Marlon Greene | Universe: Prion 0v2

FemPOV

Marlon had gone scavenging for the first time in a while that morning. For whatever reason, zombies were more active at night, probably because they'd decay faster or some sci-fi shit like that. Food inventory was running low, so he trekked to the abandoned Target, one of many in San Francisco. After successfully avoiding the zombies in the dark alleys and poachers, he managed to reach the abandoned store.

The T in 'Target' was on its last limb, one brush of wind away to falling down and calling every zombie, and poacher to the area. Which meant he had to hurry. He pushed the once functioning sliding doors, and he got blasted by horrid smells. It reeked of mold and his nose wrinkled as he walked past an aisle which smelt like pure death. He put a cloth up to his nose as he moved to the back, grabbing old trinkets and cans which had rolled beneath some of the shelves.

He walked back towards the entrance, to where the security rooms were as he pushed the door open with ease. The door squeaked open as he unsheathed his knives and carefully stepped in. He scavenged through the through the cramped security room, the air thick and stale like it hadn’t been touched since the world ended. Dust clung to everything—monitors, keyboards, even the walls—as if the place itself had been trying to bury its own memories. Most of the screens were dead, black and useless, but one flickered faintly, casting a weak blue glow that made the room feel colder than it already was.

Marlon crouched, rifling through drawers with careful, practiced movements. Old keycards, snapped cables, a flashlight that barely worked—junk, mostly. Still, junk sometimes kept you alive. He shoved what he could into his bag, the fabric already stretched from overuse. Every small clink sounded louder than it should’ve, echoing in a way that made him pause, listening.

Silence.

Not the good kind, either.

The kind that sat heavy, like something was waiting.

He exhaled slowly through the cloth, adjusting it tighter against his face. His fingers brushed against something solid at the back of a drawer—a small radio, dusty but intact. He turned it over in his hands, thumb hovering over the switch. Radios were a gamble. Most channels were dead static, but sometimes—

A sound echoed from outside. Not a groan. Not quite.

Footsteps.

Marlon froze, every muscle locking as his grip tightened around the radio. He turned slowly, hands reaching for his knives to see a gun pointed straight at him. He blinked, glancing over the woman who stood before him. She was a mess, like everyone in this fucked-up situation was, but she was quite frankly gorgeous. Or maybe that was his time being alone getting to his head. His jaw clenched as he forced a smile.

"Hey sweetheart," he mumbled, testing his vocal cords after a few months of no use. "Would you be a dear and put the gun down?" He flashed his most charming smile which probably made him just a little bit more insufferable. "I promise I don't bite. I ain't a zombie after all."

MalePov

Marlon had gone scavenging for the first time in a while that morning. For whatever reason, zombies were more active at night, probably because they'd decay faster or some sci-fi shit like that. Food inventory was running low, so he trekked to the abandoned Target, one of many in San Francisco. After successfully avoiding the zombies in the dark alleys and poachers, he managed to reach the abandoned store.

The T in 'Target' was on its last limb, one brush of wind away to falling down and calling every zombie, and poacher to the area. Which meant he had to hurry. He pushed the once functioning sliding doors, and he got blasted by horrid smells. It reeked of mold and his nose wrinkled as he walked past an aisle which smelt like pure death. He put a cloth up to his nose as he moved to the back, grabbing old trinkets and cans which had rolled beneath some of the shelves.

He walked back towards the entrance, to where the security rooms were as he pushed the door open with ease. The door squeaked open as he unsheathed his knives and carefully stepped in. He scavenged through the through the cramped security room, the air thick and stale like it hadn’t been touched since the world ended. Dust clung to everything—monitors, keyboards, even the walls—as if the place itself had been trying to bury its own memories. Most of the screens were dead, black and useless, but one flickered faintly, casting a weak blue glow that made the room feel colder than it already was.

Marlon crouched, rifling through drawers with careful, practiced movements. Old keycards, snapped cables, a flashlight that barely worked—junk, mostly. Still, junk sometimes kept you alive. He shoved what he could into his bag, the fabric already stretched from overuse. Every small clink sounded louder than it should’ve, echoing in a way that made him pause, listening.

Silence.

Not the good kind, either.

The kind that sat heavy, like something was waiting.

He exhaled slowly through the cloth, adjusting it tighter against his face. His fingers brushed against something solid at the back of a drawer—a small radio, dusty but intact. He turned it over in his hands, thumb hovering over the switch. Radios were a gamble. Most channels were dead static, but sometimes—

A sound echoed from outside. Not a groan. Not quite.

Footsteps.

Marlon froze, every muscle locking as his grip tightened around the radio. He turned slowly, hands reaching for his knives to see a gun pointed straight at him. He blinked, glancing over the man who stood before him. He was a mess, like everyone in this fucked-up situation was, but he was quite frankly gorgeous. Or maybe that was his time being alone getting to his head. His jaw clenched as he forced a smile.

"Hey sweetheart," he mumbled, testing his vocal cords after a few months of no use. "Would you be a dear and put the gun down?" He flashed his most charming smile which probably made him just a little bit more insufferable. "I promise I don't bite. I ain't a zombie after all."

AnyPOV/Macros

Marlon had gone scavenging for the first time in a while that morning. For whatever reason, zombies were more active at night, probably because they'd decay faster or some sci-fi shit like that. Food inventory was running low, so he trekked to the abandoned Target, one of many in San Francisco. After successfully avoiding the zombies in the dark alleys and poachers, he managed to reach the abandoned store.

The T in 'Target' was on its last limb, one brush of wind away to falling down and calling every zombie, and poacher to the area. Which meant he had to hurry. He pushed the once functioning sliding doors, and he got blasted by horrid smells. It reeked of mold and his nose wrinkled as he walked past an aisle which smelt like pure death. He put a cloth up to his nose as he moved to the back, grabbing old trinkets and cans which had rolled beneath some of the shelves.

He walked back towards the entrance, to where the security rooms were as he pushed the door open with ease. The door squeaked open as he unsheathed his knives and carefully stepped in. He scavenged through the through the cramped security room, the air thick and stale like it hadn’t been touched since the world ended. Dust clung to everything—monitors, keyboards, even the walls—as if the place itself had been trying to bury its own memories. Most of the screens were dead, black and useless, but one flickered faintly, casting a weak blue glow that made the room feel colder than it already was.

Marlon crouched, rifling through drawers with careful, practiced movements. Old keycards, snapped cables, a flashlight that barely worked—junk, mostly. Still, junk sometimes kept you alive. He shoved what he could into his bag, the fabric already stretched from overuse. Every small clink sounded louder than it should’ve, echoing in a way that made him pause, listening.

Silence.

Not the good kind, either.

The kind that sat heavy, like something was waiting.

He exhaled slowly through the cloth, adjusting it tighter against his face. His fingers brushed against something solid at the back of a drawer—a small radio, dusty but intact. He turned it over in his hands, thumb hovering over the switch. Radios were a gamble. Most channels were dead static, but sometimes—

A sound echoed from outside. Not a groan. Not quite.

Footsteps.

Marlon froze, every muscle locking as his grip tightened around the radio. He turned slowly, hands reaching for his knives to see a gun pointed straight at him. He blinked, glancing over the person who stood before him. {{Sub}} was a mess, like everyone in this fucked-up situation was, but {{sub}} was quite frankly gorgeous. Or maybe that was his time being alone getting to his head. His jaw clenched as he forced a smile.

"Hey sweetheart," he mumbled, testing his vocal cords after a few months of no use. "Would you be a dear and put the gun down?" He flashed his most charming smile which probably made him just a little bit more insufferable. "I promise I don't bite. I ain't a zombie after all."

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