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CONTRAT DE NOT'RP !

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

And back alone he was.

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

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

This city is dying. It had been dead for two years, to be exact, but what Jem meant was that supplies were getting dangerously low. Shops had all been raided already, houses burned down or squatted by people with better weapons, and the dead seemed to multiply by night. Accidental car alarms, lights, fires... it attracted them. Jem knew he couldn't possibly stay here. Was preparing to leave.

Yes, leave. It was always the same scenario. Not that Evans had ever chosen to leave a place, but somehow he was always dragged by the currents. Just like this flow might take him somewhere else. Any idea where to ?

Maybe. I met someone, not too long ago. Spoke of some fortified camp. Jem had been reluctant—extremely reluctant—to go back then. Nothing was worth putting yourself at risk in a group like that. Jem liked his freedom, and groups meant rules. It also meant trouble. Groups attracted attention. But now... now was different. People do desperate things for food in their bellies, for a chance to live, to survive. Jem was no different. Starving seemed silly after all he'd done to live.

A fortified camp ? He nodded. He could see the advantage of being in that kind of place, especially for someone like Jem, who was walking around with a ticking bomb on his wrist. That sounds good. If you need anything for the road, tell me. He didn't have much, but it was enough to share if needed.

Well obviously. He scoffed, as if it was indeed obvious. Wait, you're not thinking of sending me off on my merry way all by myself, right ? The longer he stared at him, the more he realized that was exactly what Evans was thinking. To be fair, he probably had no ill intentions. He most likely didn't expect Jem to want him along for the road, but still. It was in Jem's nature to be antagonizing to obedient dogs like this one. Well, aren't you an insensitive prick.

It wasn't the first time he had heard those words. But like all the other times, they didn't do anything to him. Which was, in all honesty, slightly proving them right. Maybe he was insensitive, though he never saw himself as such ; having no ill intentions was perhaps where he differed from the assholes. Putting a plate in front of Jem, he sat with his own, answering to his harsh words in the most selfless way. I'll come if you want me to.

True, he had meant them to be harsh. But he didn't actually mean them. Who is the insensitive one, really, if he said words to hurt people whereas Evans was there to help ? It was simply too tempting not to. I don't want you to. Jem casually remarked while pulling the plate towards himself. I need you to.

Okay. Want or need, in the end it was the same thing, only expressed differently. Whether Jem - or anyone else, really - wanted or needed him, Evans would go. It was almost as if he had no mind of his own ; and people like Jem were particularly good at getting the most out of people like him, though it had nothing to do with naïvety.

It was the most fulfilling meal Jem had had in a long while. His mouth was still watering with hunger when his plate was empty. "Seconds" were not an option anymore. He had been blessed to get this much. We'll stay here tonight, Jem started. They needed some time to pass for the dead to turn their attention to something else downstairs. But you should already start packing the food you can carry.

It wasn't bad at all, but ramens were somehow still his #1 meal. Perhaps it was just a habit, or maybe it was just a generally unrefined preference in food. Didn't matter, really, meant more food for Jem. He took his empty plate to refill it with what was left, as obviously he was still hungry and could definitely use the help of a second serving. Also because no fridge anymore and wasting food in these times were not exactly a bright idea. There's still water left in the tank if you want to take a shower while I pack.

All right, who is this guy ? Jem's last shower dated about two weeks back perhaps. He must smell as bad as the dead, despite his efforts to wipe himself down with the rainwater he accumulated in empty bowls and cans outside. (And he got seconds ?!) Where is it ? he asked, looking around for something resembling a bathroom.

Last door to your left. Not right. Last door to the right was where he had piled up all the bodies. A family of 4 ; A man, a woman and two boys, aged from 7 to 12, maybe. They also had a cat, and they absolutely loved taking silly pictures of the kids with it. Too bad the apocalypse happened.

Jem finished his plate — slowly, savoring every salty bite — then set out for the shower. It was the best cold shower he had had in a long while. He felt refreshed when he got out, but the thought of having to wear the same blood-soaked filthy clothes again sure put a damper on things. When he walked out of the bathroom to rejoin Evans, he was only wearing a towel, loosely draped around his waist. Got any clothes ?

The clothes he gave him were probably not meant for the likes of him. They fit awkwardly, too loose and big for Jem's body. The pants actually fell down his hips. Huh. Guess he lost weight since. Should find a belt if he didn't want his pants to fall to his ankles in the middle of a pursuit. That'd be more than awkward. Got a belt ? A rope ?

He lifted his own shirt a bit, unbuckling his one and only belt to slide it off the loops. He didn't really need it, considering his weight had been stable ever since he had found those pants. A miracle, considering he barely ate anything else than crappy food.

Jem snatched it from his hands. Great! Not even a thank you. Did you see that ? So rude. His parents didn't raise him well. Now that his pants would not fall off, they were ready to move on to more serious matters. Did you start packing ? Jem asked.

Almost done. Always travel light, especially if you have a big ass bazooka to carry on top of that. He didn't have that anymore, but perhaps it was for the best ; the firearm was a bit outdated, and making a new one would give him something to do. Food, changing clothes and his engineering tools were all packed. Only thing left was finding some kind of weapon to replace his old one.

All right. I'm gonna sleep for a bit, if you don't mind. He's not had a good night of sleep in ages. Knowing that someone else was there to take guard was a relief. And even though Jem wasn't really a trusting person — far from it, good god —, Evans sure made himself easy to trust. Call it... a vibe. Something that emitted of him. Annoyingly obedient, but easy to trust.

Not that Jem asked but thankfully, Evans had had his sleep just a few hours ago. He could last a while without sleep as well, but it was already like this before this whole thing happened. They don't recommend to sleep soundly and / or deeply in prison - and it's hardly possible anyway, given the conditions. One could say going to jail was some sort of training before the real deal. Although to be honest, sometimes the apocalypse felt smoother than the penitentiary.

Morning wake-up wasn't as harsh as he was used to. He hadn't suffered from cold, nor random midnight wake-ups because of the growling and he lacked the feeling to be unsafe. Seems like Evans is a good guard-dog — if anything. He glanced at the person in question to see if he was still (or already) awake.

(Still) awake and right out of the shower, hair still dripping wet. Bags were all packed, patiently waiting near the couch as he was putting a knife in the sheath at his waist. He glanced at Jem, smiling ever so slightly at the sight of his bedhair and the cushion trace on his cheek ; those things you get when you have a relatively good night of sleep, no matter where you are, zombie apocalypse or not.

"Bedhair". Who had time to worry about the way your hair looked in apotime? Not Jem. ... okay maybe a little Jem. He walked to the sink to wet his face, then brushed his hair back with his wet hands. It'd dry better now. There was no time to eat breakfast (not on his schedule anyway) and since they were both already awake, Jem considered it time to leave. Hm. Energy bars or something? Got it?