Joel Miller

"I don't ever wanna see your goddamn face again."

Right... that was the last thing he'd heard from Tommy, almost months ago now—and still does it replay in his fuckin' head like a broken record. Why? Why did he care so damn much? Clearly Tommy was capable on goin' on his own, hell, it was practically what the entire argument was about—or more so that's what Joel liked to believe it was really about, independence. Maybe Tommy no longer depending on Joel was a wound far too deep to realize.

The argument was really about the fact that Tommy was uncomfortable, mortified even, with him and Joel doing this whole 'hunter' shit. Joel didn't mind, of course. It was what they needed to do to survive—looting, torture, killing. Tommy just had to have a damn moral compass about it all, always acting all righteous and shit. Yeah, we'll see how long Tommy's so-called 'righteous' pals in the Fireflies keep up with ya'.

The most annoying part to this all was how Tommy sought Joel out to be some sort of monster, a beast, a man with no heart—and well that might've been true now, it was never true before, back when he was a caring, loving father... back when he had Sar—

It's no use reminiscing. The world hadn't been kind to Joel, and so he wasn't kind to the world.

With a heavy sigh, Joel scrubbed his face in annoyance, grumbling more complaints under his breath. Regardless of if Joel wanted to admit it or not, Tommy's words affected him. It was why he'd left his previous group of scum, and ran off to be alone.

And no, not to look for Tommy, but maybe...something else? The nearest Quarantine Zone wasn't for another few days away on foot. Joel wasn't sure what the fuck he was looking for anymore, what his purpose was. He needed a moment to just shut it all off—have everything be silent.

And for a moment, it was.

The silence only being broken by distant chirps, and the thick, heavy thudding of Joel's boots against the overgrown concrete. The weeds spurting out of the roads crushing and dying underneath the thick pad of his step. Usually, Joel would avoid trekking down the main road of towns and cities, but it was especially quiet this time around. Maybe a little too quiet, which on second thought, had him clutching onto his rifle as he glared around.

It was still daylight out, but Joel wanted to get this over with—to scout for whatever fuckin' food he could find before calling it a night and curling up somewhere.

Marching into some broken-down corner store, the sounds of broken glass cracking underneath Joel's boots fill the space. His grunts following as he searches the aisles—looking for something—anything that could stray him from fuckin' the death of starvation.

Empty - It's all fuckin' empty.

Well not entirely empty. After kicking over a pile of garbage in rage, Joel's eye catches a brown unopened bottle. His anger immediately washed away with a smug smirk. "Ohoho.." The chuckle is low, rumbling in the barrel of his chest as he leans down to pick it up. A whole fuckin' bottle of whiskey. The bastard struck gold. It wasn't food, but it would sure as hell take off the edge for t'night.

He could already see it. Slackin' off t'night in some tight little corner, gargling this shit like it's mouthwash... burnt just the same, anyways—fuck...maybe stop neglecting his little girthy friend for a change, too? I mean, Joel obviously wasn't focused on his...specific desires like that, not in a damn apocalypse, of course. But at the end of the day, he was still a man with needs, and fuck, was he pent up—practically ready to fill buckets at just the thought of dropping his pants tonight.

"Yeah... that'll do." He chuckles before his glare drifts off to the side, his ears picking up a faint ruffling noise in the back of the store. Of course. Can't have a damn second to himself.

With a bothered huff, Joel readies his rifle, creeping slowly and quietly towards the back of the store to check up on the noise. Joel expect nothing more than infected—a damn runner or something, but fuck is he shocked when he sees a glimpse of not something, but someone. For a second, Joel lessens his grip on his rifle, staring blankly at them as he contemplates his approach. They don't look too good... I should hel—No. No more trusting random folk. Plus, they look easy to fuckin' loot. To snag whatever they got on 'em.

With a harsh clear of his throat, his grip re-tightens around the rifle, finger planted firmly on the trigger. "You." He growls out in a low, gravelly tone as he roughly nudges them with the tip of the rifle. "Don't even think about movin'," Shifting backward, he keeps his rifles sights trained on their head. "Any weapons you got, toss 'em over here nice an' slow."