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[sup]Current Location: Jones Canyon Base Camp - Interacting With: No one - Mentioned: Trevor, Maisy's Cousins[/sup]

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[color=gray]The plan was as straightforward as it could have been, or at least in Maisy's case. Designated to commanding the home front once more, Maisy quickly went to gather the troopers that had been left in her command to establish a perimeter around the desired encampment. It was a small outcrop from the edge of the main road, a few miles back from an old rest stop for semi-trucks and travelers. The encampment was relatively open and could be seen for miles, but it was far enough from the actual city for anyone to sneak up on them without a trooper spotting them first.

Yet, that was all to it, and so Maisy let her mind wander as she awaited a signal or the hour to decide the encampment's next move. At first, the rancher had thought about Trevor. A boy wonder he was, somehow being able to tame the wilderness that was the heart. It had been an awkward last few days, but there had been a connection of sorts blossoming between the woodsman and the rancher. Maisy couldn't tell the future, but she could certainly see the present, and that there was more than meets the eye. Perhaps others had seen or noticed, but Maisy had been distracted by her own emotions to notice, or care for any matter.

Then, the rancher's thoughts shifted to the home she had lived in until that fateful day, when a horde of infected had swarmed the fields and the ranch. Had someone broken in, and claimed it as a hideout or shelter just as they did in the past? Did her relatives make way to the ranch, only to find that they had fled death itself? Or, more importantly, was the ranch itself still standing? The questions swirled Maisy's head as much as answers did, and even those were numerous and akin to conspiracy theories. By Jove, Maisy desperately wanted to see her childhood home once more, yet until then she had to content herself with ways to kill boredom.[/color]

[color=moccasin][b]"Dad-blame it,"[/b][/color] [color=gray]Maisy exclaimed, albeit quietly as she gazed at her hand. She had taken up flintknapping glass and rock spear and arrow heads not long after civilization fell, where a ranch hand had taught Maisy to help replenish the stock used to keep both Risen and predators at bay. Nevertheless, even a longtime veteran of the craft could not prevent flying debris nicking their fingers and hands. Sighing, Maisy dug into her pouch, pulling forth a roll of duct tape. Tearing a piece off, Maisy covered the small wound with the tape, and soon returned to her flintknapping. Wasting actual medical supplies on a tiny cut would've asinine, and so an old redneck tradition would have to suffice.[/color]

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