wicked game, mod.

it's strange what desire will make foolish people do

Recently, not much had been going on. The settlement seemed to be gearing itself up for winter accordingly; stocking up on food, warm clothes, blankets, petrol and medicine. The Offense faction wasn't too busy lately since everyone's efforts were focused on the impending bitter months. The reprieve was refreshing but odd. Perhaps Lorcan had just gotten wrongly accustomed to always having his roster filled with some task, mission or the other. His fingers were tingling and his legs were restless; he wanted to leave the settlement for at least an hour or so. Some people probably saw the settlement as a safe haven whereas, for him, it just seemed like one big cage.

He was going to go it alone today. For missions, Lorcan would usually reluctantly pair himself up with another fellow soldier who he trusted enough to have his eyes on his back, but today wasn't the case. He planned not to venture too far away from the barricades just to be on the safe side. With the lack of groups going on extermination parties it wouldn't come as a surprise if the surrounding roads had a couple more infected prowling around than usual. He wanted to put a small dent in that before it grew to an overwhelming amount that undid all their progress from the past month.

Don't be mistaken though; he's not doing this to make the Defense's job easier. Sometimes he just really wanted to whack something around the head with a bat.

Lorcan placed his hand on his shoulder, rolled and shrug it about, and then changed shoulders. As he walked, he gave his weapon - a wooden baseball bat - a few light, practice swings to warm himself up. It wasn't exactly cold this morning but there was a slight stiffness in his upper body, caused from being idle these past couple of weeks. The thought of pulling a muscle wasn't very appealing. The man's blond hair, heavy and choppily trimmed, had been raked back into a bun. The wardrobe he'd chosen today was simplistic in itself; he wore a plain, white, long-sleeved shirt, tough denim jeans that were loose enough to allow movement and a pair of black trainers, scuffed at the toe and speckled with blood. The only notable dash of colour he wore was his red handkerchief, the colour of the Offense faction, threaded and tied through one of his belt loops on his jeans, by his hip.

Scratching his cheek idly, Lorcan lifted his bat, stained and dented from use, and rapped on the metal bonnet of the first car on Birch street. The gentle clunking echoed through the apparently empty street before a sing-songing voice called after it: "Come out, come out, you little biters."