[hider=DIARY OF AMIE JANE]

[i]Day Whatever, 10:00 AM

Scavenge duty! Don't have time to write much, I have to run downstairs and meet the crew. All of us have nicknames. I'm Crosses because I'm a Christian and a medic. Two crosses, get it? I'm with Hopper (he's the fast one, used to be a sprinter), Beagle (he's got a lucky streak for finding stuff), and Gauge (he found a 12-gauge shotgun five years ago and has been obsessed with the thing ever since, so we shortened "12-gauge" to Gauge). Best of luck to us finding a generator!

Mansions someday,[/i]
[/hider]

[color=0076a3]"Amie Jane,"[/color] Amie muttered, signing her latest entry hastily and throwing the journal into her backpack. She checked her watch. 10:00 AM. The sun would be up in a few minutes She shoved her trusty baton into the belt scabbard, tossed her multi-tool into the nearest pocket and shouldered her medic bag, which had been lightened considerably. She never traveled with all of her supplies. Medicine was too valuable to keep all in one place. Her backpack contained the usual kit: bedroll, fire starter, improvised compass, flare, wind-up flashlight, and enough rations for six days, just in case they couldn't return on time. Scavengers traveled light because, after all, they were expected to come back full. After a few push-ups and jumping jacks to wake up, Amie hustled downstairs. The others were already at the table, mumbling quietly to each other over a large overhead road map of the entirety of Seattle. Well, most of Seattle; a good third of it was missing. It showed everything up to Queen Anne, which was more than enough for the group in Greater Duwamish. 

Gauge, a tall, broad-shouldered man, was showing the least interest. Leaning as far back as he could in his salvaged desk chair, he was yet again wiping his gun down with a rag. The heavy, long-barreled Winchester 97 was a monster of a gun. It was found with a full stock and buckshot barrel that brought the length up to a little over 3 feet long. With an effective range of a little over 60 feet, it was almost a rifle, and Gauge was always carrying a few slugs in a zippered belt pouch. Hopper, on the other hand, was charged up and ready to go. He was a track star in high school, and he'd retained his speed despite a constant loss of food and sleep. He was a powerful climber as well, making him an incredibly useful asset when it came to debris or obstacles. Beagle, an Irishman, was neither tall nor short, broad nor thin. He showed very little interest in the world around him and spent a lot of time staring off into the distance. Whether he was haunted by some distance memory, or just bored in general, Amie had never figured out. All that was known for sure is that he invariably found the best supplies, and his intuition had never yet failed him. 

Hopper spotted Amie first and motioned for her to join them at the table. He patted her on the back.

"Good to see you pack on the haul, Crosses."

[color=0076a3]"Thanks, Hopper. Just hope I can help."[/color]

Beagle stabbed the map with his index finger. "We're going up to A5-A6 this run," he commented in his rustic accent. "Nice stretch of apartments up there that we haven't cleaned out. Hack was on our previous run. He used his flare to scorch a mark on a door and he left the used flare under the doormat, so we'll start with that. All goes well, we'll finish with the whole thing in three days. That'll leave the last two for us to drag the generator back."

Amie's eyes lit up. [color=0076a3]"You found a generator?!"[/color]

Beagle shook his head slowly. "No. But we'll find one this time."

"You say that every time," Gauge grumbled, dropping the chair back to the upright position. Beagle merely shrugged in response, rising slowly from his chair and making his way to the front door with Gauge in tow. Hopper was already there, holding the door open and tapping a foot impatiently. Shaking her head, Amie tightened the straps on her backpack and followed the other three outside.