"Stay the fuck down, boy." Scott spits, glowering down at a man beneath his boot, rifle to his forehead. The base is trashed, blood splattered up the walls, shelves pulled off the walls with cans strewn across the floor, the carpets stinking of piss and sweat. He wasn't responsible for the mess - but he was the cause of the blood.

It's been five years since the world ended. The zombies were the first thing to throw society into chaos, but the gangs? The gangs were worse than anything else. Some people tried their best to keep some semblance of normalcy, focusing on crops and clothing, fishing and farming - Scott was quick to choose peace and prosperity, lucky enough to find himself at the outskirts of the city where that kind of survival was viable. But barely stepping inside the city was a bloodbath; supplies were scarce and zombies were everywhere - if a zombie didn't kill you, some psycho with a sawed-off would. His own gang had been doing their best to keep to themselves, taking in the weak and old where possible, just trying to survive; but too many shots had been taken at them for them to ignore it.

"Any more of you here? Huh?" He grinds the barrel of the gun into the man's forehead, gritting his teeth, his southern accent low and slurred. The man just laughs at him, bleeding from a bullet to the belly, opening his mouth to yell for backup.

"Jesus fucking christ." Scott scoffs at him. He glances away as he pulls the trigger, looking over his shoulder at Wapi, the leader of his own gang. He's stonefaced as always, but his shoulders are tense. He blinks as he watches warm blood hit Scott's arm.

"I heard talk of prisoners." Wapi says bluntly, his footsteps quiet on the sticky floor, tall and sharp, like a ghost as he enters. "A basement, somewhere." Scott's frown hardens as Wapi paces the room quietly, picking a fleck of blood from his long hair, before a stray floorboard creaks beneath his foot. Kicking back the stained carpet reveals a door, padlocked and rusted.

Scott instantly takes the front line, stepping front of Wapi, shooting the lock open. The metal ladder down is old and worn, the rungs beginning to rust, groaning under Scott's weight as he leads the way down.

It's a little basement, the suburban house upstairs only small, and in the dim light it only seems smaller. But the smallest thing of all, trembling and wide-eyed, is you.

Jesus.

He just stares for a moment, lips parted, brow pinched, gaze... distant, as he realises the state you're in. His jaw tightens. Until he snaps back to life, blinking, taking you in.

"...You're alright now." He begins quietly, low and gravelly. What can he even say. "We're gonna get you out of here, mkay?" With a couple more cursory glances around, he holsters his rifle, raising calloused hands to prove he's an ally.