TheMadAsshatter

Checking to see

I thought you were talking about the pistol. Then I clicked on the thread and was met with disappointment.

Poll: Class or swag?

Class beats swag any day.

ETU - College is Hell, quite literally.

Fine by me.

Being a Hero: A DayZ Short Story

Yeah it is. I know it's just a game, but it really sucks when 90% of the people you run into will just kill you on sight. It's not supposed to be a deathmatch type game, but all of the CoD degenerates that joined DayZ have essentially turned it into that. It really is sad when a game that, in my mind, is meant to be an RPG is turned into a PVP circlejerk.

Being a Hero: A DayZ Short Story

(Note: This story is largely based on my experiences in the DayZ mod for ArmA II, right down to the people and groups I played with. Some if it is also made up. This is essentially a fictionalization of the highlights of my entire DayZ experience, minus the hundreds of deaths.)

It happened again. I had hoped it wouldn't happen this time, but it did. I've seen it all before, but I refused to believe it would happen this time. I keep hoping that things will change and the chain will be broken, but it hasn't happened yet. Who knows if it ever will. I've seen too many decent people get turned into monsters; inhuman beings that will kill everything in sight. And no, I'm not talking about the zombies; no, these things are far worse than any walking corpse I've seen. I don't know if anyone will read this, but it's worth trying to warn anyone who does. Don't trust anyone. If you hear gunshots, run the other way. No one can be trusted anymore; they've either gotten cold or just fucking lost it. They'll kill you without a second thought and you may not see it coming. You're lucky if you get to say your last words. Speaking of which, maybe I should write mine. It's better I take a chance to immortalize my thoughts before I am no more, so here it goes.

I was just a guy on the shore of Chernarus, with absolutely nothing but a couple of bandages and a single can of baked beans. We didn't even know what was happening until it was too late. Next thing I knew, all of Chernarus became infected, and I found myself completely alone in this foreign place. But I knew I couldn't be completely alone, there had to be others who made it, there just had to be. So I did what I do and survived, if only for the hope that I would be able to interact with another human being.

I quickly found out that I was immune, for some reason. I was bit and beaten within an inch of my life at one point and was only able to escape detection by hiding in a bush. I knew I was doomed anyways, and I would have ended it there if I had a gun. Either way, I had already run through my bandages and thought I would bleed out from the bites eventually. So I bid the world farewell and waited. The minutes dragged on as my stomach grew uneasy and my vision blurred. Figures I would die an anticlimactic death in a post apocalyptic world. Predictable. What I didn't predict was for the bleeding to stop before my heart did, but by that point I might as well have been dead. After about a day I figured out that the blurry vision and intermittent loss of consciousness was due to blood loss rather than whatever virus was causing everything.

I took it as a sign; a second chance at survival, so I stumbled towards the nearest town and looked for some food and drinks. It took a few days of stuffing my face, but I began to feel better. I may not have looked the part, but I could feel my condition improving. It was also during this time that I found a hatchet to use as a weapon. Combined with the knowledge that I wouldn't turn, I went to town, becoming the zombie axe murderer extraordinaire. I must have killed over a hundred of them before I finally found a gun. Chernarus being an offshoot state of Russia, I wasn't expecting to find a British Lee Enfield, but it's what I got, along with plenty of ammo for it. I also found out about thirty seconds later that it's loud enough to be heard from the next town over.

It took several more days of close scrapes with zeds, frenzied attempts at fingering bullets into the Enfield and looking for enough food and water to last just one more day before I found someone else, someone just as new to this hellish wasteland as I was. He didn't seem to have anything more than I did, minus a rifle. We exchanged pleasantries for a short time before he decided to go off on his own. I was surprised at this and told him we should stick together, but he said he was looking for someone and didn't want me slowing him down. He came and went as quickly as the cans of food I found over the days. I found him dead on the side of a road a day later with several bullet holes in his chest. I know I should have felt bad, but I more felt... strange, than anything. It was the first time I had seen a dead human, so I didn't really know what to feel at the time. I just took what I could find and dug a grave for him. It didn't occur to me until the next day that he was killed my a person and not a zombie.

Over the next week or so I couldn't help but be paranoid. Seeing that guy dead, evidently at another survivor's hand put me on edge. I began to get the feeling that I was being stalked a couple of days later as I was wandering through a forest. I ignored it for some time, but after hours of looking over my shoulder in apprehension, hearing a twig snap just on the edge of my hearing range, my paranoia got the better of me. I took cover in the leaves of a large pine tree, hoping it would keep me camouflaged as I waited to see if I was right or wrong. I waited for several minutes, waiting for someone to come along, but as time wore on I started to wonder if my fears were unfounded. I was just about to get up and leave when I heard it; footsteps approaching from where I had come from. Shortly thereafter, a man in a ghillie suit armed with a sniper rifle and a pistol came into view. I figured if he didn't feel like talking he probably wasn't friendly, so I waited for him to pass. As he walked by, I sneaked out of my cover and brought the Lee Enfield to my shoulder, aiming it at his torso. I ordered him to freeze and drop his weapons, hoping that my suspicions were wrong and he was simply making a misguided attempt at making sure I didn't try anything. He stopped for a moment, then tried to draw his pistol. I didn't hesitate to pull the trigger. He slumped forward effortlessly, and the realization that I had just killed a man hit me like a freight train. I couldn't bring myself to take anything, or even dig a proper grave. I couldn't even think about the fact that he likely tried to kill me. All I could do was stand there, stunned at what I did. I blocked it out; pretended it didn't happen. To this day I don't know if it was a conscious attempt or a subconscious defense mechanism, but it was all I could do at the time.

Several weeks passed by, and I learned that there were a lot more people who would rather shoot you on sight than not. I made many narrow escapes, and I learned from all of them. My encounters made me more cautious and hardened me to the cruel reality that I was living in a dog eat dog world now; I even assumed the name 'Exile' to hide my identity. I still held out for the hope that I would find a group of survivors who just wanted to get by, but with every passing day that became more and more like a pipedream.

I got my wish one day as I was scanning stations on a walkie-talkie and heard a message asking for exactly that. The man's name was Zach, and he happened to be in Elektrozavodsk, a city that I happened to be a stone's throw away from at the time, but I did have my doubts. It occurred to me that it could very well be a trap, but my curiosity got the better of me, and I could hear other people responding to the call, so I decided to head over. I was surprised and humbled to find that everyone who came was just another guy trying to survive in this crazy rabbit-hole. It wasn't just me anymore; it was me, Zach, Squire, Dylan, and Alec. We grouped up and stuck together from that point on, making staying alive a lot easier for the time being.

It didn't take long for us to find some good weapons and supplies, more than enough to sustain us for several weeks, and even an old helicopter that we managed to get into working condition. We were damn near set for life, but we still had to make the occasional raid for supplies. Eventually, we stopped finding any food in houses and grocery stores and the like, so one of our guys put forth the idea of robbing other people of their stores. As much as I hated it, I couldn't help but agree. We needed to find food one way or the other, so it had to be done. I soon learned that that was just the tip of the iceberg. After about a week, we captured a guy and made him work for us, like a slave. I told myself we were doing it out of necessity; we had to stay alive, and this was how we would do it. That was before the others started beating him just for shits and giggles, and damn me if I didn't join in. Damn me either way.

It was too late when I woke up to the fact that what we were doing was beyond wrong, and it came to a head when one of us decided the "prisoner" was another mouth to feed. He was executed by firing squad. One I took part in. I told myself we had to do it, it was necessary... but I knew deep down it wasn't, that I could have saved his life. I had killed people before, so I was numb to that particular feeling of guilt, and I didn't really think about it for the rest of the day, but I started having nightmares about the incident. Yeah, I had killed people before, but those were people who were going to kill me or someone else; they were justified. What I did back then was cold-blooded murder; I had participated in the killing of an innocent, unarmed, defenseless man. I finally saw my companions... myself, for what we were. We were bandits. We had no regard or respect for human life other than our own, and it cost us far more than any amount of food, weapons, gear, vehicles, or any other stupid material goods we had found. All of it was tainted with the blood we had spilled.

I left them. Told them I was going to patrol an area, and never came back. I survived on my own for months thereafter. I put as much distance between myself and Chernarus as I could manage. All I wanted to do was put it behind me. Occasionally I would come across someone who wouldn't shoot me, and kill or outrun anyone who tried. Of the people who cared enough not to shoot me, I realized that most, if not all of these people, were victims of bandits at some point or another. With every person, every story of a hostile encounter, I felt more and more guilty for the crimes I had committed in the past. There came a point where I came across another group of people near Solibor in Taviana. Well, more like they came across me. I was picking through a house when I heard someone say "Drop your weapons and put your hands up." I froze on instinct and time seemed to slow as I pondered my next move. I thought back to the first time I killed someone. He was clearly hostile, and I gave him a chance. I figured these guys were trying to do the same, and I wasn't going to squander that opportunity.

I did as they said, half-expecting a bullet to the head anyways. A tense moment passed before they took my weapons... but then they lowered theirs and began talking as though I were an old friend. The leader introduced himself as Satolbo, and the rest followed suit. I realized then that there were still decent people in the world, and I nearly broke down crying right then. I, thankfully, managed to avoid embarrassing myself in front of them and told them that I had plenty of equipment, and even asked to join them. After a short exchange of words, they let me. They even gave me back my pistol and some extra ammo for it.

I stayed with them for a couple of weeks, helping them hunt bandits and learning some more advanced tactics. They taught me all sorts of new things about surviving, along with detailed instructions on detecting, evading, and hunting bandits. I dedicated their lessons to memory and helped them with a few more crusades of justice, but something just didn't feel right. It wasn't that I didn't feel proud to be part of this band of survivors, but I didn't feel at home. Not like feeling at home means anything during the zombie apocalypse, but you get the idea. I'm not sure what it was or why I felt the way I did, but I knew that I just had to go on my own. At the beginning of my third week with them, I thanked them, grabbed my gear, and went on my way, and from that point on I made a sacred vow to follow their example of heroism.

I traveled for about four months more when I found myself looking at a familiar landscape. I hadn't realized that I had returned to Chernarus until I found myself at the port city of Elektrozavodsk. I couldn't believe I was back here; back where it all started. There were hardly any zeds anymore, but I had long since learned that they were hardly a threat compared to the people who won't waste a second to put a bullet in you. I had to wonder if any of the people I once knew were still around, but something told me I didn't have to worry about them anymore.

Soon after arriving back in Chernogorsk, I ran into another survivor who told me about a camp of so-called "heroes" nestled in the mountains to the North. I couldn't help but wonder if the people I had run into about 4 months prior hadn't somehow gotten ahead of me and established this place. Either way I was interested in seeing what all the fuss was about. I was able to make it to the camp within the day, and I was greeted by friendly faces and a base that put any other I had seen before to shame. Even with the lack of any zeds around, the place was heavily barricaded and contained several buildings. It looked just like a proper community of heroes and survivors. Soon after arriving, I heard a helicopter approaching from the distance. I learned that it was one of several bandit hunting squads when a guy who called himself Stalker started asking for volunteers. I joined him and his crew as quickly as he had asked.

After some time, myself, Stalker, Ironwolf, and several others split off entirely from the main group of heroes, and we made bandit hunts a frequent event. I didn't have fun killing people, but I knew they would kill innocents on sight, and I wasn't having any of that. I had learned long ago that there was no line with these people; they would kill anything that moved. I killed several bandits with extreme prejudice; any and every bandit that happened to be standing in my sights ended up dead moments later. Knowing that I was helping to make Chernarus a safer place helped me to exorcise my personal demons in the process, but I soon learned that all good things must come to an end.

There came a point where I started to notice things happening in our group. It started with a guy we were trying to urge to drop his gun. One of ours ended up killing him because he didn't do so after so long, despite the fact that he was yelling out that he was friendly and wasn't making any threatening gestures. It escalated when one of our guys killed someone on impulse who was in a common place for bandits to camp and wait for an unsuspecting victim, but he didn't confirm it and ended up killing an innocent survivor.

There came a point where it started getting to me because it reminded me of what happened with the first group of people I had met. It felt like these people were undergoing the same process of dehumanization that happened the first time. I found myself making up excuses to not go on more "bandit hunts." Thankfully none of them caught on; I sure as hell wasn't going to take part in what was happening. Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew there was no stopping it, but I refused to see it. I eventually asked to leave, and they surprisingly let me go, saying I could come back anytime and there would always be a place for me.

I remained isolated for about five days. On the sixth day I woke up to find that everything of mine had been stolen, save for a can of beans and some bandages, similar to how I was when I first started. I suddenly felt very naked without any of my weapons; I felt truly vulnerable for the first time in a long time. I knew there was only one quick way to get kitted up again, and that was to go back to the group and ask them to give me some gear. We had bagged plenty of supplies, and they would have no problem completely re-stocking me. I heard about a place nearby that some were staying, but as I approached it I heard shots fired in my direction. I immediately ran for cover, but after hearing yelling and shouting coming from where the shots had also rang out from, they stopped. Someone started walking towards me, and I realized they were a part of our group.

I froze up as the realization that they had degenerated in the same way as the first group of people I met hit me harder than a bullet ever could have. It wasn't the fact that they shot at me personally that bothered me. What bothered me was the fact that they were shooting at someone who was completely unarmed and had hardly anything useful. I saved my outrage until after I got my gear back, and then I shouted my disapproval to the point that I got people to turn heads. These people were giving me a completely incredulous look, as though my basic respect for human life was a foreign concept to them anymore; that they shouldn't shoot anyone who was no threat to them whatsoever seemed something of a joke to them. I had to fight back the urge to vomit as I turned my back and stalked off. I almost expected one of them to shoot me in the back right then, but the shot never came. I almost wanted it to so that I didn't have to keep going. It's an endless cycle of good people turning into mindless killers, one that will never go away. It's plagued the world far more completely than any zombie virus ever could have. I'm not sure if that's a world worth living in, but dammit I'll keep trying. I have to.

That was earlier this evening. I don't regret my decision. I don't compromise on the moral system that I've adopted, not for anyone or anything. Not anymore. I used to think I knew where my priorities lie, but I didn't. I thought it was more about survival, but it's not. It's not about how many guns you have, or whether you have a damn chopper or not, hell it's hardly even about avoiding the zombies anymore. No, it's about preserving your humanity in a shitsack world that tries to rob you of it at every turn; it's about playing the game, win or lose, knowing you fought the good fight; it's about being a hero, and knowing you tried your goddamned best! So go on. Be a hero. Even if you end up bleeding out alone on the side of a road, you'll know that you tried. You tried to keep hope alive as long as you could when so many others have given up or taken the darker path. You did everything you could; be proud of that.

We've all made mistakes. God knows I have. But they've made me the man I am today. And you know what, I can die happy knowing that I am that man. I am a hero, and that's something to be damn proud of.

ETU - College is Hell, quite literally.

Name: Jacob Logan Taylor.

Preferred Name/Nickname: Jake.

Age: 19.

Gender: Male.

Housing Preferences: No preference.

Major: Physics.

Minor: Russian Language.

Extracurricular Activity: Party Animal.

What do you feel is your best natural ability?: Intelligence.

What do you feel is your weakest natural ability?: Strength.

What languages do you speak?: English; Russian.

What do you feel your skill set is?: Jake is really a jack of all trades, though there are things that he could be seen as standing out in. He's a fairly quick learner about technical things in general, and has a good memory to back it up. In particular he is good at figuring out how machines work, and will sometimes take things apart for the sake of learning how they work and familiarizing himself with them. He claims he could do it with an engine block, but he would never actually do it on a working vehicle for fear that he does get something wrong putting it back together. He is also a knowledgeable and experienced shooter and can learn how a firearm works, given a few minutes of tinkering and familiarization. The same applies for his schoolwork, and he is quick to grasp and retain ideas, concepts and theories related to his studies. There are certain things that he doesn't really get, but can do anyways; a good example being that he is a good singer but doesn't know anything about musical theory.

Hindrances: Jake sometimes has problems keeping his mouth shut and might say something a bit out of line. His reasons are generally good, or at least well-founded, but it has landed him in trouble before. He also generally has problems when it comes to dedication, particularly in anything work-related. He is also one of those types of people who is concerned more about others' well being than his own, and he has done things and taken falls for friends, family, and even complete strangers in some cases. Additionally, he has a strong hatred of heat, and he can become irritable if exposed to hot environments for prolonged periods (he would have gone to college out of state if the tuition weren't more expensive). Last but not least, and he'll never admit it, but if Jake notices something off, like if he thinks a car has been following him, or he hears something weird, he will get apprehensive and paranoid, which is part of why he always has his knife with him. Most of the time he writes it off as just something and gets over it, but there are times when he becomes truly spooked, and in these cases he tends to get defensive and stop thinking clearly until he thinks it's safe. It's not that he scares easy, more like he tends to get anxious when he has insufficient data about a situation, and he hates surprises.

Helpful Edge: Even though Jake has gotten into trouble on multiple occasions, he has a sort of charismatic presence that prevents him from getting the fullest extent of any punishment. It's not that he doesn't get in trouble, but he almost always receives a less severe punishment than would be expected. Most of the reason he isn't doing worse in school due to his carefree behavior is because he learns things quickly and has good memory, plus he actually attends every lecture unlike some of his drunken cohorts. He also has a way with keeping cool in situations where he knows what he's dealing with, and can think quickly under pressure, so long as the aforementioned requisite is met. Most importantly is probably his instinct and insightful nature, and while he can't predict the future, he does often get good or bad vibes about things.

Vehicle Registration: Lime Green 2003 Kawasaki KLX400R.

Appearance: Jake is pretty much average as far as appearances go. He stands at 5' 9" and weighs about 145 lbs. He's far from out of shape, and his thin figure lends to that to an extent, but he's also not particularly in shape. He has green eyes and wavy/curly brown hair, which he tries to keep straightened. He'll wear a black beanie if he doesn't have it straightened for whatever reason. He tries to keep his face clear of hair, but sometimes he'll allow a five o'clock shadow to grow in on days that he feels too lazy to shave.

He usually wears relatively plain clothes, generally a solid-colored t-shirt or v-neck, blue jeans, and converse. Sometimes he'll wear a complimentary casual button-down shirt along with the aforementioned undershirt. He keeps one 3 piece suit on hand, along with several dress shirts, vests and ties, all of which are solid colors. He also has a couple of hoodies, one of which has Black Mesa logos on the front and back, along with a Red Army winter coat for the colder months.

Interests: Partying hard, target shooting, Russian stuff, music, movies, physics, psychology, science, science fiction, writing.

Disinterests: Politics, government, religion, sports, Texas.

Personality: Jake is an overall easygoing guy with a kind heart and a good head on his shoulders, though he does often enjoy going to parties. He is rarely seen in a bad mood, unless you get him started on the state of the world. He tries to avoid thinking about it, but there are certain things that will make his blood boil, and when he gets started he says it like it is, and with no regrets. He's the sort of person who would charge headlong at an armed robber with nothing but a pocket knife just to spite them. He's not really brave in that sense, just stupid, feeling that he has a moral obligation to help others with no concern for his own safety, which lends to the idea that he has sort of a hero complex, even though he'll claim that this is not true. He would simply say that he does things without a second thought, because it's the right thing to do.

Equipment:
Fairly powerful laptop
Android phone
MP3 Player
Poker deck
Notebooks
Russian copy of Roadside Picnic
Spring-assisted knife
Mosin-Nagant (stored securely on-campus)

Brief Bit About Them: Jake was born and raised in Dallas as an only child, raised primarily by his father. His parents got divorced when he was 7 and his father got custody due to his mother having a drinking problem. Since then, life has been fairly uneventful for Jake. He has always done fairly well in school and picked up on things quite easily. His father was an avid shooter, and Jake shot his first gun when he was twelve, sparking his interest in shooting. His interest in Russia began not long afterwards when he shared a class in eighth grade with Sergei Grigorovich, a student from Russia. The two became friends, and even though Sergei already knew a fair amount of English, Jake offered to help him learn more in exchange for bits and pieces of Russian. The two remained friends all the way through High School, and Jake became well-versed in Russian by the time he graduated. Unlike Sergei, along with most of his friends, Jake didn't know what to do after High School, despite having earned several thousands of dollars in scholarship money. He decided to take a year off from schooling, thinking that it would give him time to decide what to do, and attend some parties on the side. He knew he'd have to apply fairly early to get accepted to any good colleges, so he applied for ETU in early November, shortly before his 19th birthday. He has since been accepted; the scholarships covering tuition while his dad pays for housing. All in all, he's happy to be moving forward with his life.

Notes: Even though Jake is already fairly fluent in Russian, he figures minoring in it couldn't hurt, plus it's practically a free second degree. That shit looks good on a resume.

I had a crazy dream.

Vordak said
Every time i get guns in a dream, it's outright nightmare scary or grim and uncorfomtable. Last time i got stabbed in the kidney. ;(

I've had several dreams where I had a gun, and in most of those dreams I was faced with bullet-sponges for enemies. :/

More on topic; that sounds pretty awesome. I had a lucid dream a couple of nights ago, but I lost it about ten seconds after I realized I was dreaming. Reality checks work!

Just Finished Watching The Walking Dead On Netflix

LowKey123 said
i think he wants to have the tiniest bit of a social life

I have a social life, thank you very much. It's not great, but it beats those of some people I know in person, so yeah.

The Infected [Zombie, Horror, Action, Survival]

I'm pretty much going to port over my character from the last RP; almost word-for-word the same character sheet. Please tell me if something needs tweaking.

Appearance:

Pic

Name: John 'Exile' Rourke.

Weapon: Hand-crafted AK-105 which he built himself and keeps hidden from those who work for The System, though he would never use it unless he were to leave Barrowside for any reason. He also has a hand-crafted survival knife made from paracord and metal from one of his scrapped AK builds, along with a much smaller, but similarly made, shiv which he keeps on him at all times. He stays in shape, but he only has limited hand-to-hand combat knowledge, thus he prefers to fight with a weapon, or not at all.

Estimated Age: Between 27 and 29.

Personality: John has always been a cautious optimist with a heart of gold, though his mannerisms can come off as strange or eccentric to others. His general mood tends to be anywhere between relaxed and content, though he can also be unpredictable in certain situations. He has been known to talk to himself on occasion, which causes others to put his sanity into question. Some suspect it has something to do with his life before coming to Barrowside. Even if he is insane, it's only mild, and he has never hurt anybody while in one of his more odd states of mind, so people tend to roll with it. In most cases, he tends to muse aloud about the human condition, good vs. bad, morality, government, things like that. Some people refer to him as something of a philosopher because of it. One way or the other, he is a friendly person who is easy to talk to, most of the time, and you can usually look to him to cheer things up.

Brief Background: As far as anyone knows, John was born in a community similar to Barrowside and raised to be an intelligent man with several marketable skills. That's the gist of his story, though if he wanted to go deeper, he would tell you about how Rockwell was run by people who didn't want anyone to get too smart, to help keep any sort of organized revolution from starting. He says that Barrowside is ruled under more reasonable conditions, but it's still imperfect. He says that Rockwell kept people in check by setting up a church and coaxing people to look to a higher power for answers, with government-appointed pastors. "It was an... effective form of control... and the greatest reason that I consider myself to be an atheist."

His parents were revolutionaries, in a way, who saw the oppressive nature of their government and wanted to replace it with a more democratic system. They always thought that knowledge was the answer, and this rubbed off on John to a great extent. He became an avid bookworm, and studied every piece of nonfictional writing he could get his hands on. Through his studies and self-teaching, he gained a broad array of basic and intermediate knowledge on several subjects, not the least of which was English. He began writing at an early age, and he often drew a crowd of people who listened to his stories. He always wrote about someplace where nothing could hurt you, where there was plenty of food and water, no disease, no zombies; a place where everything was peaceful and you didn't have to worry or care about anything.

During his late teenage years, a point at which his parents considered him to be an adult, they organized a protest against the government of Rockwell. He doesn't say anything other than the protesters were shut down, brutally. Over a hundred arrests, his mother among them, several executions, including that of his father, and even stricter rules for the entire community. It was at that point that John grabbed what he could and left Rockwell, assuming the name "Exile" and searching for a better place to stay. He eventually stumbled upon Barrowside after travelling for roughly a year, barely surviving on ancient food stores he found along the way.

In truth, there was no rebellion. Rockwell was destroyed by an overwhelming force of raiders who killed everyone who resisted, along with some who didn't. John was lucky to be captured and taken into their ranks. He appeared to them younger than he was, so they took him in and tried to push their customs on him. He went along with it, but did not forget what his parents taught him. His knowledge allowed him to plan an escape, and he even managed to get away with a gun; a rusty old AK. He could tell it was in dire need of repair, so he took to learning how it worked, and thus his interest and talent in gunsmithing came to fruition.

Between evading the raiders' search parties and looking for food, he barely had time to work on the old rifle, and no time for reading any books he came across or writing anything else. Between the dehydration and practical starvation, he began to lose his sanity. He kept himself going though, and at one point stumbled upon a "prepper" shelter built from a shipping container. He managed to find plenty of food and water inside, and was able to take a true pause to think about what to do next. He knew the raiders would keep looking for him, and they weren't far behind, so he had to either kill them or somehow mislead them. He could only think of one surefire way of doing so, and it was going to hurt.

After taking some antibiotics and painkillers he found in the shelter, John cut his hand on a broken window at a nearby house and let it bleed as he walked in a random direction. He kept it up for about twenty minutes before he cleaned and bandaged the wound, leaving a blood trail roughly a mile long. After making sure he did a proper job of cleaning the wound, he ran off in a different direction, hoping that the pint of blood he spilled was worth it. After a few days and no more sign that the raiders were following him, he continued forth, unmolested by any further pursuit. He traveled alone for about a month before running into a caravan who happened to have some parts for the rifle. He managed to get it into working condition on the condition that he give it to the caravan. He got a pretty sturdy knife in exchange, along with information on where some other gun parts might be found. He thanked the caravan for his hospitality and left him a short story he had re-written from before the fall of Rockwell.

The information lead him to an old gun store with files of blueprints and build instructions, including one for an AK-105. He managed to scrounge together all of the parts necessary to build the carbine, and was able to do so with the help of some manually operated machines and tools, though he figured he should learn to build one without such help. He kept another complete set of parts and continued on, thinking he wouldn't start until he needed to. After a couple more weeks of travel, he found Barrowside, where his AK and knife were confiscated. He considered breaking out, valuing freedom over community, but he learned after about a month of being confined to a cell that he had lost more of his sanity than he thought.

He came around as soon as he realized this and managed to get out of the cell, though he then had to bargain for a good skill, thus where his English knowledge came in handy. He just barely managed to become an English teacher and was even allowed all of his belongings back, except for his completed weapons. He has since used the parts he had to build another AK and keep it hidden from The System, along with a pair of knives. He has since established himself as a respectable man with a kind heart and great writing skills.

Misc: In short, John is a jack of all trades, with his specialties lying in gunsmithing and his vast knowledge of the English language, though he keeps the former secret and fronts as an English teacher. John is a very intelligent and articulate person, using plenty of vocabulary which in a post-apocalyptic society would seem superfluous, unnecessary, or even archaic. He often takes his off-time to write short stories, or work on his novel, "The Oasis."

Although he's not very good at using guns, he knows several guns down to every pin, rivet, and screw, and makes a habit of trying to construct some; outside of the prying eyes of The System of course. He has a particular interest in AK-type rifles, fascinated by their relatively simple construction and high tolerances. With the lack of any precision tools, a lot of his builds end up being fancy paperweights. Some of the guns he turns out are functional, but far from perfect. He has only managed to craft exactly two shooters worthy of any true merit, and that was with a vast array of spare parts he found before coming to Barrowside.

Level and category: Level 5A.

Just Finished Watching The Walking Dead On Netflix

And never before have I wanted to see someone die than the fucking governor. Piece of shit.