jumpscares | ( OPEN ) GAME START.

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( OPEN ) GAME START.

▶ WHO: Everyone.
▶ DATE: July 9th, 2015 (Day 1)
▶ WARNINGS: Blood, violence, general zombie horror.
▶ SUMMARY: You've met with a bad... however that line goes. Welcome to Earth.

GOOD MORNING!

Please try and ignore whatever it is that you just heard. It should only last for up to a minute... maybe.

It... it is morning, right?

There are no windows.

There's a light, but it's barely considered one. The compound runs on a solar generator, but that doesn't mean it has a lot of power. The light seems to be hanging from the ceiling, swinging precariously. That's when you might actually start to wake up, sit up, find the things that are familiar to you... and then some of the things that aren't. It'd be wise to explore the small room you're in before leaving through the steel door, but there's nobody around to tell you that.

Outside is a tightly knit compound, just as dark and metallic as the room. The hallway you're in houses dozens more doors identical to yours, and if you're unlucky there may be more people poking their heads out through them, just like you. There's a dull glowing sign that reads MEDICAL BAY but not all of you remember being hurt. Some of you may be just fine, apart from the memory of the sound you heard when waking up.

The Medical Bay is stocked with enough medicine to last a couple of months. There's almost everything that can be found in a hospital. Somebody was thinking ahead.

Outside of the Medical Bay are more doors, some are even locked—many aren't. There are living quarters, a food storage, a kitchen, some laboratories; even a room full of computers and nothing else, all with a screen asking for a password. There's only two doors out of the compound, a vehicle bay with what appear to be a few military jeeps and trucks, and the front doors. It's on the inside of the front doors that something is painted in bright red, flecked with what smell like blood:

DO NOT GO OUTSIDE WITHOUT A GUN AND WATER.
GUNSHOTS ATTRACT THEM.
HOLLOWS IS 1.3 MILES NORTH OF HERE.
GOOD LUCK.

And on the outside of the doors, if you choose to open them:

THE WORLD ENDED JULY 3RD, 2015.

Now... how long ago was that? And where is this place? Luckily for you, Hollows is a small town that can be raided. It hasn't been too long since the apocalypse—surely you'll be able to find something there. Batteries, food, weapons, maybe some people—and what you're guaranteed to find. Them, whatever that means.

Outside of the compound there's a fence with a single gate. Nothing can get past this unless you let them in for tea, so be careful. There's a shooting range and a large shed full of weapons and ammo, enough to last two months if you're careful. Guns, knives, anything that would be used by the military and police is hidden away in the shed. There are even a few hunting bows with arrows.

If you climb up the ladder to the top of the wall, there's enough room to walk along the top. There's definitely something moving in the distance, something you should definitely be worrying about. Maybe it's time to get a good look with a sniper rifle...?

Oh.

It's gone.

Maybe it was just a trick of the light. Regardless, it's impossible for everyone to stay in the compound forever. There are nefarious things at work! The choices are to go to Hollows, stick around, or go somewhere else. Really, the world is almost a blank slate. Maybe more of a used slate, but still yours to explore.

When the night comes, you should be hiding. The screamers, the ragers, whatever the hell they are, are running full tilt through the streets and across the landscape, running through anything in their way, ripping apart anything alive. If you don't make any noise, they won't notice you. Especially since they're stuck listening to each other. But if you get noticed by one, it won't be long until a horde forms... you might be able to outrun one for awhile, but they don't seem to let up on their breakneck pace. Maybe someone should have told you how to kill them.

OOC NOTES.

There will be zombies in Hollows. Whether you meet them on the way there is up to you. Apart from the undead and the animals (maybe somebody should let those poor creatures out of their houses) the town is completely deserted. In fact, the closest thing you can find to a human are the bodies of those who died without being bitten, and there's even few of those. You can find anything you'd find in a normal town here, and are free to loot and raid the houses and stores—the cops won't be coming, after all. The power is OFF apart from what you can find that is solar powered or still has a charge. If you're lucky and find another town while exploring the first few weeks, you might find an area that still has power—thank hydroelectricity.

Just keep in mind travel time... and travel expenses.

You have creative freedom over everything else. The world is open. The only stationary places are landmarks and cities—if you want to go to Texas and talk to the poor astronauts stranded up in space, it's there. (Might be a long trip, though...)

If your character can figure it out by geography before getting to Hollows, the compound is located a few hours from the west coast, in California.

The way to kill a zombie is blunt force to the head. The head doesn't need to be removed, but significant damage needs to be done to it. This does not include the throat—it needs to be a headshot.

There's also a glaring hint. The computers in the compound, asking for a password. It is impossible to hack at this time. There will be more on this later!

Finally, if your character is exploring outside of the compound (or extensively inside of it) there's a comment here for linking me the thread. You can also PM me! I'll be ducking in with what your character may or may not have found, via a response to the actual RP thread.

IF YOU HAVE ANY QUESTIONS please direct them here!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"I bet."

The voice sounds wry, unbothered, matching a sliver of his brand of conversational for her brand of disinterested. Natasha cuts an interesting shape up on the wall; her hair's short, but she's also still in a catsuit. She has a medical bag slung over one shoulder, zipped up in a way that suggests it's full of basically anything other than the pre-arranged supplies it's supposed to stock. The light catches a little on the chrome rim of her hourglass buckle when she turns.

There's the affectation of something casual in her spine. One hand cupped over her eyes, she tucks her gun back into the holster around her right thigh and presses her lips together. "Tell me you see a Chipotle."

The tone of her voice? Just about as dry as the Sahara.

Bruce, at the moment, looks mostly like a guy in what was probably once most of a business suit, but is currently a pair of black pants, dusty wing-tips, and a white shirt that's turned grayish. He also looks mildly beat up, since he's got a bruise across one side of his face, but he sure as heck isn't worried about it. He's even got his hands stuffed into his pockets while he surveys the landscape.

"I don't, but I wouldn't want to eat at one if I did." He's more wry than dry, though there are elements of both. "There's something moving around out there. Keep watching, you'll see it again."

Yeah. A guy in a half-gathered suit with a bruise across his face. The easiest story to pick up is someone who likes trouble, though Natasha's not sure she can settle that with the calmness in his stare.

Not that that's important. Things evolve on a scale. Natasha, she hitches the medical bag over her shoulder a little more securely and stays still. Lashes jump once, then twice. "You know," she adds mildly, "'Something' sounds nice and ambiguous. You couldn't make it out?"

He likes trouble; he's very calm about liking trouble. In this case, though, he'd feel a whole hell of a lot more calm if he was sure what trouble was. At least he knows where it's coming from.

"All I can tell you was that it seemed to be bipedal." So not wildlife. "It never got close enough for a good look." He glances down at her thigh and the gun holstered, there. "Or close enough for a good shot."

Without missing a beat, "Stop flirting with me." There's something in her tone that suggests the opposite, actually, a sort of encouragement, and she shoots him a look that's a muted brand of amusement.

As if talking about guns is the kind of thing that constitutes an expression of interest. The look on her face bleeds out quick and is replaced with something that has more steel in it— bipedal doesn't exactly inspire confidence. Thoughtfully, "Multiple drop points?"

Bruce blinked, and there is a faint flicker of confusion through his eyes before he catches on. It's just that unexpected. It doesn't take long though and he laughs - brief, short, and quiet. "When I'm flirting with you, you'll know it and it probably won't involve firearms."

That done, he shakes his head and resumes the more serious conversation, like a switch has been flipped. It has, really - Bruce to Bat. "I don't know. I'm not familiar enough with this terrain to hazard a guess." Or to effectively plan at all. That's why he's up here, watching. "Anything familiar about this place to you?"

She hums, short and accepting rather than thoughtful. He doesn't choose his words like a the average businessman. Whatever formality exists, there, it doesn't feel like someone who unironically says terrain. Maybe he's just someone who thinks a lot of their ability to flirt.

"No," she tells him, and it's obvious that she doesn't like that that's the answer. She cups her hand over her eyes and looks out, trying to re-sight the movement he'd spotted earlier. "I know I don't remember showing up here. The computers are locked but whatever this place was, they left all their gear behind. Something doesn't add up."

His ability to flirt is finely honed, thank you very much. It's also a developed skill set for a purpose. She, meanwhile, is a redhead in a cat suit with a thigh holster. She's obviously competent and intelligent. That's intriguing, even in these circumstances.

Bruce doesn't shield his eyes but he is still squinting out that direction, waiting to see something moving again rather than looking at her. It's the safest bet. "Nothing adds up. As you said, the computers are locked far beyond basic security, but everything else is easily accessible. We were brought here, but all of the doors are open; there doesn't seem to be anything keeping us here."

It didn't make any sense to him. There was no motive that he could identify yet and that bothered him as much as not knowing where 'here' was.

"Then there's the sign: take a gun; gun shots attract them. " And with the last statement, he looked down at her holster. Care to try a little experiment in an attempt of getting a look at what's moving around out there?

Her eyes clock the look. She looks down at her own holster and, amused, looks back up at him. It stays there for two heartbeats before it shutters, her expression fading back into something assessing. There's a visible process going on in the way she stands there, thinking something out, and part of that is on purpose. There are times when she can't spare the energy to make a conversation comfortable with a stranger. This, despite the setting, isn't one of those times.

"Think the wall is sturdy enough to keep it out?" But it's mostly a rhetorical question, considering the fact she unholsters her gun and— offers it to him grip-first.

Natasha adds, mildly, "Try not to miss. Or dinner's on you."

Bruce has no problem with the process or the silence. He doesn't try to fill it or gets antsy, just keeps his mouth shut and lets her work through whatever it is she needs to work through. Naturally, he is neither verbose nor social. There's nothing uncomfortable about silences for him.

There's a hell of a lot uncomfortable about guns, though, and his eyes flicker down to the gun's grip and back to her. He steps back, twice, along the wall. Great balance, but still physically distancing himself from the gun. "Fire it into the air. See what it attracts. I couldn't hit the broad side of a barn." He'll prove otherwise if it comes down to it, but there is no way he is using a firearm of any kind. "I'll handle dinner."

That's illuminating.

Natasha blinks once, twice. She shrugs as if paying for dinner really is his loss, like it's all a non-event, and fires the gun into the air.

It's loud, for obvious reasons. Something visibly changes in the set of her shoulders. Tension would be the wrong word for it — it's a little more akin to awareness, the ready-to-brace movement a parent might have when they spot their child in a tree. Movement forms in the distance, much more obvious than before, followed by another.

She frowns, but she doesn't move.

Bruce's stance doesn't change, but there's a similar subtle change in him at the sound of gunfire - not in response to it, but in knowing that something will be coming. A readiness to move, either forward or back, a lowering in the center of his gravity and stillness - and watchfulness.

He doesn't move, either, doesn't attack or suggest she try, but watches the movement in the distance, eyes narrowed against the glare of the setting sun. What he's seeing makes no sense to him, but it strengthens his impressions. Bipedal, but not really human - not moving like that.

That's why it makes no sense to him.

"We need whatever's locked in those computers."

"Yeah." The word falls flat. It's not that Natasha's distracted, but there's a certain plainness in it— they do, and that sentiment sinks like a stone in the air. Her eyes flick between the horizon, the vague shape of movement, and then to Bruce. He might not move, but he changes.

Into what, well, the jury's still out. And besides— that's not what they're talking about right now.

"I tried. I couldn't crack it," she says, and there's no trace of the irritation she felt at that earlier. "You don't hide something you don't want out."

"No." It's equally flat, though he doesn't leave it there. Doesn't leave it there primarily because he's talking to himself as much as he is her, even if he does glance toward her for a moment before he goes on. "You destroy it."

It was a computer system. There were methods to destroy whatever those computers were holding, easy ones - far easier than the security placed on the system. That was telling. "I tried, too. I didn't get anywhere, either." And he didn't like it.

Another bit of time staring at the movement int he distance, and realizing they're not coming closer, for now, he pivots and drops off the wall - sans ladder, thank you. Then looks up at her. "I owe you dinner."

Her expression splits, shutters, and lands on something that's equal parts pleased and obviously flirtatious. She follows him, pivoting and dropping from the wall at the same point; she tucks and lands in a roll, straightening to look at him in a way that suggests that if they're measuring the size of gymnastic dicks, he's got a way to go. But, you know. It could be fun.

"You do," she agrees, and Natasha's mouth quirks. "I'm thinking black tie? Pick me up in your limo at seven?"

He recognizes the change in her expression and demeanor, because it's something he has seen in the mirror and felt in himself. It's a hard, abrupt gear change. Maybe a mask or persona being pulled up, maybe an outright lie. He doesn't have enough information to confirm or dismiss that, yet.

Something similar happens to him, but there's no shuttering, not overtly, just his expression and tone lightening up. Becoming...playful. He doesn't feel playful, but he can meet what she's giving him very, very easily. It's very nearly habit.

He laughs, quiet and - light - and starts to walk backward (facing her, moving toward the building). "Funny thing. Would you believe I seem to have misplaced it? And I haven't seen an ATM either? I can't imagine why, really, but I'm afraid dinner may be a less lavish affair than either of us are accustomed to. I'm sure I'll think of a way to make it up to you."

And that's more words than he used at once on the wall. Playboy is a whole hell of a lot more verbose than Batman. Or even Bruce.

There's an exchange happening, here, between each smile and word. Natasha's as acutely aware of it as she is her surroundings and whatever else is outside the compound walls. He walks backward, facing her, away from the building, and Natasha rolls her eyes goodnaturedly. At least this part is what it is.

"You didn't strike me as being lazy," she says, though 'lazy' sounds a little like something else. "Or very imaginative." If he's going for making it up to her.

Circumstances — i.e., the belt-buckle, the cat-suit, her gear — make her a little more transparent than she'd like to be, right now. But life isn't about liking things. "At least tell a girl what to wear."

There is an exchange happening, even if that exchange is all show and no tell. What they were showing now was superficial, yes, but not when taken in context of what had already been shown.

The eye-roll turns his grin into something just a little smirky. "If you're going to turn it into a challenge...." She'd turned the gun into a challenge, too, but that was bait he wouldn't rise to. This? Sure. He could prove himself lazy and imaginative.

...he could not prove himself lazy, for anything, though he could try.

"You don't strike me as a woman who needs to be told what to wear. He stops walking backward to look over his shoulder only once he's close enough to spin and reach the door. "Something casual. Next time you want to wear black leather." Vinyl, whatever, "let me know and I'll show you just how imagination I have."

That sounds vaguely sexual. That's good, though frankly it may well mean the suit. Not much need to protect his identity here.

"Hm." And it's short for a reason. Not because she's frustrated or annoyed— it's the opposite. The cadence of it carries a part-thoughtfulness and part-appreciation. It's a bar that's been set, and Natasha thinks he's going to meet it. Whether that means she needs to rearrange selves to put him in a place mentally where he's a threat, well— what's that saying about time?

She arches a brow, wicked-sharp. "It's getting me out of the leather that's the hard part," and that definitely is sexual. Natasha brushes past him lightly, glancing over her shoulder at him as the bow of her lips curve into a smile.

"Better find your Amex."

And she's slipping back through the compound, marking her exit. That one, she's keeping an eye on.

He watches her go, head inclined slightly to the side and with his eyes just slightly narrowed.

That one? He's keeping an eye on.

By far the most promising interaction he's had.

He waits for her to be properly away, and then heads back inside, through those doors to head back inside. He has work to do.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

( OPEN ) GAME START.

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