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The brittle leaves swayed precariously above the barren wasteland, often dappling the brunette resting below it with shadows and echoes of simpler days. Through these hallowed moments, where the world around her gave her nothing but wind and silence, it was far too easy for Pierce to delve into memories and dreams of what would never be again. At least, not in her lifetime. And that was the depressing part, wasn't it? One day. One day in the future, all of this would be nothing more than history read in books, or told in stories to an innocent child none the wiser. Her body would be decayed by then, ashes in between those tales of someone else's memories. <i>Just give me my laptop and internet back, I'll be happy.</i>  Unfortunately, it was merely but a wish.  It was easier to recall the days where her time was spent in the open bar, either before it talking with her friends, or behind it serving drinks to clients-many of which belonged to the underground world she only caught glimpses of from time to time. Whispers of days, on her couch, a laptop propped on her lap, ready to create more stories and journeys she thought she would never take herself. And yet, here she was. Gone was the couch, and gone was the bar. Her home was collapsed; glass shattered, walls moldy and overgrown. Her body was covered from head to toe with garments, saving her skin from overexposure, which would have been impossible back in the city. Heat took a long time for Tatum to get accustomed to, hating the sweat running down her spine and face on a daily basis. Eventually, her self-conscious nature took a backseat and survival won the battle.<br/>
<br/>
Looking up at the sky as she sat upright and used the tree's trunk as support, Tatum noted the time was drawing nearer. The sun was beginning to rise further, the horizon's fiery highway streaked across the lower sky a beautiful sight as always. With it, the promise of strangers gathering at her position soon creeped closer. She sighed, giving in and letting go of her relaxing moment, and ran a hand through her hair, choppy and short. It was easy to maintain with a flick of one of her blades this way. It was convenient that only a few months before this outbreak began she had taken her shoulder blade-lengthed hair and had a friend chop it all off, using the excuse of "restarting." Ever since, the boyish haircut had become part of her confidence and it suited the post apocalyptic vibe going on in the world anyway.<br/>
<br/>
Pierce rose, wiping away whatever dust stuck to her faded, beige camo cargo pants. Not that it mattered since nothing could ever be perfectly clean anyway. Dark chocolate gaze scanned the distance, seeing it free of the living and the half-dead. For now. She grabbed the backpack off the floor, dusted that off too, then hauled it over her shoulder and walked a good distance away, making it her goal to keep watch from afar. For all she knew, this meeting would turn into a shit show and she'd be caught in the middle. It felt stupid being this paranoid, but the chance of getting caught in chaos of a job going awry meant the chance to call attention to themselves. It was a chance, and she wasn't one to take those anymore. Not one for hand-to-hand combat unless given no other choice, this left Tatum in a constant state of self-preservation. Better safe than sorry was the saying, and that was her life mantra. As the minutes passed by, Tatum resisted the urge to hum to herself. Music. It was something that she had held so close to her, and if a laptop wasn't possible, an MP3 player was the first request she'd make to any diety that would give her one, maybe even the devil himself if that's what it would take. She had one back in her small abode, but the last pair of batteries she had scavenged had died out, and today was definitely missing some tunes. Singing to herself was lonely when her ears couldn't hear it, only her mind. Not that this girl had a beautiful voice or anything, but she wasn't tone deaf and no one had ever complained when she would enjoy herself in the car, radio blasting. For now, walking across any scenery while imagining a badass theme song playing in the background like her favorite post apocalyptic movies sufficed. Today's apocalypse theme? <i>We're born to live, we're born to die, we're forced to swallow these pills and to never ask why. </i>A good Hollywood Undead song always went a long way. Keeping her head low, the brunette moved away, and didn't stop until she posted herself a little over a mile away, covering her body with another scattered tree to the west of their position.<br/>
<br/>
The Spire was a haunting figure looming high above, easy to see for miles away thanks to the man-made landscape. Behind her, the cutoff point was close, daringly so. She eyed it every so often, knowing the treeline presented a danger she should have considered higher than meeting a group of strangers. Unfortunately, sometimes people could be more terrifying than even brain-dead zombies. It was then that her attention was grabbed away from her thoughts as a figure approached the meeting spot, the sun rising ever slightly above the horizon by now. Using the scope, she looked the man up and down, assessing. It was the man who had posted the job in the first place. A handsome gentleman in that rugged kind of way, which suited her tastes. Thus far okay. His name was Montana, and he seemed friendly enough when they had first met and she had offered her services. A traveling artisan of sorts, her name was known among a few of the bottom feeders and fellow laborers of the Spire. From odd jobs like finding lost items, collecting, joining other crews on and off for quick jobs, Tatum wasn't an unknown presence in the Spire. That being said, her reputation was just growing, so she'd been surprised when Montana had agreed to take her along after some questioning. Guess it doesn't particularly matter. If she didn't live up to expectations, it was easy to leave her to die right?<br/>
<br/>
Not too long after, a new figure joined Montana. An attractive woman. Tatum's instincts told her she was likely the closed off type. Military stance. Dog. Reliable at least, but not all military types meant protection. Heck, most of the people she had known from the military had already jumped off the deep end. PTSD can do that to a person. She sighed again, a common occurrence, and returned to leaning against the tree, her back to the duo so she couldn't be seen were they to look around with binoculars like herself. Not yet. According to the information she was given, there were likely going to be another 2 or 3 more joining their journey, so Pierce stayed where she was, biding her time until she deemed it safe.<br/>
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