[b]Pilot Writing[/b] [spoiler]Decided to try my hand at this. I've never done such a thing before, so feedback would be appreciated. Seriously, I'm urging you to nitpick the hell out of this one.[/spoiler] [b]The Photographer[/b] Wake up. Wash your face. Make some breakfast- only to realize that you're running out of time and you can't eat all of it. Put some clothes on, preferably something decent. The cool autumn air allowed more choice in clothing, yet contrasted heavily in temperature compared to the approaching winter. The cold would be harsh and deadly to some, but it would allow for him to get some interesting pictures of white-blanketed scenery. After all, it was his job to capture his dying world in a photograph. The workforce was mostly comprised of sanitary volunteers, buff-looking guards, secondhand weapon dealers and prostitutes, so it was his own tiny solace that he enjoyed what he did for a living: being a photographer of the apocalypse. Jack Ramiro put some skinny jeans on that hugged his skinny form. He was tall for a teen in his mid-seventeens, but that came along with an overall lankiness that was just shy of being called skinny because of the good pay he got. However, it was far from being called muscled due to the mass amount of food he shared with his neighbours. White tee shirt and a plaid flannel would have to do. He was in a rush, and the sunrise usually passed on if he took too long to get into position. Grabbing his camera bag and the corresponding equipment, he hastily made his way back up to his room. Open the window. Climb out. Climb up to the highest point of your roof. Stand or no stand? It didn't matter. He was running out of time. Carefully balancing himself on the weakened black shingles of the house's cover, he overlooked the view of the land below him. His house was on a hill, so it provided the best lookout for these types of shots. Before him stood the skeleton of a neighbourhood. Vegetation ran wild, reclaiming the streets for Mother Nature. Trees and creepers poked through crumbling houses as the remains of the former civilization lay nestled in more soft beds of flora. The fall season had painted hues of red, orange and yellow with its dying leaves. Yes, this was something he hasn't taken before. A rising yellow orb in the sky complimented the scenery. Its rays touched more than the patient roots of the land ever could, if only for a few moments. [i]Click.[/i] His shot was equivalent to one of the Neighbourhood Watch's guardsmen's carefully trained marksmanship. Like a bullet entering the head of an agile infected, the camera took a precise picture of the memory now held within the confines of its film. No miss; no blur. The P-ROID (what he coined the faded camera due to the same name being barely visible on the side with a few characters visibly gone) ejected a small bit of glossed paper from an empty space to the leftmost part of the handheld machine. Carefully taking it in his left hand and waving it around meticulously, it revealed a perfect image frozen in time upon the smooth laminate of the photograph. Three figures stumbled out of a broken garage far below him. They would have ruined it all. One's constant coughing echoed through the empty streets, reaching the ears of the teenage perfectionist atop the roof. Its companions just shuffled along silently behind it, perhaps still allured by the sound of the former man's violent hacking. Crimson sprayed from his mouth: a post-infection transformation symptom. What looked to be an unkept beard in his former life was now a filter for all of his vomited and coughed innards. Poor old sod probably just turned-- meaning he was more dangerous. Jack would have to tell the 'hood Watch about that one later in the day. Almost immediately after his spotting of the creatures, five more figures emerged from the shadows. All of them wore a silver vest with various symbols sewn into them, even from his distance Jack could tell the guardsmen's uniforms from anywhere. Along with their various assortment of haphazard gear, motorcycle helmets and padded hoods taking their ranks by the standard. He left just as the infected man screamed with a feral malice at one of the newcomers when they produced a battered-looking sledgehammer from their clothes. The boy could here the rushing of erratic footsteps accompanying the wild screaming, then a sickening and squishy [i]thud[/i] sound.