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[INDENT][sub][hr][/sub][color=white][sub][B]Location:[/B] [COLOR=gray][I]Rushford, Ohio -- O'Neal Family Tavern[/I][/COLOR][/sub][SUP][RIGHT][b]Date:[/b] [COLOR=gray][I]May 15th, 2019[/I][/COLOR][/right][/SUP][/color][sub][hr][/sub][/indent]
[color=gray][indent][indent]The adults that accompanied Damien picked the tavern clean in a flurry of heavy footsteps, making Damien feel out of place with his far less tactical mindset. He had been itching to just run out of the place and head to the camp, where unconditional safety would be granted. This fantasy of his was something he knew in his gut wouldn't be all that it was cracked up to be, but that's just how teenagers were. He wanted to act now and face the consequences later. Unfortunately for him, "consequences" had gone from a phone call home or a suspension to a slow and painful death. He could feel himself growing more cautious these past few days, and he didn't like it. 

He entered the kitchen, not content with just sitting around, and tossed cans of whatever was edible into his backpack. It was a tavern, so he had options. Watching his already respectably full backpack fill even more, he couldn't help but feel both proud and lucky. His dad had always stressed survival of the fittest as far back as he could remember. Damien knew that this was the man's justification for screwing people over in business, and it wasn't uncommon for him to hear about a bankruptcy here or even a suicide there caused by his dad's greed, but damn, it felt good to be the fittest.

Jennifer brought up the idea of cooking something before leaving. It was obvious, but survival had frequently caused him to forget about having to eat regularly, so it was a helpful reminder to him. He approached the stove and raised his eyebrows at it still functioning. 

[color=white]"Anyone up for omelettes?"[/color] he asked, in a tone too jovial for a teenager caught in the middle of a pandemic. [color=white]"Can't promise they'll be MasterChef level though. The club only put me as a cook when everybody else was too hungover for it."[/color] A memory of the club's head chef telling him that it wasn't a kitchen unless there was at least one person on something rang in his mind. He tried not to think if he was still alive, and opted to instead check the fridge. The refrigerated ingredients looked good enough. He wasn't completely confident, but nothing smelled funny, and that had to count for something, probably.[/indent][/indent][/color]