Name: Megan Carter<br/>Age: 33<br/>Appearance:<br/><div class="bbImageWrapper js-lbImage" data-lb-caption-extra-html="" data-lb-sidebar-href="" data-single-image="1" data-src="https://blackdahliaroleplaying.com/attachments/1616248180788-png.77681/" title="1616248180788.png">
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</div><br/><br/>Three long years with the dead walking the earth. Megan had never been a religious woman by any standard, but seeing zombies rip flesh from bone killed whatever curiosity in a god that she'd had prior. If there was a god, how could they let something so harrowing happen to their own creations?<br/><br/>Now, her mind was preoccupied with other things. Namely making it through one more day, one after the next, putting one foot forward in her unpredictable and inevitable march towards oblivion in a world corrupted by the undead. Finding food, shelter, water: these were her biggest priorities, given that she'd been surviving alone for at least a year now.<br/>Time felt slowed- muddied- by the proceedings of each new day. They blended together in a haze of instinct and intuition; it was always the same base needs on her mind when the sun rose and when it set.<br/><br/>However the hamster-wheel of musing was interrupted by an all-too-welcome sight in the decrepit city she now called her own personal hell: a mechanic's workshop, jutting out of the grey and green like a discarded toy in a street's gutter. Maybe it was the sunlight, or how excited the prospect of new tools made the former construction worker, but she couldn't peel her eyes off of it until she stood a foot from the doorway.<br/><br/>In her many layers of stiff, dirty clothing, resided a couple different weapons of choice. A machete never left her palm, though its cousins- various knives she'd collected of her fallen friends and foes alike- were tucked into pockets and waist bands in case the situation gout tough. A pistol sat at her hip, what few extra bullets she'd found for it jingled like change in her pocket below the firearm, a metal cable stood in place of a belt through the loops of the very same brown Carhartt work pants that adorned her lower half. She flicked one of the many stray locks of her dirty-blonde hair out of her face as her stroll slowed to a traipse, machete poised and ready with the blade crossed partially over her chest the way one might hold a sword.<br/>Like any careful survivor (or perhaps similar to a fireman, given her caution and developed expertise for such a strategy), Megan didn't waltz straight into the workshop. She put an ear to the closed door, hoping to hear nothing but silence...<br/><br/>Instead was the telltale brutality of an ensuing kill. The garbled wail of the incensed dead, the wet<i>thak</i>of a blade through a body, a grunt and some muttered words.<br/>It was the last part that prompted her to open the door.<i>Words.</i>There was a human in there. Unlike zombies, there was always a chance to reason with humans without the need for more unnecessary deaths. Jerking back from the door with a curt, tense sigh, Megan slowly- cautiously- eased it open and poked her head through.<br/><br/>Whoever she'd heard must have been in another room. Megan was at the back door, after all. The way was clear for her to enter. The hinges squealed in defiance of her actions, as did the floorboards when her heavy boots made contact, but the woman was undeterred. Maybe, just maybe, she'd be able to find some tools in there...