Tone: Usually has quite pale skin, especially during the winter, but having spent so much time outside in search of the QZ she's developed a slight golden tan
Hair: Long and straight. Lightly layered. Dark red, no bangs.
Facial Hair: Bushy Mexican moustache (just kidding, she's a girl, no facial hair at all)

Apparel;
Head Area: She has a thick, chocolate brown scarf around her neck that she occasionally pulls up to cover her nose and mouth, especially when outside in infected areas. Her jacket also has a hood that she will use to cover her head in windy or wet weather, or when travelling through infected areas.
Chest: She wears a mossy green tight t-shirt under a thicker black hoodie-jacket. In warmer weathers she'll tie the jacket around her waist to save room in her bag.
Pants: Dark denim narrow-boot jeans
Footwear: Thigh-high socks, one purple, one pink. Black knee-high boots, buckles and zippers for security. A sturdy but small heel to the boot.
Accessories:
Her scarf. She also carries a backpack with her at all times containing her essentials for survival, and a thick belt she uses for holstering some of her weapons. She also wears fingerless charcoal-grey gloves.

Weaponry:
She carries around a small pistol in her belt but either hides it in her backpack or drops it entirely when in QZs. A dagger is held in her belt and another slipped in her right boot. She has picked up other weapons over time and dropped or traded them as she travels.

Job: None as of yet

Personality:
Cautious. She is a follower, not a leader, but has good morals. She can be shy at times, especially around strangers and in newer areas, but has the ability to take care of herself. That being said, she won't usually be the first in a group to attack or defend. Prefers being dependant and relying on others, but can work alone if she needs to.

Ivy lost her family to the spreading sickness in Calgary where she spent her time living after the immigration. Hearing of designated QZs, she set out east to find them, Calgary's having failed and filled quicker than Ivy could hide. Over time, she learned useful survival skills and how to handle a weapon. She learned about the virus by witnessing its effects, rather than being told by an official. She travelled mostly by walking, some by various transportation into Toronto having grown in age, muscle, and survival skill.

Upon arriving in the city, she was in desperate need of food and water. Willing to trade or work for what she needed, she came across survivors living on the outside of the QZ and she traded various weapons and equipment with them. With little to her name, they brought her into the QZ area with the promise of food and shelter.

After being giving scraps and barely enough water to sustain her, the survivors held her captive as a prisoner in an abandoned bank, keeping her in one of the vaults. She was kept there for approximately 30 hours while she was violated and her belongings searched. Once they trusted that she was not infected, nor a carrier, they returned her bag and her clothes and let her free. Making her way through the ruined city, she settled herself into an old hotel, paying her keep with her knife skills sharpening tools for the hotel bar in exchange for a bed and food.

Weeks went by and Ivy discovered the terrors the QZ held. She needed somewhere safer. Despite the outside survivors assisting her in her long-term survival, she was still haunted by the unspeakable acts they performed on her and feared meeting them within these walls, and outside them. She longed to leave this place, but couldn't do it alone. She needed to learn more about the infection, those plagued by it, and although she had done well thus far, how to survive.

Spoiler:

Faith Elizabeth Wynters

Spoiler:

Gender: Female
Age: 26
Birthdate:  December 1st

Skin tone: A creamy pale color. She doesn't like to be out in the sun for too long because she burns very easily.
Eye color: Faith has vibrant green eyes.
Hair Color: Naturally black hair.  
Hair Style: Faith usually wears her hair down. It comes down just beneath her shoulder blades. When worn up, she usually keeps it in a bun, but doesn't mainly because her hair is thick and slightly curly.                                        
Body build: Faith is quite short. She is strong and slightly muscular, but her smaller waist and slightly wider hips makes her curvy and very feminine looking.
Facial structure: Mira has a soft face with large eyes. In the cold, her cheeks flush a light pink. (See appearance)
                             
Peircings: Faith has her ears peirced  and a Monroe. (She is very careful to not get them infected)    
Clothing:

Spoiler:

Footwear: She wears flat leather ankle boots.
Accessories: Carries a backpack with her everywhere.

Spoiler:

Personality: Faith is very strong willed. She still believes that there is some good left within the world even though its gone to hell. Some would say that she is illogically and recklessly stubborn if she is fighting for something she believes in. She finds peace with being alone in the quiet, as long as she knows she is safe. She will do anything to keep herself safe, and she will go lengths for people, if she trusts them. While she can be put in a bad mood, it doesn't usually stay for long. She does hold grudges and doesn't tolerate an asshole. She respects others until they disrespect her. She will, however go the distance for comrades.

Weaponry: An old 9mm Colt Defender (2 clips-10 bullets per clip). In the QZ she makes sure she has it hidden in her backpack, but keeps a switchblade on her just incase there is trouble with the others in the Qz. She has a baseball bat stashed in her apartment along with a larger hunting knife. She can use a gun, but prefers to not to use it at all if she has another choice.

Job: Faith helps people get into the Qz. She also goes out in search of extra food. Guns aren't high on her list, but if she finds them she brings them back.

"Smugglers of contraband are known criminals of the Canadian States! Do not support these criminals, they endanger us all!" Shouted a voice through loud speaker, before playing the Canadian Anthem over loudspeaker. A part of the curfew warning system. After the anthem, anyone found outside was detained.

Time to go to work, I thought to myself as I lifted my mattress.

Slipping my arm underneath, I pulled out a loose floorboard. I a bit of digging and I produced my pistol and a bag of brown. I looked over my shoulder. Faith was still out somewhere. Good. The bag of brown was oddly warm, as it should be.

The Canadian anthem was winding down. Patrols would start checking housing soon. I quickly slipped brown into my rucksack and tossed it around my shoulders. The pistol I slipped down my waistband and behind my coat.

I flipped my left arm upside down and pulled down my coat's sleeve. 7pm exactly. Need to go. Fast. Walls will be heavily patrolled due to the rioting.

My joints cracking as I lifted myself up I walked to the door, stopping only instinctively grab my right side. Stinging pain.

The old wound had never fully healed, infact the bullet was still lodged in my ribs. I prodded it with a grunt before opening the door to the apartment hallway.

Out in the hall now, the sound of the anthem had ended.

Muffled voices echoed down the halls, muddled by the screaming out on the street in front of the 4-story brownstone I called home. Sounded like another fucking riot.

Briefly I thought of Faith, out there in the streets this moment, but I quickly quieted the thought. She can handle herself better than I can. Instead my mind flashed to an image of a redheaded girl. Ivy, the one I was paid to bring into this Hellhole.

I breathed out, pushing any distraction out of my mind. If the militia caught me, some woman is the last of my worries.

Hell, if they caught me, likely my last thought would be pierced by a .308.

"Aaron.." I turned too my right, hand slipping to my right hip, close to my P229. A young girl from my block approached, her dirty brown hair tied in a bun.

"Yeah?" I asked, letting my hand slip away from my hip.

"What's goin' on outside?"

"Ask your brother Kate," I said, furrowing my grimy brow. She had a look of perplexity in her brown eyes, "Look, I have to go back outside. Remember, stay here. Don't follow me. And listen to your brother. He's the reason you even made it here." I reminded the girl.

She was one of the people I had helped smuggle in. Got myself five rifle shot and a candy bar for it. Her brother had paid me. Or, he said he was her brother. The man was about my age. Either way, bullets are good from anyone, creepy or not.

"He went outside," she said distantly, rubbing her hands together.

"I'm sure he's fine. Listen, go back to your room. He and I will see you in the morning. And lock your door." I said, pointing to the common room she shared with the block's other children, "Go, get going."

She walked away, little shoulders slumped. Poor girl. Her brother was probably one of the riotters. She and him haven't had a chance to get any rations yet. On top of that, that idiot reeked of the Eastern Raiders. Far too many bullets for a casual survivor.

I checked my watch as another announcement was made over loud speaker,
"Due to riots, anyone found outside residences, will be shot."

Five after seven. The man looking for the brown would be waiting by the tunnel by now. Needed to get it done before Faith got back.

(Dang it, typed a whole into and my computer glitched out and I lost it all >.<)

A loud voice echoed through the streets and I flinched before realizing it was the overhead speakers. During my first few days in the QZ I would catch myself humming along to the anthem as it rang out before muttering "God save our gracious king" under my breath. These days I wouldn't dare. The anthem had grown dull as the throng of people shuffled indoors to obey the set curfew. These people were like sheep, obey any command they were giving when they were not being gassed or dragged away during daylight hours.

Winter would soon be upon us and the sun had set early as though afraid it too might be caught in view after the deafening tune. I could barely stand it here anymore. I wanted to leave. Hauling my backpack over my shoulders, I followed the trail of people inside, leaving a clear space between myself and the others. I was determined to stay out until the final note rang in the air. Seeing my outdoor surroundings helped me plot my escape better than being cooped up in a dingy hotel room at night.

I left the brownstone, looking out across the street. People returning to the brownstone buildings of this block. I could still here shouting from the north. It seems that the argument/riot occurring on this street was winding down. The Militia crew were banging on their shields with nightsticks here. Ushering people into dwellings.

I still had a job to do. Luckily for me, one man was cursing at the militia. In the blink of an eye two riot shield-armed blue uniforms were beating him. More uniforms came around, breaking up the confrontation.

I took the opportunity to slip through a nearby crowd forming around the scuffle.

"Go home!" Yelled one female uniform, as she waved gestured to a brownstone with her nightstick. Most of the group turned to their local homes.

The QZ was of course a big place. My destination was a short ten minute walk away, near the relatively close North Wall. The QZ might only take up only take several blocks of the greater city, but people were packed in like rodents. Getting around at night was dangerous.

Slipping out of the crowd, I followed the walk towards one of the alleyways branching off down the road. Behind me, more scuffling. The QZ was in upheaval.

"WHERE'S OUR FUCKING FOOD YOU SUITS?" Someone called out. The sound of a rock banging off the plastic shit was heard amongst the shouting.

"GO. HOME." The female voice again, shrill above the largely male sounding collective.

Down the alleyway, away from the insanity, a familiar conclave of garbage and people without apartments filled my view. Sleeping out in the cold, with boxes for shelter these people barely noticed me as I slipped by. Any that did kept to themselves.

Lucky for me. And for them.

As I reached the end of the alleyways, I peeked my head around the corner, Autumn's wind biting my cheekbones. Down the street were a few barrels on fire casting warmth, along with people scrambling inside their homes. Seems this street only had a skeleton patrol, most militiamen being at the North Wall, warding off protestors. Seemed the gunfire had stopped.

Slipping my hands into my coat's pockets I kept walking, head up watching for the patrol to take notice. They were busy, slacking off around a fire barrel, smoking.

Fuck me, what I wouldn't give for a cigarette.

I walked right by the two men by the barrel.

"Hey! Curfews in effect!" My blood turned cold. I turned to look at the two men, hands reaching for their M4's.

"I'm on my way man," I lied, lifting my hands up in apology.

"Five minutes. We're on break for five minutes. We find you out here in five, you're going in the pit." One yelled, in a decidedly harsher tone than the first voice. I shuddered at mention of the pit.

"I'll hurry then!" I called out, starting a jog to the North. The guard that spotted me gave a cheerful wave, while the second gave a warning tap on his wrist.

Almost to the buyer.

It was already getting dark and with that, the temperature was dropping. It wouldn't be long before curfew would make it difficult to move around. There was talk of more trouble tonight, from what some of the others were saying. I could believe it, although I didn't want to. There were riots more and more often.Being out after sundown was becoming not only a hassle, but dangerous. Militia men weren't the only dangers in the shadows, and the threat was close enough to touch. For that, I held the blade tightly in my hand.

The ghostly anthem drifted through the streets. It was a warning that would usually be  ignored. Tonight, the warning was not just a call to flee, but a call to battle; this battle was not mine. I had been too caught up in my work to watch the time and now I was caught out too late.I didn't have time to be detained by men; stripped of my weaponry. I didn't need to get caught in the riots either. So I kept to the darkness, rushing along toward the very familiar building down the street and on the left.

The song was done, just a soft hum in the distance. There were still few I could see, scurrying into and out of buildings. It was silent for a few moments and I looked towards the sky as if to tell what the time was. I didn't have a watch.

I stopped, taking the back alleyway behind the building. There was always a patrol squad up ahead, attempting to catch the few that missed the curfew. All of a sudden, the silence was gone.  You could hear the gunfire now and the yells and screams. That was more than just detainment. That was the riots that had begun again. It was impervious that I got inside. I walked through the darkness, listening to the sounds. They were close, possibly only a street or so over. Much too close for comfort. Then, there was another announcement; a warning. A bullet to the head was not something I was planning on tonight, or any other night in the future.

I turned myself toward the wall, pulling the backpack off my back, and reaching up on my toes. I push the backpack through the window before turning to look down the way. I turn back. Pushing the window up enough to grip the wall, I pull myself, a quiet grunt escaping my lips. I wiggled myself through, landing safely on the ground and the spring closing the window behind me with a quiet 'clap'.

I had to come through this way often, but tonight was different. I picked myself  up off the ground, replacing my pack on my back. I pushed through the darkness and into the hallway. There was light now, just dim enough to be able to see more clear. I saw a form near the end of the hallway, making their way towards the entrance. I walked forward, rubbing my eyes. The figure now came into view.

No one familiar. I kept walking on towards the small room that I shared with another, Aaron, a friend. I wondered if he would be in yet. He should be, curfew was in effect. There's a whistle behind me, and I stop at the door. I turn slightly, looking down the hallway. The figure stopped and turned toward me. I was far enough down the hall. I opened the door and went inside. Probably just another crazy man or something. I didn't let it bother me.

"No sampling." I said, showing him the bag. The man grunted in annoyance.

"How much for the brown?" he asked, picking at his arm. The man was scrawny, awkward. An addict. One would imagine you'd drop the whole addiction routine when plants started eating people.

I smirked in the darkness, pulling the brown paper bag back to my chest, "Price is going up. Chemicals to cook it are hard to find."

"Look, I'm good for it." He said, smiling a toothless grin.

I slipped the bag into my rucksack, "No," I said sternly, steeling my face as much as I could. Again I slipped my right hand to my hip.

The man's eyes went wild, he's whole demeanor changed, "Give me the fucking bag man." He produced a pocketknife and pointed directly to me.

"You want to kill me? In the Zone? Are you fucking retarded?" I asked, honestly incredulous. The man blankly starred, pulling his outstretched arm back slightly, "Because if you try that, you better be ready to kill me. Because I'll sure as Hell kill you." The man took a step back, dropped his arm and backed away.

Our meeting had concluded. I slipped my rucksack back on. Fucking bust. For all the damn trouble of dealing in this shit, and it's a bust. That Runner outside the city is getting his stock broken! I think, leaving the room. I looked over my shoulder at my rucksack.

"Hnh," I grunted, "Should just toss this shit over the wall." I leaned against the hallway wall and let my mind focus on the sounds of the outside. I couldn't leave the building yet. Needed to wait for the patrols to loop.

Shouting still, as usual. I thought of Faith. Wondered if she was back in our shared room. Focusing more on the smells and sounds of the building, shutting my eyes tight, I picked up muffled groans. Whether of sex or pain, I couldn't tell. And... Tobacco.

"Fuck me, I'd trade a day of food for a smoke." I mourned.

Following the shuffling crowd as they dispersed into their homes, I made my way into the hotel. I could hear people in their rooms talking, mostly agitated voices. Probably because of the curfew. It was only 7pm so most were not yet preparing for sleep. Nights were short here. Those working wanted to grab any daylight time they could for their scavenging, the rest feared sleep and being unknown of the drama surrounding them. It took only one slit throat at night for you to lose your life and your belongings. At least the QZ had something going for it. Death by another was not as common in these streets as it was on the outside, and that doesn't include the virus. At least humans kill quicker.

Readjusting my backpack on my right shoulder, I made my way slowly through the hallways of the hotel. I could hear men talking. Arguing. I wouldn't have been surprised to come across some kind of deal, whether it was for food, weapons, or drugs, the more illegal, the further from the bar these deals took place Not having much to my name and having little to pay, I ended up with a single room near the back of the building. Most deals and fights broke out around there. On most days I could hear them beneath the small window in my room, but with the curfew in effect, people had no choice but to conduct these rages indoors, and usually in my adjacent hallway.

Figures shuffled into rooms. I caught a glimpse of a few turning in my direction. I had nothing to give them, and I doubted they had the skills I needed for an alliance anyway. Rounding a corner, I came to the final hallway leading to my room. There was a man there leaning against the wall, his eyes shut tight. I wanted no trouble, and if I could just slip by him quietly and into my room, he might not even notice my presence. I stood there, wondering whether to slip by or ask him to move. Either way, I couldn't stand here all night waiting for him to potentially fall asleep in my way, or ask for confrontation.

With the door open, I could tell that, through the darkness, my comrade was out. I felt a groan escape from my lips, he was out there. Of course he was. I rolled my eyes and took in a deep breath. I wasn't particularly sure whether I should be worrying or not. Was his absence my problem? No. I needed to stop meddling. While we did share the room, and he was a friend, or I at least assumed he was, his dealings after curfew were different.

I pushed the door closed with my foot, the quiet latching the only sound I. The room. I sighed, leaning against the door for a moment. My thoughts wouldn't change my actions. As much as I wanted them to, I would end up asking questions. There was a silence now, the riots had either quieted or been snuffed out, leaving a ringing in my ear. I reached back blindly, turning the lock until it moved no more.Only then did I walk towards the bed, brushing my hand across the flat sheet. I always had the intention of cleaning, but this place was not only mine. I looked across the small room towards Aaron's bed. Although we had never discussed it, there was an agreement between us to never touch each others things. I cleared my throat, turning back to pull back the sheets and fluff the pillows though I had no intention of sleeping.

I pulled the backpack off my back, slowly unclasping the cool metal. I smiled quietly to myself as I began pulling items out of my bag. I had been successful at rationing most of my food now. Since we were receiving less and less, I had decided it was time to secure food not only for myself, but for trade. I pulled the contents of my bag out onto my bed. It wasn't usually such a mess, but today had been different.A pair of socks went a very long way. It was a surprise that many people wanted them. Wasn't food a little more important? I guess people were just blind to how much the place was going to hell. I guess that wasn't my fault though.

I smiled quietly to myself, pulling out the few cans of food I had. It was a lot for socks, but still not enough. I looked down towards where my feet were. I could already feel the chill from outside slowly drifting away. I wondered though, if the trade was worth it. Surely I would come to need such an item one day. No. Food was always more important.

I brushed off one of the cans, it had been quite dusty and old looking. They were pineapples, which I loved. I knelt down on the floor, scooting myself underneath the bed. I would save these for later. I pushed the can against the wall with a few more I had for emergencies. Of course, the cans only numbered about four, now five including my new addition, but it was a good idea.I began scooting myself out from under the bed when I heard a knock at the door and a low, but audible whistle. Whoever it was tried the door, I heard it shake quietly as the lock was tested. I frowned, pulling myself to my feet. Aaron usually didn't knock, and the whistle was distantly familiar. I pulled the switchblade from where I had left it on the bed, pulling the thin sheet over my belongings. I walked quietly to the door, but when I pressed my ear softly to the door, the noise was gone and from further inspection, it seemed that the person was too.

"Crazy jerk" I muttered under my breath, rolling my eyes and turning back away from the door. People were always trying to break into something.

I knew someone was there. Light in footstep. Trying to seem... Timid? Or were they timid? I immediately reeled to face them. In the blueish moonlit hallways I seen white skin, and a pair of eyes peering quisically at me. She was largely silhouetted, but clearly feminine in shape, despite her slim frame.

Silence. I kept my hand on my hip, ready to pull my weapon out and threaten if needed.

"So. Uuuh," Awkward way to start a conversation I mentally swore at myself, "What's up?" I asked casually, my focus on the outside patrols broken by this strange woman.

The man turned towards me, eyes open and he spoke. I did not expect such casual phrases from a stranger. His voice was gruff and masculin but had a friendly tone that complimented his words. I knew better than to trust a person by their voice alone, however. He was taller than I, but still shorter than the average male. He looked to be less than 6 feet. I could barely see more than his silhouette, but I could see his hand resting on his hip. Perhaps this was a preferred casual stance of his, or perhaps he was hiding a weapon. From the few words that he spoke, he did not sound intoxicated like most men who attempted to start a conversation with me.

I nodded towards the direction of the door standing on his right side. "Just going into my room. I didn't mean to disturb." I had better be polite just in case. You knew never what kinds of people could hang around places like this. It was a public hotel after all. Humans were sometimes more dangerous than the virus.

British accent? Muddled with a Canadian one at some points but still British. Or Scottish or something else.

"God save the queen," I joked, realizing who she was, then I quieted my tone, "Ivy right?" I didn't wait for her to answer before continuing, I knew who she was, "You might want to fake your accent if you don't want to get caught by the patrols as an outsider. And yes, I've heard of you. I hear of most people who end up smuggled in here."

I narrowed my eyes, but released my hand from my hip. I decided that she wouldn't be like to pull a weapon. Too new. Too sane.

I didn't know how to respond. He knew who I was. It's a shame I had never mastered the art of disguising my accent. Any imitations sounded obviously faked. This man knew who I was so there was little point in lying to him now. I also was not ashamed of my alternative anthem muttering, despite having stopped a few weeks back.

"I may be an outsider, but I do know that this country is ruled by a king." It had been almost 7 years since Queen Elizabeth II's passing and the rule of our new king. Although he wouldn't last long, and we knew of that before the infection. His time was running out, and the mess our world had started to suffer didn't help.

"Who are you?" What such man could know of smuggling. I didn't recognize him as one of the men I had been forced to trade with. His stance wasn't threatening, which could mean he could perhaps aid me in my goals of leaving the QZ, but I still didn't know him and although usually dependant, I knew better than to trust a stranger at first glance. If he knew who I was, perhaps he wasn't a noble man. Perhaps he had a darker job. But who was I to judge.

Everything was now organized. I was starting to get worried. I began to place things back in my backpack, slowly at first, until I clasp the pack and zip up the front pocket. My switchblade was placed securely out of sight. I looked around the room. It better had be important for him to be out for so long. I pulled my pack on my back, pulled the sheet back, straightened it up, stuffed it under, and turned, sitting myself on the corner of the bed, watching the door.

I sat like that for a few minutes, debating on going to look for him, or just sleeping a little before I left out. If I left early I could search for longer. I groaned. He was a big boy. He could take care of himself. I didn't like this, but if he didn't come back I couldn't go out looking for a dead body in a city of dead bodies. I shook my head. When he didn't come in soon enough for my liking, I always worried. He was company. And at the moment , he was safe company. That was hard to come by.

I shook my head, pulling my pack off and leaning myself back. The bed wasn't soft, but it was alright compared to the floor. I looked up at the dark ceiling. For now, I would sleep and wait. I held the blade in my hand, as usually and closed my eyes.

"My name is Aaron. And since you're an illegal, I'll be frank. Wondering around with that accent is going to get you thrown into the pit. And you don't want in there." I said, walking a bit closer. I don't know why. Maybe it was her accent. Or just, something about her. Made me think of Before. I had almost forgotten we were standing in the center of an overgrown building, in a Zone of Toronto with a giant concrete wall constructed about the bulk of it. That I wasn't first worried enough of a stranger to reach for my pistol. She didn't belong here. Just like Faith, the Zone hadn't tarnished her yet.

"I don't suppose you have an actual home here?" I asked, outstretching my arms gesturing either way down the hallway, "Because the building I live at has a lot less patrols running through it. That and I know for a fact the group that brought you in can't get you QZ papers like I can.

"Aaron." I repeated, committing this to memory.

I used to be a legally landed immigrant and had my permanent resident card to prove it. I had kept this with me at all times, even today just incase I needed to prove myself. But with the new laws in effect since the downfall of society, all who carried citizenship of a country other than Canada were deemed illegal and immediately deported.

My family stayed in hiding during this time with various friends. My mother and my brother were caught at an old church of us and were sent back to the UK. Because of my mother's Scottish nationality and my brother being English, I heard that they were separated not long after they returned to Britain. That was shortly after the Scottish separation from the United Kingdom. My father and I weren't there. We weren't caught. I'm guessing he's still in Calgary. We were out hunting for supplies and food together when we heard the militia raid the church.

"Promise me, Ivy. No, listen. Promise me you'll protect yourself first, no matter what. Promise me. I'm going to save them, but you are your own priority."

I had made that promise and ran. Most of what happened after was a blur. My father wasn't able to save them. I had returned to the church a few days after that to collect some personal belongings that were left behind and came across him there. "Remember your promise. You must leave, but I can't follow."

So I did. I don't know if he is alive or dead, or what state my mother and brother are in. I hope they are alive. But I kept running east, bypassing most of the other dedicated QZs. Most were already full and unwilling to accept me, but there were those I could not sneak into due to my immigration status and was forced to continue east in search of the next one.

"I'm staying here for the meantime but no, I don't have a proper home." This man, Aaron, had just handed me what I most wanted on a silver platter. Trying my best and possibly failing, I'm not sure, to put on a more Canadian accent, I said, "But I would like one."

I let my smile show at her forced accent.

"That sounded horrible," I said, in a mock English accent, "If you're willing to follow me through the city back to the brownstone, then yes, I think I know a place you can stay." I still didn't know why I'd help. Aaron, you fucking softie, I thought to myself, as I gestured for her to come with. I figured the patrols would be gearing up to check the halls of common houses soon. Need to get going. I walked towards the old lobby, waving for her to follow.

I stopped near the welcome desk, turning to her waiting for her to decide whether to follow "Remember, if we do get stopped, let me do the talking, alright?"

Your move.

I smiled at his comment on my forced accent. But I suppose practice makes perfect. When he offered to lead me away from his place I halted and watched him walk down the hallway. After a moment's thought I spoke.

"Okay. Let me just grab a couple of things from my room. I won't be long."

There was nothing in my room. Everything was in my backpack already. Only a fool would keep their belongings in an unlocked hotel room. I backed up and made my way into my room and crouched onto the floor to look under my bed. I knew nothing was under there, but in case Aaron came in, I didn't want to seem suspicious. Then again, he probably thought I was an idiot for leaving things in here. I hope he saw sense through that lie.

Being on the floor gave me some time to think. Could I trust him? This might be a trap. He seemed friendly enough, friendlier than anyone else I had met since leaving Calgary. My gut told me that he was nice and trustworthy, but my brain told me to stay cautious. It was my brain that kept me alive so long.

If he was telling the truth and I could trust him, then this was my golden ticket to escape this place and not live a perfect life, but at least a better one with reduced fear and possible starvation. If he wasn't to be trusted, I could escape. I had escape bad situations before, and although I might not again, I should at least try. No opportunity ever worked out without taking that risky chance first.

I stood up, tugged my bag over my shoulder and went to greet Aaron. I knew we were running out of time and I needed to be swift.

"I'm ready."

"Good. Keep close," I said, opening the hotel door. A stiff wind blew down the street, it's chill biting through the worn denim of my jeans. A few cars were on the side of the street, stripped of their tires and fenders. Most had been towed off and used for scrap metal or makeshift reinforcement however.

I looked behind me and seen the girl in the light of the dimming streetlights. She seemed fairly unsure of what she was doing. Fitting. I wasn't sure what I was doing.

Ahead of me the patrols were gathering around a local domicile. I knew the way around this group. Straight back down the alleyway, and around the little homeless village aside the cornerstore. Over the fence and around the dumpsters. Then a short jog down the street, and around the side of my brownstone complex.

I looked at Ivy, pointing to the alleyway.

"Don't run, if they see us and we're running, they'll shoot. Walk, and keep beside me alright? They might let it slide if they see us," I explained, gesturing for her to stand close, "The plan is to make it across without being seen though. We'll be at the building in a few minutes."

"It'll be fun." I added sarcastically, as I started to walk across the road.

I followed Aaron as he instructed, not knowing where we we going on how far away this place was. Perhaps there was other people there. Was Aaron's job to rescue those who needed a safer place to stay? Then again, he didn't seek me out, he just bumped into me in my hallway. Although it wouldn't be MY hallway anymore.

Then again, what was he doing there? I heard other voices before I saw him. Arguing. But there was no one else there when I came across him. Was he perhaps waiting for me? He did, after all, know my name and who I was. But how?

When he mentioned walking and not running, I nodded and followed him still, being sure to try and appear as though I was confident to anyone we may pass. I caught the sarcastic tone in his voice and raised my eyebrows.

We walked silently across the street towards the alleyway.

"If you're wondering why I'm helping you, don't. Because, I don't know." I said honestly, running my fingers along a nearby car as we crossed towards the alleyway.

"So, how do you find Toronto? Clearly from your King's speech you aren't from here. Fuck, where are you from?" No one up ahead of us, seemed like it would be an uneventful walk home. The people around the homeless camp ignored us for the most part, aside from worrying glances over Ivy.

"Keep close," I reminded in a hush tone as I felt dark eyes descend on my companion.

He didn't know why he was helping me? How strange. Perhaps i appealed to him somehow. I moved closer towards him.

"It's complicated." I said. That was the answer I gave to everyone. But they hadn't been to kind and offered to help me before, so I decided to elaborate.

"Calgary. London before that, which probably explains the 'King's Speech'". At that moment I was very thankful that I wasn't from anywhere further north. Generally speaking, the rich London accent was deemed very respectable, at least more-so than the other English ones. If you're legal, which I wasn't anymore. If you aren't legal, no one respects you no matter how you speak.

But Aaron seemed to.

Again, I moved close to him. Did he sense trouble?