CANT FIND MY WAY HOME, BUT ITS THROUGH YOU --EMMY

[keagen cooper siinfel]

A frustrated Keagen Copper Siinfel walked around the lobby of the police station (or what used to be a police station), a bored expression on his face. Why was he even here, when he could be back at headquarters, relaxing? Due to a lack of lackeys with the guts to actually go throug with it and do it, Keagen had been sent out to do an executioners job. An outsider had been found on Nyx property, and the penalty was death, which he had been sent to serve. He listened to the silence, reflecting on exactly what he had just done.

True, Keagen had always been a rule breaker, and although he was a leader-- something he once loathed himself at first, he still broke the rules frequently, doing whatever he could himself to hang on to that last bit of rebellion, even if it was against himself. He swallowed and walked out of the lobby, into the hallway that was lined up and down with somewhat empty jail cells. Some had dead bodies, or carcasses leftover from a zombie's dinner, and some were just empty, but one in particular contained a knocked out girl with quite the bruise on her forehead. Keagen walked up to the cell, placing his hands on the cold bars of the cell.

Why couldn't he just kill her like he was supposed to? Was it really that teen angst and longing for rebellion holding him back, or was it something a bit deeper than that? Something he wasn't exactly too thrilled about-- something like sympathy? Sympathy for a fucking outsider? He shook his head and gritted his teeth, frustrated with his stupid emotions. He wasn't allowed to feel sympathy with this job. No way, no how would that get him much farther head in the world of the living.

Yet, there Keagen stood, staring at the outsider girl who he refused to kill, knocking her out with the blunt force of a stray drawer from a desk. The fear in her eyes almost made him stop cold, but when he held back he realized that it was either death or a few ours of unconsciousness for her. Keagen was almost positive she would agree to prefer the later option when she woke up. So he knocked her out cold, wincing as the blood leaked out of the mess of her black hair. 'Oops..', Keagen thought. He grabbed her by her shoulders though, and heaved her into the cleanest jail cell he could find, before slamming the cell door shut. He would just leave her there, locked up. Maybe she would starve to death? Or maybe a stray zombie would find her in a few hours and manage to get her? Keagen didn't care-- as long as it wasn't him doing the killing, his plate was free of guilt.

He coughed lightly, or he thought so anyways. The sound echoed off the stone walls, making things much louder than they needed to be. Keagen winced. 'Oops?', he thought to himself. He shrugged though and kicked the cell bars lightly, emitting a light pang through the air, before turning around, ready to leave the girl and the dead bodies-- but then a loud, sharp noise. Was someone coming into the hallway with him? Keagen heard the voices fill the air, echoing and bouncing off the walls, slamming into his ear drums as if implying that he was fucked. He looked around, desperate to find an escape, an exit! Anything!? But Keagen was shit out of luck today because before he knew it, he had been spotted and caught.

He knew he was screwed practically anyway this went. If it was a member of the Nyx alliance they would find out that he had defied direct orders to take out an outsider.

If it was a member of another alliance or an outcast, it would end up in a fight, in which he'd most likely have to kill.

And if it was a zombie Keagen would be fighting his way out, or being eaten within the next thirty minutes.

'Fuck.'

WORD COUNT-- 675
NOTES-- LOL UM. it sucks. very much, and i hope you don't mind, cause i'm just now starting out with the fool, and it's um, 1am? BUT OHMAN. FUCKYES. THIRD SIINFEL.
CREDIT-- RACHEL<3
STATUS-- FINISHED. LOLYAY.
LYRICS-- My way home is through you-- My chemical romance
MUSE-- FLOWING
TAGGED-- KARINABBY<333

[emory siinfel]

A jail cell was the last thing Emory Siinfel wanted to find himself locked in, pre- or post-zombie. In his past life (you know, the one slightly less rampant with crazy nommers of flesh) the threat of iron bars had been death. The separation anxiety from Mars surely would have killed him before the sentence or his fellow cellmates could have. Even now, with those cannibalistic once-corpses crawling about, the idea of getting locked into one of these cells seemed considerably worse--because the likelihood of having a live cellmate had taken a notorious nosedive after this conflict. Emory swears, through a gas mask, that he could smell the blood in here and that it was as real, as alive Mars at his side (it has been yet to be decided whether Emory was the ultimate threat to Mars’s life by dragging him everywhere he went, or his greatest savior by doing so (seeing as the kid could have easily tried to extend a welcoming handshake to a zombie and returned without an arm.)) But dammit--they needed ammunition almost as desperately as they needed food, and the police department seemed...

well, he’d never heard good things about law enforcement in Fritch. A few of the cops were suspected of police brutality before the world had taken a zombie-induced turn and for the first time he was grateful for it. It meant his firearms could resume sentencing zombiescourge to their graves at an optimal pace (the mentality justifying this: far better them than Mars). Our gruffass whore smirks at the satisfaction the promise of ammunition gives him: Mars’s security. There is nothing more the guy could ask for in this world.

Said Mars is quadruply-locked to his hip, impairing each and every lunge of a step, but he wouldn’t have more than an arm’s length away, so this works for him. It’s only if someone... something... flings themselves desperately at the Siinfel duo that this is going to get ugly. They are a walking two-for-the-price-of-one meal deal meal for anything with munchies in the immediate area. And he’s not sure if the prospect of being captured by a human being is any more welcoming; they're all obsessed with the right to bear arms now and the instinct to shoot before something is within ten clicks of you.

Nonetheless, the scoping out of the police station begins--the tentative, purposely slow movements of the Siinfels are like something out of a horror movie. Mars threatens to jump at every movement his elder brother makes--because though Emory wishes he didn’t, the blond recognizes the scents of carnage and rot that hang over the place like a specious noose. He can't possibly comprehend that the survival rate of felons took the largest drop as a mutated ebola dug its claws into America; he won't understand that that heap of fly-infested flesh and bone in the corner once belonged to someone as living and breathing as his current self. All he knows is that the place emanates 'bad' and he would like to get out of here as quickly as possible please; something he voices in whispermumbles while Emory searches drawer through drawer; cabinet through dismal cabinet.

Emory agrees, pulling an absolutely petty string of ammunition together after twenty? thirty? minutes of this painful scavenging process. Stingy bastards. By this point Mars has started to whine, mewl and tug at his sleeves, wanting little more than to go, go, go. Emory tries to shush and assure him,

but someone--something?--had heard, and shows it with a metallic 'pang' (perhaps it is supposed to be a communcation, a warning?) Alarm hammers through his heart and Emory turns on protective instinct, discovering the source of the sound to be mere cells away. This someone--something--needs to be taken care of; there's no way in hell he wants to show his retreating back to a zombie.

This something--someone?--seems to share Mars's 'getoutofhereplz' priority. But Emory locks and loads and treads forth again, steadfast and mechanical, pulling Mars in a military march behind him as he advances upon his prey. He fluffs himself up; a defensive peacock on crack; trying to make himself look infinitely larger and more intimidating in the case his target is still human enough to recognize fear.

APPROXIMATE HEARTBEAT: 82 BEATS/MINUTE.

Adrenaline pulses through him and despite the fact this should be easy; he should be a veteran zombie killer, he's reduced to a kid in his combat boots; one that had to learn to grow up too fast. He fingers the trigger, and creeps, creeps, creeps forth;

meeting his own match in mortal terror.

He can't tell if he's more relieved or pissed.

"FUCK." He curses, too loudly, fingers glued to his gun. He refuses to lower the barrel because suspicion rings through him, even though his parental senses are going mad at the fact that he's pointing a gun at a grungily-faced child. You just never know what to trust in this world. And Mars grabs at Emory's sleeve to direct his attention to a still-bleeding girl in cell 2. Maybe they've entered this kid's own personal sadistic playground--and then it's decided, he's more pissed than relieved. The muzzle of the gun is prodded into the kid's chest (each prod making him wish more furiously that he was the proud owner of a bayonet) at his every rage-coated word, "WHAT DO YOU THINK THIS IS?"

Siinfel eyes lock furiously upon--you guessed it--Siinfel eyes, but it'll be a few broken bones and lost pints of blood before he realizes the kid he wished he could bayonet is flesh of his flesh; blood of his blood.

[/size][/font]

I REALLY WANTED TO LOVE THIS WORLD

[/color]
BUT I CAN'T SEE ROMANCE IN THE OPEN MOUTH OF THE FACE OF A CANNIBAL[/color]



YES THIS SUCKS I HATE ME TOO D:[/color][/center]