ɪɢɴᴀᴛɪᴜs’s Comments (group member since Dec 27, 2013)

-● Fritz couldn't quite smother the distaste that curled his nose and pinched his eyebrows at the muffled sound of jostled liquor bottles coming from her frayed pack.

"Suit yourself," he muttered, tucking the packet away.To each their own, he supposed. Still, you'd never find him nursing a bottle of liquor.

Taking a drag, Fritz considered the woman beside him. She seemed spry enough, despite her admitted fondness of the bottle. His earlier snub had rolled from her shoulders like water did from a duck's feathers, her odd hazel eyes bright and...lively, despite their surroundings.

He snorted. They'd positively adore her back home.

"Reason why your cousin ran off to join a damn militia?" Fritz grunted after a few blocks worth of silence, sliding through the narrow space left between two cars. Good thing he was as skinny as a fucking twig, or he'd been a good bit of trouble.

(Can I just say that I adore Val :) )

-● In his life, Fritz had shaken the hand of a whole of five people. One had been his father, not long after his tenth birthday, when he had successfully negotiated a deal between the two of them concerning the exact hour of a later bedtime. Then second and third time had been the patronizing grasps of faceless soldiers, welcoming him along the string of “safe-zones” he'd spent much of his childhood in.

The fourth had been Marlene, dark hand grasping his in a bruising grip as she'd welcomed into the Fireflies. That had been in the faction's infancy stage, when no one knew what the fuck they were doing or just what the hell would happen to them all in the coming months. It had been better, then, before the military had slowly whittled down their spirit, before half the original members were either face down in unmarked graves or were spewing spores at whatever poor bastard came upon them.

Doc had been the last. It'd been after she'd patched him for the first time, when she was still a new face in the camp and no one was quite sure what to make of her. She'd taken his hand into both of hers and had sincerely asked him to avoid any more nail bombs before setting him on his way with a good-natured slap on the ass.

That woman frightened him more than all the clickers and cannibals in the world combined.

It was the combination of these experiences that had led Fritz to believe that hand-shaking, while symbolic of future relationships, was nothing but a waste of his precious fucking time. In the time it took for him to spasm his hand back and forth, he could've scanned a road, did a cursory check of his supplies, or even ram a blade through the eye-socket of some poor bastard.

He could rationalize his avoidance for casual touch until the cow's came home, but it was a waste of time. Everyone knew at the base that, while Fritz would help hold in your intestines in a bad spot, he'd spill 'em again if you tried to give him a friendly pat on the back. They all considered him an asshole for it, but it suited him just fine and fucking dandy.

“A pleasure,” he drawled, after giving her proffered hand a good, long dubious stare. He'd slowed his stride, but made no move to accept the handshake. She'd probably think him a stuck-up jackass for it, but he couldn't really give a shit. Reaching into the chest pocket of his coat, he drew out a beaten-up packet of zigaretten, a handful of matches stuffed in the pack alongside the weedy, bible-paper rolled cigarettes.

It was tough being a nicotine addict in a world gone to hell, but tobacco and alcohol always had a way of turning up.

Sticking a cigarette in his face, Fritz hesitated, before offering the packet to Val. It couldn't hurt to be halfway sociable.

-● A subtle curl of hesitance wormed its way into Friedrich's skull as he set to work removing the last bit of wire. Women weren't exactly a commodity anymore, and Fritz could count on one hand how many he'd talked to in the last decade. The only lady he'd been in regular contact with was Doc, but he wasn't exactly in a talking mood when he had need to visit her.

He shivered. The last time he'd seen her, she'd been wrist deep in a man's chest trying to root out stray bits of shrapnel. Fritz had been little better at the time, having taken a shot in his hip that had the luck of exiting somewhere low on his ass. Sitting had been absolute hell for a good three months.

Deciding monosyllabic answers would be the best, he grunted a “Fritz” as he worked through the last bit of wire. With a metallic click, the barb wire separated, curling on opposite sides of the alley. He'd make revisions to the map later showing that this particular alley and the ones preceding it had had their obstacles removed. It would certainly making travelling through the congested city a hell of a lot easier.

Standing, he shoved the snippers in his back pocket, slinging his old Springfield over a shoulder. Wishing he had a watch, Fritz glared at the sun. The Fireflies had expected him back in four days, and he'd already been gone three. If he was going to make the timeline the old bitch had given him, he'd have to trek through the night.

The thought alone was enough to sour his stomach. He hated travelling at night. But it would even be a bigger nuisance if they wrote him off as 'fected food. Sighing, he shuffled forward a few steps, giving the woman behind him a curious glance, asking a voiceless question. You coming?

It would be interesting to find out who could call the short, feisty woman a relative.

-● The barrel of the rifle quivered in the air. The tiny, circular motion was the only movement he made as the thin switchblade clattered to his left, a hair's breadth away from the tip of his steel-toed boots. Gaze darting between it and the shrewd hazel eyes of the woman before him, Fritz swore, lips thinning into a harsh line.

Abruptly, the rifle jerked downwards, barrel ringing hollowly as it struck asphalt. Cursing until he was damn near blue in the face, Fritz dropped his gaze, glaring at the wire cutters he'd dropped in his haste. He could easily shank her with that little knife of hers, even if it meant shoving himself through the bramble of wire, and continue on his merry way. It would be quick and silent, but...shit...

Sighing, Fritz reached for the switchblade, bouncing it in the palm of his hand. All bark and no bite. He couldn't kill an unarmed woman. She could probably throw him into the next pack of runners, but every man had his set of morals, and this was one of his.

He'd probably been quiet for too long, and with the blade being casually twirled between his fingers, he knew full well what it looked like. But he'd ever been a man of few words, and with a lopsided grin he stood, switchblade carefully proffered over the wire.

“Not part of Fireflies, no.” Stepping back, Fritz braced a hand on his knee as he bent over, picking up the cutters, “But I know where they are, ja?”

The lie was easy. Lying had always been in his nature, and in a world gone to hell, it was as necessary as the air they breathed. But beneath the ragged red plaid of his coat, nestled just beneath the collar of his stained shirt, the Fireflies pendant burned.

-● "God bless. I thought you were one of those things." Chuckled a voice in a rich, southern drawl

Jerking his hand free of the wire in surprise, Fritz cursed, blood welling from the split skin of his knuckles. The wire, while rusted with age, was far sharper than it had let on.

Cut knuckles, however, were the least of his concerns. The city was supposed to be fucking deserted. What was the chance of him, of all people, running into someone?

Hell, he hoped it wasn't a cannibal.

"Scheisse." Fritz muttered, reaching for his rifle. It was a woman peering at him over the snarl of a wire, but that meant jack-shit. Too many of the men around him had been shanked by pretty little bitches, thinking with their balls instead of their brains.

"Look," he growled, levelling his rifle in a point just beyond her shoulder, accent strong despite years of practice. "I don't want no trouble."

(Sorry for the wait :) I had to rewrite it half a dozen times, lol)

-● There were four commonly recognized stages of infection. The time it took to advance from stage to stage varied between each infected, but there was a generally accepted timeline.

Each infection stage brought with it a whole new host of problems a survivor would have to deal with. Being able to differentiate between them could mean life or death, especially in a place like this.

Easing himself free from his cover, Fritz couldn't help but think back to the greenhorn they'd gotten from a military school a couple weeks back. Couldn't tell the difference between a stalker and a clicker, but could ramble on about military procedures until he went blue in the face. He hadn't survived his first run, gotten munched on by a runner of all things twenty minutes in.

He'd seen it all through the scope of his rifle. Firing, then as now, would've risked the entire team, and the data they were carting back. The greenhorn had paid the price, and he was left with that sour taste in his mouth.

Fritz fuckin' hated it when someone died on his watch.

Sliding into the alleyway like an American baseball player onto home plate, Fritz gave himself a mental pat on the back. He'd successfully avoided being lunch for at least another few hours.

Barb wire was strung across the width of the alleyway, but it would only take a few minutes to take care of it. Reaching into the back pocket of his faded, baggy jeans, Fritz set to work with the wire cutters he'd been instructed to bring.

Beyond the wire, the afternoon sun shone on the black asphalt of a mercifully clear car lot.

-● “Scheisse.” Cursing, Friedrich Achterberg flattened himself along the cool length of an old delivery truck, heart stuttering beneath the worn plaid of his coat. Across the street, the askew figure of a Clicker lurched forward, head quivering and chest rattling with its characteristic click.

Palms beading with sweat, Fritz clutched his rifle to his chest, lower lip snagged between his teeth. He risked alerting the entire area with a gunshot, and the last thing he needed was a horde on his Arsch.

There was barely twelve feet between him and the infected, and it was closing, albeit at a treacherous crawl. He could go back the way he came, but -- throwing a glance over his shoulder -- it would get him no closer to his objective, and would add two days at least worth of detouring.

Fucking hell, he'd told that dumb bitch that he wasn't built for this kind of work. He was an ace in support, but he was about as useful as a fuckin' bag of potatoes with this kind of shit.

He needed to get his head on straight, though. Kraut was most definitely off the menu for this fucker. Lowering a single, pale hand to the street, Fritz blindly scrabbled for a loose bit of something he could use.

Rubble, thankfully, was a common commodity nowadays. Grasping a jagged bit of steel and cement, Fritz hurled the debris as hard as he could into the building across the street, his reward a godawful crash that sent the infected tearing in the opposite direction of him and the carefully charted alley on his map.

● Name ● Friedrich K. Achterberg
○ Byname ○ Fritz

● Birth Date ● February 22nd, 2001
○ Age ○ 32

● Gender ● Male
○ Sexuality ○ Heterosexual

● Marital Status ● Single
○ Availability ○ Open

● Faction ● Fireflies

● Appearance ● A slim, bookish individual, Fritz hardly fits the vision of a world-weary survivor. Of average height, he is a good bit lighter than what would be considered healthy in a normal world, and is often mistaken for a boy half his actual age.

Fritz's eyes are a faded blue, and his close-cropped hair is a dusty shade of brown, with a few greys making their shining debut. Boyish in appearance and barely filling the clothes he wears, he's an un-intimidating figure. He often has a week worth of scruff on his chin, and wears dirt like a second skin.

● Personality ● Having been forced to mature at a young age, Fritz has long learned that the world is far from a nice place. It is fact that has embittered him, turning him into a crass cynic who'd rather shoot you than have you come within half a mile of him.

It could be said that his only real friend is the rifle he was provided, and it is the only real thing he trusts. It has become a well known fact among the Fireflies, and a source of constant amusement for his comrades.

As previously stated, he has a rather foul mouth. It is more the norm to find him cussing at someone (whether in German or English, he's not choosy) than to find Fritz actually having a conversation with some. He's rather isolated in the group, a situation mostly of his own doing, and fully expects the faction to fall.

● History ● A native of Germany, Fritz and his family were on holidays in the States when the pandemic hit. In the chaotic months that followed, and after several disorientating shuffles between failing "safe-zones," Fritz found himself completely alone in the world. Barely able to speak English, he was brought into the Fireflies not long after his sixteenth birthday, and has been an active member since.