( It’s that familiar beeping alert from his cuffs, the timefall warning, and Sam curses under his breath. He’d seen the haphazard report from the weather station, had watched the prediction for the prevailing winds— and he thought he could make it to the next distribution center in time before the storm hit, but apparently not.
He pushes down harder on the accelerator, and the trike kicks up into a higher gear while he hunches over the handlebars, cap low over his forehead and hood tucked in at the edges. Jumpsuit zipped up, gloves on tight, every inch of skin covered from the corrosive rain. The only silver lining is that when timefall hits, the t-Virus dead take refuge, their rotting bodies even more susceptible, but the outside world was still a minefield of lethal threats.
Pick between the zombies or the ghosts? Every option’s shit.
The trike roars down the road with a growing hum, weaving around potholes on the road — the repairs haven’t made it this far out — and Sam’s squinting through the darkening skies, searching for cover. He knows the map, and there aren’t any official Bridges shelters out here yet, but—
There. A gas station, a remnant of the before times. He pulls up to it as if he’s here to refuel, despite the fact that his vehicle runs on solar energy; he sets the trike beneath the outcrop for some feeble shelter; and then heads indoors. Shoves through the doors into the dim interior and scavenged shelves, an instinctive hand already on his rifle, his peripheral vision ruined from the hood.
He doesn’t even see the station’s occupant until it’s too late. )
( Waking up in a strange facility and a world even more fucked up than she remembered isn't a new experience for Alice, though it's one she'd hoped she wouldn't have to repeat yet again. That night in the mansion when she'd struggled through temporary amnesia on the descent into the Hive had been bad enough, but then there had been the hospital in Raccoon City, and the research facility in Detroit... And all that had been before the world properly ended. Before she'd spent five years alone, doing what she could to protect what was left of humanity while staying off Umbrella's radar.
The end of that time is... fuzzy. She'd sent the handful of survivors to find Arcadia, taken care of Isaacs, and teamed up with the White Queen to synthesize a cure while working to take down Umbrella for good. None of that lines up with how she'd ended up in cryo in an underground facility in a desolate but miraculously green landscape. It doesn't make sense. There wasn't an Umbrella logo in sight, just a handful of variations for something called Bridges. Though, to be fair, she could have easily missed something — the facility didn't have power and she'd had to crawl her way out of a pitch-black room and return after she'd found some emergency flares in the upper levels. Whatever the place had been, it was long abandoned, which doesn't help her one bit in figuring out how long she's been out of commission.
Finding the gas station felt like nothing short of a miracle after walking for the better part of a day, but she'd been dealt swift disappointment when the shelves were littered with dust and scraps of decayed packaging rather than anything actually edible. There was no water in the pipes either, though the broken mirror in the tiny bathroom offered the first glimpse of herself in who knows how long. She looks even paler than usual in the dark sweater she'd pulled from a locker, mismatched with a pair of Bridges-logoed pants and boots that fit only with two pairs of socks.
Alice looks out one of the broken windows at the darkening sky and sighs before searching for something to rig to catch rain in. The exact limits of what the T-virus will save her from have yet to be tested but she'd really rather not start with severe dehydration.
That's when she hears the bike, the first sign of another living human being. Hope tightens in her chest and she shoves it back down, remembering all the people since the world ended who have tried to kill her on sight. She doesn't have a gun. She doesn't even have a knife. The best she could possibly do is pry loose a piece of metal shelving, but that would be loud and take more time than she has. So she does the only thing she can — she waits, standing with a shelf between her and the door, in plain view but with enough cover in case she has to make a break for that broken window. )
( The man goes just as motionless when he finally sees her, and she sees him, and they’re staring at each other across the near-empty room.
With the Bridges-branded cap and the hood up, it makes his face barely visible at first; but then with a faint beep, the hood actually retracts itself and then his tired blue eyes are looking at her with razor-sharp, mistrustful intensity. Sam’s sizing her up from head-to-toe, doing the usual calculus: she’s wearing Bridges-branded gear, but she doesn’t look like an employee (where’s the fucking coveralls?). She doesn’t look like a mule either, since there’s a certain deranged quality to them, their clothes worn and tattered from timefall.
But she doesn’t look right, either. It takes him a moment before he clocks what it is. The stranger’s wearing a sweater, not a hardy jacket. Her hands aren’t gloved. Bare skin. There’s no way for her to safely step outdoors, dressed like that. She can’t be living here, can she? Is there an underground shelter he didn’t know about?
Sam clears his throat, but his voice still sounds like gravel when he speaks. )
You with Bridges?
( Although he has a rifle, there’s a faint green light on the side of the gun, indicating: non-lethal rounds. And then, of course, there’s the other thing which makes him look a little less intimidating: that enormous goddamn stack of cargo strapped to the frame on his back. It had almost clipped the top of the doorframe, so he’d had to duck to make it safely inside without getting literally stuck in the door. )
( It is the stack of cargo that causes the error in her mental processing, the visual cue matching absolutely nothing she's ever seen. How is he carrying all of that? And why? The gun is only slightly concerning with its little green light, but those crates tell her there's something she's missing. Possibly something big.
For a split second, she considers lying to try to pull on whatever allegiance he might feel toward this organization or company or whatever it is, but she decides it's too risky. Despite her investigation of that abandoned facility, she doesn't know the first thing about Bridges, and lying from the get-go might ruin her chance of easily getting information she desperately needs. )
No, I just needed clothes and found these.
( It's the first time she's spoken since waking up and the words feel strange in her mouth as if she hasn't used her voice in a long time. Some creeping sense at the back of her mind thinks it might have been a very long time... )
Where are we?
( Showing her hand like this is a risk too, but it's one she's actually willing to take. )
( Her initial answer is a long, slow, incredulous blink as Sam tries to make sense of that particular question, before he settles on: maybe she’s lost. Wandering in the wastes and lost track of where she was and how to get to the nearest city. It even happened to him sometimes, especially when he went off-grid to where the roads haven’t been rebuilt yet, and the signposts have corroded you can’t even tell where you’re standing on the country’s rotting bones. It was surprisingly easy to get turned around, to find yourself headed in the wrong direction for goddamn days. )
America, ( is the man’s rueful answer, with a bit of surprisingly angry bite to it before he continues. )
The United Cities of America. A little west of Capital Knot City.
( Some of the words are familiar, ghosts of themselves, but subtly askew and unexpected for her frame of reference. United Cities?
Unheeding of how that piece of information might have landed, Sam raises his free hand, indicates with a wordless little is this okay?, before he starts to unbuckle himself from the cargo straps. It’s the smallest gesture, making himself vulnerable in those precious seconds where he’s working himself loose from that monstrous backpack. It’s baring his throat for a moment.
But, also, it’s easier to run if he’s not lugging around cases of heavy metals. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
— timeline.
— scene ideas.
— world notes.
wanna live like an animal, by the skin of your teeth.
He pushes down harder on the accelerator, and the trike kicks up into a higher gear while he hunches over the handlebars, cap low over his forehead and hood tucked in at the edges. Jumpsuit zipped up, gloves on tight, every inch of skin covered from the corrosive rain. The only silver lining is that when timefall hits, the t-Virus dead take refuge, their rotting bodies even more susceptible, but the outside world was still a minefield of lethal threats.
Pick between the zombies or the ghosts? Every option’s shit.
The trike roars down the road with a growing hum, weaving around potholes on the road — the repairs haven’t made it this far out — and Sam’s squinting through the darkening skies, searching for cover. He knows the map, and there aren’t any official Bridges shelters out here yet, but—
There. A gas station, a remnant of the before times. He pulls up to it as if he’s here to refuel, despite the fact that his vehicle runs on solar energy; he sets the trike beneath the outcrop for some feeble shelter; and then heads indoors. Shoves through the doors into the dim interior and scavenged shelves, an instinctive hand already on his rifle, his peripheral vision ruined from the hood.
He doesn’t even see the station’s occupant until it’s too late. )
no subject
The end of that time is... fuzzy. She'd sent the handful of survivors to find Arcadia, taken care of Isaacs, and teamed up with the White Queen to synthesize a cure while working to take down Umbrella for good. None of that lines up with how she'd ended up in cryo in an underground facility in a desolate but miraculously green landscape. It doesn't make sense. There wasn't an Umbrella logo in sight, just a handful of variations for something called Bridges. Though, to be fair, she could have easily missed something — the facility didn't have power and she'd had to crawl her way out of a pitch-black room and return after she'd found some emergency flares in the upper levels. Whatever the place had been, it was long abandoned, which doesn't help her one bit in figuring out how long she's been out of commission.
Finding the gas station felt like nothing short of a miracle after walking for the better part of a day, but she'd been dealt swift disappointment when the shelves were littered with dust and scraps of decayed packaging rather than anything actually edible. There was no water in the pipes either, though the broken mirror in the tiny bathroom offered the first glimpse of herself in who knows how long. She looks even paler than usual in the dark sweater she'd pulled from a locker, mismatched with a pair of Bridges-logoed pants and boots that fit only with two pairs of socks.
Alice looks out one of the broken windows at the darkening sky and sighs before searching for something to rig to catch rain in. The exact limits of what the T-virus will save her from have yet to be tested but she'd really rather not start with severe dehydration.
That's when she hears the bike, the first sign of another living human being. Hope tightens in her chest and she shoves it back down, remembering all the people since the world ended who have tried to kill her on sight. She doesn't have a gun. She doesn't even have a knife. The best she could possibly do is pry loose a piece of metal shelving, but that would be loud and take more time than she has. So she does the only thing she can — she waits, standing with a shelf between her and the door, in plain view but with enough cover in case she has to make a break for that broken window. )
no subject
With the Bridges-branded cap and the hood up, it makes his face barely visible at first; but then with a faint beep, the hood actually retracts itself and then his tired blue eyes are looking at her with razor-sharp, mistrustful intensity. Sam’s sizing her up from head-to-toe, doing the usual calculus: she’s wearing Bridges-branded gear, but she doesn’t look like an employee (where’s the fucking coveralls?). She doesn’t look like a mule either, since there’s a certain deranged quality to them, their clothes worn and tattered from timefall.
But she doesn’t look right, either. It takes him a moment before he clocks what it is. The stranger’s wearing a sweater, not a hardy jacket. Her hands aren’t gloved. Bare skin. There’s no way for her to safely step outdoors, dressed like that. She can’t be living here, can she? Is there an underground shelter he didn’t know about?
Sam clears his throat, but his voice still sounds like gravel when he speaks. )
You with Bridges?
( Although he has a rifle, there’s a faint green light on the side of the gun, indicating: non-lethal rounds. And then, of course, there’s the other thing which makes him look a little less intimidating: that enormous goddamn stack of cargo strapped to the frame on his back. It had almost clipped the top of the doorframe, so he’d had to duck to make it safely inside without getting literally stuck in the door. )
no subject
For a split second, she considers lying to try to pull on whatever allegiance he might feel toward this organization or company or whatever it is, but she decides it's too risky. Despite her investigation of that abandoned facility, she doesn't know the first thing about Bridges, and lying from the get-go might ruin her chance of easily getting information she desperately needs. )
No, I just needed clothes and found these.
( It's the first time she's spoken since waking up and the words feel strange in her mouth as if she hasn't used her voice in a long time. Some creeping sense at the back of her mind thinks it might have been a very long time... )
Where are we?
( Showing her hand like this is a risk too, but it's one she's actually willing to take. )
no subject
America, ( is the man’s rueful answer, with a bit of surprisingly angry bite to it before he continues. )
The United Cities of America. A little west of Capital Knot City.
( Some of the words are familiar, ghosts of themselves, but subtly askew and unexpected for her frame of reference. United Cities?
Unheeding of how that piece of information might have landed, Sam raises his free hand, indicates with a wordless little is this okay?, before he starts to unbuckle himself from the cargo straps. It’s the smallest gesture, making himself vulnerable in those precious seconds where he’s working himself loose from that monstrous backpack. It’s baring his throat for a moment.
But, also, it’s easier to run if he’s not lugging around cases of heavy metals. )