CONTRAT DE NOT'RP !

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

And back alone he was.

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

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

Fuck. Shit. There was someone in there. Another person trying to fend for themselves. Another mouth to fill. Friend or foe? It was hard to tell from this distance. Jem would wait a few minutes; if shots had been fired, chances were the person was kicking some zombie ass. No need to throw himself into the line of fire. He'd let that poor fool take care of the zombie problem, then profit afterwards. And if he died? Well. Shit happens.

No noise anymore. Was it over? Jem glanced through the store windows, but all he saw was darkness. You can thank the non-working electricity for that. Damn apocalypse. He waited five more minutes; five long fucking minutes. Then he moved. The coast should be sufficiently clear for a quick in-and-out.

It was dark, still. He thought getting inside would clear up the shadows, but it just took his eyes longer to adjust. The sound of snarls and growls on the background wasn't exactly comforting either. *Just my luck. He didn't kill them all.* He could've turned around at that point, but the growling sounded far enough away for now, so he pushed himself to go further into the aisles. So damn hungry.

He quickly put the ramens in his bag, trying to make as little noise as he could. Those things would eventually be the end of him one day, seeing how non-nutritive and loud they were. There was no way to be sure the walkind dead  hadn't heard him, so he just took a few steps back before turning around and getting out of that aisle. He still needed to get his cigarettes.

That's when they bumped into each other. Again. Jem had had the same idea. Ramen are not sustainable, but they're quick. And in this world, quick could save your life. Spending half an hour on a meal when you could be forced to run off in the middle of it was not worth the pain. He looked up, his shiv held up to Evans' face, ready to fucking stab him in the forehead. He was prepared for zombies. He wasn't prepared for this.

Hey. Why are you mentally insulting him already? What? It's you. Jem held up the knife a bit longer, then lowered it. You should be more careful. I could've stabbed you. Moron. he added in Norwegian.

Oh. He knew him. As much as you can know someone after a day or two together during a zombie apocalypse, that is. He couldn't remember his name, though, and he couldn't even remember if he had ever said his name at all. Not important. But you didn't, he whispered, perhaps insinuating he - the bracelet-man - would also have been dead already if he hasn't been human. Which reminded him of their current position, making him move on his legs to get out of that aisle, in the cigarettes' direction.

Jem (omg, now it's the fucking cat's name) watched him with a raised eyebrow, wondering where that guy's confidence came from (as he mistook it for confidence), and ended up following him. He had been quite handy in the past, after all. It had been a shame to lose him. Maybe this time he should instruct him to follow instead of walking the opposite way. You do realize the cigs won't last forever out here, don't you.

He nodded, politely agreeing. Nothing does. Not the cigarettes, not the food, not their lives. Everything was to come to an end at some point, it didn't mean no one were to enjoy those for the short (or long) time they were there. Evans, he wasn't the type to enjoy them. He simply didn't mind them being there, much like he didn't mind Alisa, or that guy he had bumped into for the second time. Yet, he wouldn't have gone out of his way to get them back, unlike cigarettes.

Yes, that is something we'll have to condition into this dog, won't we ? Jem didn't reply anything to Evans' depressing comment. He was right, after all. Jem liked people who were grounded. It's better than those that live in a fucking fantasy, thinking everything will be okay. You couldn't permit yourself to think like that. Not anymore. Sometimes you'd have to do things that wouldn't be okay in the old-world, and with an old-world mindset, you wouldn't survive here.

Evans walked to the checkouts. Most of them were broken, ripped open by some people who thought they could use a little bit more money. First checkout with the counter, that's where he needed to go. He put his weapon on the counter, jumping over it to go behind and check in the cabinets what was left. Not much. He grabbed what felt like a pack of cigarettes, taking another one while he was there, and he was good to go.

You'll be coming with me. It was an order. Not a suggestion. Not a question. Had he been anyone else, and he would've formulated his "request" differently. But not this guy. This guy didn't need that. Jem could tell. I'm just gonna grab some more food. He was set to leave, but turned around again at the last second. Can you understand me ? You're not Norwegian. The accent. Is English better ?

Ah. He knew that tone. Not that he minded it. Had he been anyone else indeed, it wouldn't have gone that smoothly. But Evans ? Evans wasn't bothered by it. If anything, that was the only way to get something, anything out of him, and the guy with the beeping bracelet had figured that out quite quickly. He nodded. Norwegian is good. Better than his English anyway.

Good. Because his English wasn't all that great. Enough to make himself be understood (you can thank American blockbusters for that), just not enough to sound like he actually knows what he's talking about. Norwegian was better. Jem wondered briefly if he had already asked the guy what his name was and where his accent came from, but he couldn't remember for the life of him. Short-term memory, perhaps. Or maybe he just hadn't cared.

He opened the newly-acquired pack of cigarettes, pulling the tab meant to facilitate the unwrapping in a slow but experimented movement, removing the plastic film and throwing it in the garbage next to him - like he was taught to. It didn't mean anything anymore, keeping the earth clean. But it was one of those gestures hard to forget, which somehow, if constantly repeated regardless the situation, made time a tad more unwavering. Then, he placed one cigarette between his lips, and he was good to go.

HRP:

Do you need a light ? Lighters. Just as hard to come by as matchsticks and cigarettes nowadays. Jem had found one three days ago and it actually still worked. Sure, there was a dumb picture of a puppy on it, but fire was fire. And you couldn't be picky about your material anymore. Soon even dog food would count as a luxury.

A small nod was given as a silent answer. Along with his last cigarette went his last match, and having cigarettes without anything to light them on was slightly useless. He'd probably have stopped smoking then until he'd have found another lighter by accident, but apparently life had decided it wouldn't be today. As for dog food, it could sincerely not be any worse than jail's food.