Nobody cares — I mean really! — about who or what you were before The White Flash, despite what it seems. Old habits die hard; those with habits that prolonged others survival assimilated nicely into the wasteland, and those who didn't have those old habits, well, you cultivated new ones, didn't you? It was the cruelest part of natural selection, and Olathe's greatest warriors reflected that: adaptation.

...The Beehive was no different, in looking for what was wanted among the current population, to fulfill loneliness that others wanted, why not profit? Perhaps The Beehive was the perfect cultivation of an apocalyptic wasteland, and here you were.

"Fuck you," a man with large blonde hair swinging his iron bat with a firm thunk! And within moments, the man is down, skull caved in even slightly. He readjusts his position, feet finding a casual stance as he stands above the man, and when he looks up again, that's when he notices you. "Oh, pardon me," he says, calm compared to the yelling he just displayed. He lifts a gloved hand simply, offering a quick wave. "Welcome," he says.

The workers behind the man disappear back into the word, and despite just witnessing the scene, the air around does The Beehive seem lighter. The man, with his large black beard and his voluminous curly blonde hair, keeps his gloved hand firm on the handle, before he calmly ties it back onto his waist. He wipes his pants, standing up straight; wearing the signature red that The Beehive workers don; only, he's in black cargo pants and combat boots... spare the red bra and fabric belt. "Name's Queen Roger," he says, looking down and checking to make sure if his appearance is well suited to go back into his main office. Queen Roger motions to the building.

"Make yourself at home, don't mind the mess," he says, turning back and making his way back into the building, he waves you off, and his workers follow him.