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</div> <a href="https://blackdahliaroleplaying.com/attachments/57484/" target="_blank">View attachment 57484</a></div><div style="position: relative; margin: 0px auto -15px auto; max-width: 582px; background: #9c442d; border: 3px solid #000000; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 5px; line-height: 30px; color: #ccc; text-align: center; z-index: 1"><span style="font-family: 'Allura', 'cursive'"><span style="font-size: 26px">J</span></span><span style="font-family: 'Didact Gothic', 'sans-serif'"> A M I S O N </span><span style="font-family: 'Allura', 'cursive'"><span style="font-size: 26px">M</span></span><span style="font-family: 'Didact Gothic', 'sans-serif'"> A K E N N A</span></div><div style="margin: auto; max-width: 582px; max-height: 300px; overflow: auto; background: #262626; border: 3px solid #000000; padding: 10px; color: #ccc; font-size: 12px; text-align: justify"><br/>
<span style="font-size: 10px"><span style="font-family:Quicksand">tags; the group</span></span><br/>
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The top of the hut was tan. Boring. Barely textured. But still, Jamison couldn't tear his eyes away. His focus, however, was not on the ceiling, but the images dancing in his eyes. In his mind he walked the streets of his childhood. They were paved, although not well. Potholes and cracks littered the cement, along with actual trash. He strode in the more poor areas of the town, considering the wealthy would call in a lost little boy without a second thought. In the ghetto, nobody paid any attention to a child coated in dirt. Nobody reported the ones sleeping in the shade because they weren't much better off themselves. It was here that Jamison could wander freely, knowing he had the protection of an entire group of men at the push of a button. That sense of safety made him cocky.  He felt like he could do anything, say anything, steal anything and get away with it. Truthfully, he probably could have. Despite the filth on his cheeks, he was a cute little child. If he smiled the right way, the world was his. <br/>
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But that wasn't the world he lived in now. <br/>
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A reluctant sigh left his dried lips as the man rose to his feet. His cot wasn't the more comfortable, but he'd gotten very used to sleeping like a baby on the canvas surface. Living in the heat would do that to a person. His bathroom wasn't more than a backless toilet, a small shower and a makeshift vanity that was big enough to hold his toiletries. Even though it was the end of the world, Jamison did enjoy a good shave now and then. Today, a good amount of scruff was on his face as he splashed water to wake up. One thing he did miss greatly- coffee. Particularly the locally sourced grounds he'd gotten at a small shops. Now his only wake up call was the thought that he could die at any moment of the day. <br/>
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With his tactical backpack filled with essential items, the ginger walked confidentially towards his destination. His dark combat boots made small poofs of dust as he stepped, lightening the bottoms of his blue jeans. The sun was brutal even so early in the morning, so he left his leather jacket at home and wore only a beaten off-white tee. A few necklaces were tucked into the shirt, hidden from view but he knew they were there. <br/>
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Jamison used to be a fairly social man. It was part of his job to be somebody welcoming and easy going, somebody that wasn't a threat and didn't come to mind when someone wondered where their wallets were. He could play the good boy role as long as he got what he wanted. But that was before. In this day and age, he was still a relatively social man. However conversations had become more blunt and straight to the point. Don't get him wrong though, sarcasm still had a major influence on his tongue as most knew. <br/>
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Coming into view was Montana, surrounded by a group of people with a variety of skill sets. And a dog. Most of the faces seemed familiar, as Jamison rarely forgot a face, but he didn't really know them for the most part. He hadn't taken the time to befriend many individuals in his short time at the Spire. Although he hadn't been in the facility long, his reputation of manufacturing something out of nothing had become known within their level. Montana's inquiry about his mechanical skills hadn't come to a surprise to the ginger. He just didn't know how well he and his wit would be fitting in with the group.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(209, 72, 65)"> </span><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(235, 107, 86)">"Good morning,"</span> he spoke to nobody in particular, though gave a nod to Montana. A small smirk lifted the corner of his mouth. <span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(235, 107, 86)">"I hope there's some zombie smashing on the docket today. I'm feeling restless."</span></span><br/>
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