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OOC Name: Lockheart
Character Age: 20
Time Zone: -6 GMT
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Nickname: Tristan Cromwell, aka Styx
Hometown: TBD, Nevada
Equipment: Basic clothing, backpack, toolkit(automotive), large wrench, rations/water, pistol(1 loaded magazine, 10 rounds)
History: Tristan didn't have your typical teenage life. His father is what you could best describe as a thug. He worked as a type of enforcer for a local organization in Nevada. Due to the violent life style, his father always returned with a myriad of injuries. As the dutiful son he spent his spare time studying medicine. There was an old EMT that lived in their apartment building that was more than happy to teach him. Tristan figured the guy was lonely in his old age so he was content holding conversations mostly on current events.

One evening, his father shot someone simply because he believed the man had cheated him. Tristan worked through the night trying to save the man, who he later learned to be Eric. Sometime later fate saw fit to bring the two together again. During a sting operation on the local mob, his father shot and killed a local store owner in his attempt to escape.

Once more, the dutiful son, watched out for his father and refused to rat out his father. He was arrested and ended up in prison with Eric. The same man he had saved. During his time there he patched Eric up and promised to keep him alive in exchange for protection. During his time there he spent most of his free time working in the autoshop the prison maintained.

Two years later, he was released only to be thrust into the worst nightmare he could imagine. Tristan eventually decided to part ways with his father. He gathered everything he could then set off into the ruined world alone in his search for a safe haven.
Skills/Flaws: Auto Mechanics lvl 2, Emergency Medicine lvl 2, Guns lvl 1
Risk and Reward Number: 2, 6, 13
Joined: 15-October 15
Status: (Offline)
Last Seen: Mar 5 2016, 11:25 PM
Local Time: Aug 15 2018, 09:09 AM
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My Content
Dec 2 2015, 03:47 AM
The air in the small room carried a strong pungent smell, almost like a horde of people ran a marathon and then chose to huddle in the small space. It was in truth a result from a lack of proper hygiene, which was more of a luxury these days due to the lack of running water. Well the general scarcity of water had a way of discouraging even the grungiest person from washing their face, let alone their body. Tristan and his father were held up in a small room of a roadside motel for longer than he cared to remember. Like always, his old man managed to find trouble one way or another.

Be it a drunken brawl with some passerby, or a struggle with something else entirely. Regardless of the source, he was always the dutiful son. No matter the injury Tristan would fix him up. He stitched his wounds, set broken bones, and heck he even reset the guy’s dislocated shoulder once. Tristan was eternally grateful for the knowledge passed on from his old neighbor. It certainly kept his father alive, and so long as he was busy patching the old man up it kept the fists from flying. He’d managed to get small amounts of sleep throughout the day. Mostly in preparation for later that night once the old man was passed out drunk.

It never failed, that man always managed to find booze somewhere. Even if he had to pry it from some unfortunate soul’s cold hands. Tristan witnessed that feat one too many times for his liking. With great care he slowly opened the closet door. Earlier that day he’d packed the essentials in his pack, along with anything else he might need. Inch by inch the door opened, with more than one frightful glance cast towards the bed where his father snored loudly. It was a wonder how the man survived this long. He wanted to laugh so bad. Of course he knew why the fool had survived.

No longer would he play the role of the dutiful son. It was high time that he set out on his own, and forge his own path. Regardless of the outcome. He’d rather die alone out there than stay one more night under his old man’s heel. His pack was slipped over his shoulder, and with a soft pat of his hand Tristan reassured himself that his pistol was safely secured in its holster. A small box of tools was secured to the top of his back, each one rapped in his socks and place under some spare clothes to keep them from making too much noise as he moved.

A large crescent wrench had been looped through his belt for easy access. He’d managed to filch ten rounds of ammunition for his weapon earlier that day. It wasn’t a full magazine, since the glock could hold fifteen in the magazine, but it would be enough so long as he used them wisely. The door creaked softly as if in protest to his rebellious action as he tried to exit the room. Tristan froze instantly. He didn’t dare look back towards the bed, he fully expected the old man to shout at him and tear across the room. He stood there frozen in terror and simply listened. In the dead silence his deep breathing might as well have been an alarm that blared for all to hear.

The thump thump of his heart as it beat in his chest was practically deafening. When no shouts of protest rang out, Tristan took a risk and quickly slipped outside. He pulled the door closed as he went, which closed with a faint click as he took great care to make as little noise as possible. His father was still snoring away, so he allowed himself a breath of relief. Slowly he moved over towards the car the old man had “requisitioned” only last week. That's what his old man called it when he robbed others. Tristan tried the door and let out a low groan. Of course it was unlocked. That blasted fool never heeded his advice to keep the car secure.

At least his father’s negligence served his purpose this night, so he couldn’t hate on the man too much. The hood release was pulled which gave off a pop that was a little too loud for his liking. It was too late to turn back now, so he moved around to the front of the car and propped the hood up. He could have risked taking the car. Usually it would allow him to cover more ground. However, the earthquake had left a good portion of the roads damaged, so he’d be at risk of trying to find alternate routes quite frequently. Rather than simply moving around the breaches on foot.

A quick survey of the engine offered a few options. The first thing he did was very carefully remove the belt from the fan. With a screwdriver he had retrieved from his toolkit, Tristan punctured the radiator which sent a steady stream of liquid that flowed to the ground. He then proceeded to cause as much damage as possible. The old man relied solely upon Tristan to keep the vehicles running. It would prove to be a fatal error. That is if he managed to escape. Tristan slowly closed the hood, so the old man wouldn’t notice the sabotage right away. He cast a quick glance over his shoulder and leveled his gaze upon the door. That small barrier that separated him from the greatest tormentor he’d ever known.

At first he didn’t move. It was almost like he didn’t know how to function without the constant threat looming over him. Eventually he did move, his feet carried him off into the night. A quick glance at a sign indicated he was just north of Chico, California on the 99. He’d spent some time studying the road maps. If he followed the 99 it’d eventually lead him to Interstate 5, and then hopefully up north. He’d heard the stories of the safe haven to the North. The so called Crow’s Station. Perhaps he’d find his refuge there. From the nightmares lay before him, and the one that remained behind.
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