When I joined the forum I was fanboying real hard for The Wanderer. I’ve got an obsession with masked, hooded characters. I’m too edgy for my own good lol. So “The Survivor” was a homage to that. I’m not into RP but I did always kind of have a story in the back of my mind for the namesake. So I’ll give this a shot. And I know I’ve said it before - “The Survivor” isn’t me, it’s my username.
With the Saviors defeated, things became comfortable for the people of the allied communities. The Hilltop had a proper leader. The Kingdom more prosperous than ever. Alexandria was at the forefront of a new beginning and the Sanctuary was under new management. Together they would rebuild society to the way it was before. A government, an economy and grand dreams would pave the way for a new generation to exist in this ravaged world.
But settlement did not come without sacrifices. For what the communities gained in luxury they lost in the ability to survive in the unforgiving lands outside. The recent victory over tyranny and the comfort of walls began to make them soft. Many put down their arms and vowed to build rather than fight ever again.
Outside the large communities small groups still raided camps that couldn’t protect themselves. These savages continued to conduct their assaults on the innocents while the communities armed forces remained in retirement. They continued unhinged, unpunished. Until one day a mysterious champion emerged.
A group of raiders charged into a small camp some miles from Alexandria just outside the edge of the thriving community’s reach. These raiders, taking too much satisfaction in their wicked assaults, had pillaged camps for months. Rather than building something for themselves and maintaining their own land in civility they sought to take from others. One hero had begun ghosting this notorious band of miscreants and armed himself to put an end to their vile acts. Having followed them for days waiting for an opportunity he knew that it was time to strike.
As the villainous men began to sack the camp for supplies the mysterious man emerged from the shadows. Rushing toward his opponents with a makeshift baton he immediately knocked out the only two equipped with firearms. A quick flurry of forceful hits aimed at the base of their skulls and they dropped to the ground. The remaining three halted in awe at the sight of the figure that stood before them. A hooded, masked man adorned in armor holding a bloodied baton. One of them spoke.
“And what are you supposed to be? Some kind of post apocalyptic super hero?”
The hooded hero was silent.
“What are you waiting for, boys? Kill this asshole!”
Two of the raiders lunged toward the man. Without hesitation he pulled a hidden pistol out from underneath the hoodie and fired a barrage of bullets. One of the lunging men managed to get shot in the head and his corpse collapsed to the ground. The other was hit in the gut and retreated. The lead raider was furious.
“You’ll pay for that!”
He threw his weapon, a tire iron, at the masked man’s armed hand. The pistol fell to the ground. Taking a moment to recover from the pain of the impact, the hero left himself open. The leader leapt toward him and tackled him to the ground. He attempted to strangle him. The hero, overpowered by the man, having little chance to win this encounter with his bare hands reached for his baton on the ground nearby. The raider, believing that he had hold of man’s life began to gloat.
“I’m not afraid of your little stick, boy.”
The masked man, finally grabbing hold of his weapon, displayed it in the air. Revealing that a sharpened blade was attached to the other side. The raider’s eyes widened and them slowly traveled backward into lifelessness as the hero plunged the cold steel through the side of his head. The leader now dead, the hero approach the remaining raider who laid injured.
”I didn’t like it. But we did what we had to survive,” He pleaded for his life. “Okay, okay! Make it quick. Just do it.”
The hero did not respond with words. He sheathed his weapon and pointed at the survivors who had taken refuge when the raiders attacked that started approaching them.
“No! Don’t leave me with them! Kill me yourself coward!”
The mob took care of the rest. And like that the mysterious hero was gone as quickly as he appeared.
The stories changed. As word spread from one person to the next, the tale of the mysterious hero’s debut evolved from a valiant brawl to that of a superhero saving the day from destruction. Shifting from a rugged fighter to a skilled survivor who possessed the strength of ten men. The theories of his muteness growing more fantastical with each story. But the particular details that always remained the same was his appearance. His tattered hoodie with it’s fading red color underneath an outer layer of repurposed motorcycle body armor. The frayed black and white shemagh that obscured his face. The dirtied bandages that covered his hands and forearms. And of course his weapon of choice, a homemade baton constructed from PVC. One end blunt, the other, a blade attached. Mercy and death fashioned into one weapon. The physical representation of every survivor’s necessary skill: the ability to save a life and take one.
As the hero traveled across regions, helping those in need, his esteem began to spread. And with his reputation grew a name. From corner to corner of what remained of Virginia people all around spoke of the one known as “The Survivor”. A figure who protected the innocent. A fighter who would not back down no matter the odds. A legend with no identity because it did not need one. The Survivor was a person like you and me. With the strength and determination to endure this cruel world of the living and the undead. His feats were not impossible. He could be anyone. He IS anyone.