User:Rubin

File:Rubin.jpg

Rubin, on one of the few occasions where he's smiling. Probably drunk. Take note of the hat. It is, indeed, the same hat he salvaged from Besley and decided to go bucaneer on some griefer's ass. A-HARR! (picture couresty of Verven, who rocks)

Rubin York is a firefighter who was dumped in Malton by the government for having contact with an infected individual outside the city. He has survived by his wits and strength alone, and a bit of the renowned luck of the Irish. Once a dedicated member of the DRRP, devoted to the protection of Danversbank, he has now migrated east, to join the allied HARD members ('HARD members...' O_o) in their difficult struggle to safeguard and protect Hollomstown. He is still dedicated to the development of new methods to end zombies, griefers, GKers and PKers while drunk. Pirate culture is still a big thing for him, and does his best to embdoy the gung-ho attitude of the old sea-faring louts.

In the Beginning...

Rubin York, yer average, run-o'-the-mill firefighter, wasn't expecting much that fateful day. There'd been some stories on the news about Malton being mass-quarantined for some kind of viral infection that was running rampant in the streets, but that was miles away from Rubin's home. He lived in a small town on the next exit along the M11 highway going north, by the name of Cabstane. He only ever had to worry about what his mother-in-law had in store for him that weekend, or when the next stove fire would have to be put out. Things changed when GHQ for the district sent an urgent alert to all fire departments in the area. They were to be part of a quarantine operation on the nearby river Sticks, which had apparently showed signs of the strain of virus affecting Malton. It had been carried upstream by some sort of unidentified fish, the reports said. Rubin and the two other members of the Cabstane Fire Department were rushed off to the scene. It was unclear why firemen were necessary, but they just followed orders, like good fire-fighters did. It turns out, they would have been better off just staying at home. Their little truck bounced along the roads, passing the ominous "QUARANTINE ZONE" signs with a cautious flash of the IDs that had been faxed to them. Around then bend, they arrived at a scene from a bad episode of X-files. Men in rubber suits carried large bio-hazard containers back and forth, while police and military personnel patrolled the area, toting submachine guns. Immediately on edge, Rubin half-considered turning the truck around and leaving. But, their commander, a stout, middle-aged fellow by the name of McWallace was already approaching them with a frown on his face.

"You're late."

"Sorry, boss, 'ad a spot of bother with the fax," Jason said, leaning across Rubin.

"Bollocks. Get movin'. Yer reportin' to me, as per usual." McWallace turned and started walking away.

"Wait, sir!" Rubin called. McWallace stopped and turned on his heel. "What the 'ell are we supposed ta do?"

"You didna get th'instructions? Yer killin' any fish the biohazard folks don' catch!"

They spent the rest of the afternoon walking up and down the riverbanks, looking into the rushing, crystal clear waters and swinging their fireaxes. It was bizarre, but the top brass probably had a reason for the orders. So they set about looking for fish.

Jason was the first to notice a fish. It was lying amongst the rocks, twitching fitfully. He called them over, poking the dying animal with the edge of his fireaxe. All three crouched down to get a closer look.

It looked sick. The scales were slowly slewing off, as if it were an extra skin it didn't need anymore. One eye was filmed over, and the other was just plain dead. The mouth worked slowly, but it seemed as if the animal was dead, otherwise. The stench of decaying flesh filled the air, the Rubin couldn't help but wrinkle his nose at the smell. "Heck, it looks like it should be dead!" Alistair announced, laughing nervously as he stroked his beard. Rubin didn't find it funny. There was something clearly very wrong with this animal. He stood and backed away, pulling Alistair with him.

"Jason, I don't know 'bout this. I say we just kill it, like McWallace told us to." Rubin shivered. "Might be infected, y'know."

Jason laughed. "What are you on about?" he asked, reaching down towards the fish. "It's just a fish, Rub-" As he touched the fish, the creature flapped around wildly, biting deep into Jason's exposed wrist. The firefighter screamed and waved his hand, desperately trying to get the monstrous creature off his hand. In a flash, he'd hefted his fireaxe in his other hand and chopped the animal's head off. It stayed where it was, stuck to his arm and twitching fitfully. Jason bashed it off his hand, leaving the bitemarks to bleed freely.

They rushed him back to the camp, despite his protests that it was fine. They were all thinking the same thing: That creature was infected with something. Jason probably had it too, now. They had to make sure he was going to be okay. However, the closer they got to the biohazard tents, the more fitful Jason became. "Lads, they'll lock me away and kill me, they will!" he screamed at one point, before Alistair and Rubin managed to drag him along again.

"It's fer yer own good, Jason! They've probably got a cure, mate, they're not gonna kill ye!"

It turned out, however, that the authorities did lock him up. As for the killing part, Rubin never got a chance to find out.

The Outbreak

The sewer systems stank to high heavens, but that was the least of his concerns. With a wet cloth torn from his old jacket, Rubin stumbled through the waste, coughing and gagging as the stench managed to force its way into his nostrils. Knee-deep, he managed to keep up a steady pace, made frantic by the ominous moans that sounded behind him.

He'd woken up in the sewers a few hours ago, with nothing but his old fireaxe and a set of fatigues he usually wore under his fire-fighting get-up. Not even a memory as to how he'd gotten there. There was a vague memory about Jason being dragged away, along with Alistair, and someone shoving something in the side of his neck. Within moments of his awakening, he'd been set upon by a pair of... creatures. They were hard to describe. They looked human, but the resemblance ended there. Rotting flesh sagged from broken bones, intestines hung limply against their legs, eyes were milky-white and unresponsive. They looked like corpses, except they were walking. Zombies. There could be no other explanation.

Rubin ran for his life through the human refuse. A primal fear had gripped him as soon as he saw the monsters reaching their broken, bent talons towards him, moaning and stumbling in the hellish half-light. There was no thought in his mind other than survival.

But then he reached a grate. One of those massive grates, much like a portcullis, which blocked his path. He banged on it in frustration, feverishly searching for another way past so he could continue to run from the monsters that pursued him. There was nothing. Fight or flight had taken hold, and flight was no longer an option.

"Come on, then!" he roared in the low tunnels as the two shambling abominations came stumbling around the corner, somehow navigating the rush of the sewer-stream. Rubin pulled his axe off his back, giving it a couple practice swings before holding it over his shoulder like a baseball bat. "Come 'n get some, you bloody freaks! You picked the wrong Irishman t'mess with!"

The first zombie stepped into reach. Rubin struck it in the head with a powerful roundabout swing. Years of training as a fire-fighter had given Rubin's tall, deceptively gaunt frame muscles like steel. A career in physical exertion didn't leave you weak and useless. So when that axe connected with the decaying head, it came apart in a burst of brain matter and skull fragments. Splattered in coagulated blood, Rubin took a step forward and destroyed the second zombie with a backhand blow to the chest. Breathing heavily in the muck, Rubin felt the adrenaline sizzle down as he clutched the bloodied axe. It was the first time he'd killed something human-sized. But they weren't human; he felt no remorse.

He backtracked a bit, finding a ladder leading up to a manhole. It was night outside. A few streetlamps flickered. The buildings were mere shells and the streets were littered the cars and blood trails. Checking the buildings around him, Rubin quickly found a gun and some ammunition, as well as warm clothes and, the real treasure, a bottle of beer. Craving the oblivion only alcohol could provide, he chugged it and searched the nearby houses for more of it. It was amazing that the alcohol stores of the previous inhabitants had survived whatever apocalypse had occured here. He felt no guilt stealing it; they weren't going to need it, probably.

For the next week, Rubin wandered through the streets of the starnge city, Malton, it seemed to be called, inebriated and singing coarse drinking hymns. Every once in a while, he'd run across one of the zombie creatures, but a good whack with the axe or a lucky shot with his pistol ended that problem. If there were too many to deal with at once, Rubin would run for it, his fleet-footedness saving him from a fate worse than death.

Finally, he came across the survivors. He'd seen a few humans in the distance before, but he'd never quite pursued them. His daily routine involved walking the streets searching for more alcohol, and then spending most of the night repairing the hasty barricades he'd throw up to defend his make-shift shelter. He lived a solitary existence, with nothing but his axe, his beer, and the occasional zombie to call companions. But something changed when he arrived in some unnamed hospital in some long-forgotten suburb. Attracted by the lights and the activity, Rubin managed to navigate the rooftoops onto the building from a nearby pub, dropping into the commotion.

There were survivors bleeding heavily in the hallways, being tended to by what looked like medics who had spent too long in the jungle. It was grimy, it was dirty, the air was rent with screams of pain and sharp orders. A charismatic soldier was commanding the construction of a massive barricade against the double-doors. Firemen, cops, soldiers, civilians and medics alike all and threw everything they could find into their defence.

Rubin was impressed by the teamwork. He didn't realise how much he'd missed humans until he saw them at their best. He answered the call of the soldier, whose name he would also forget, and pitched in.

That evening, a zombie horde tried to break down the doors. As one, the axes, guns and knives of the survivors rose in retaliation. Rubin slew three zombies and assisted in a fourth, distracting a flailing monster who had managed to break in through a hole in the barricade while the leader put a gun against the back of its head and blew its brain against the wall.

They repelled the attack, and the thrill of victory permeated the air. Rubin sustained a serious wound, which festered and grew worse. Not knowing better, he didn't report it. The next two days were a blurr, but he awoke, breathing hard, staring into the face of yet another unknown benefactor. The man removed the syringe from his neck.

"Welcome back, man. Were you at the Eugene Hospital raid?" Rubin nodded dumbly, still unable to comprehend the implications of what the man meant by 'welcome back.' The man winced. "Yeah, ouch. They only lasted about a day. You were lucky you got hit in the opening attacks. It got bad towards the end.

"I was... dead?"

"Yep. Drooling zombie, rotting genitals and everything. Good to be back, no?" Rubin nodded again. the medic got up, shoving the empty syringe back in his pack. "Well, I've got to get some guys four blocks east dealt with. Good luck, man, I'll seeya round."

Danversbank AHOY!

Rubin's travels took him far and wide. He passed through the legendary Ridleybank, fighting tooth and nail alongside the defenders of Eugene General Hospital, spending three days in a revive queue in Crowbank, spending a wild, drunken week in Wray Heights with a group of friendly zombies before travelling further south. It wasn't until he stopped against a government quarantine wall that he noticed the name of the newest sururb he'd found himself in. Danversbank.

It had a good ring to it, he felt. Something about the atmosphere seemed... fitting. Maybe it was the heavily fortified pub full of drunken survivors toting guns and axes. Maybe it was the elusive goth chick who brought all manner of people back from the dead within minutes of their death. Maybe it was the wild, determined, obscenely loud defence against a zombie break-in he survived in the Voss Lane Police Department. Whatever it was, it gave him a good feeling. This was the kind of place he wouldn't mind staying in. Luckily, the Danversbank Relief and Reconstruction Project was accepting members, and it seemed he'd proven himself worthy in the few days he'd spent there. It was with pride and hope that he carved "DRRP" into his flak jacket.

The Pirate

A true pirate is born, full coat, hat and eyepatch. He's looking the way he normally does; devilishly handsome and irresistably dashing. (picture courtesy of Jeff3333 who also rocks, despite being MIA.)

Rubin had been struggling with his identity for a while. He had once been a fireman, but that had been left behind. He still weilded his favorite axe, but the resemblance ended there. He had at one point been an excellent freelancer, but that ended when he joined a group dedicated to protecting a single suburb. Medical skills had also been a forte, but while he still healed indiscriminately in the southern parts of Danversbank, it wasn't his defining characteristic. He wasn't really a warrior either; he was normally too drunk for that kind of gig.

So what was he?

The answer came to him while on a resupply mission to Blesley Mall. An unfortunate run-in with a series of zombies left him stranded, near death, outside a warehouse somewhere in north Scarletwood. With what little life left in him seeping onto the ground, he just barely managed to escape his undead pursuers. Sadly, he lost one of his eyes to the ravening mobs. It was only through the judicious use of an axe and the weak structural integrity of support beam on a, strategically-plaed large poster that he survived.

He noticed something on the poster. It seemed to be an ad for some Mallywood blockbuster about pirates. On it, a dashing and proud pirate with an eyepatch and a cutlass stood proud and dashing on the stern of his little ship, proudly and dashingly surveying the broken bodies of some form of skeletal warriors that lay about on the deck, his proud and dashing crewmates carousing about the wreckage. An epiphany of sorts struck him. What was he, but a daring free man, defending his domain against monstrous invaders, revelling in the burning flames of what he had now come to call his home? Or, more importantly, wasn't he, too, killing and plundering indiscriminately?

Besides, an eyepatch only really looked good if it had a matching pirate's hat. Returning from the Besley mall with a salvaged felt-skin pirate's headwear and a new sparkle in his remaining eye, Rubin York, Irish Pirate Extraordinaire, was born.

Hollomstown rocks HARD

As with most things, it started with alcohol. Quinn, one of the brave souls that had ventured into neighboring Hollomstown to spread peace and beerocracy, had offered a crate of Guiness to however cleared out Theophan General Hospital and got the barricades up. Being a little bit bored, Rubin rearranged his eye-patch, swung his axe over his shoulder, checked his supply of shotgun shells, and began the trek to the beleaguered building. Swinging in through a shattered window, he was confronted with a trio of zombies tearing up the lobby.

A few hefty axe-whacks later, coupled with a shotgun blast or two, and there were two dismembered, rotting corpses gracing the streets outside, while a third zombie was trying to make a run for it with only half a leg and eight fingers. Closing the front door, Rubin pushed a few gurneys and soda machines in front of the doors, called it a day, and proudly returned to Quinn, who dutifully handed over the loot.

Waking up the next morning with a bit of a hang-over, Rubin was apalled to see that Theophan was open again, and full of zombies. He joined the few other HARD members in clearing the building, and called it a day, again, swearing that it was time to return to Danvserbank.

But Theophan kept falling. And falling. And falling. Rubin couldn't take an affront like this. So he kept charging in through that busted front-door, axe flailing and shotgun roaring. It was an eternal tug-of-war between the hardened, elite HARD and the nefarious, shambling hordes. In a strange way, it almost resembled Yin and Yang. By day, Theophan was held by the humans. By night, it was populated by shambling monstrosities. Or some such Zen rubbish.

The longer he stayed in Hollomstown, the more Rubin began to like the place. Danvserbank had been too quiet for his liking lately. The suburb was well established, mostly safe, but for a few unfortunate break-ins that were quickly remedied. Hollomstown, on the other hand, was a fresh, new frontier. There were zeds to kill, buildings to repair, doors to barricade, and booze, wonderful booze, free for the taking, and without the risk of freeloaders legging it with a box while you're busy defending the doors. No, freeloaders don't come to Hollomstown. Men come to Hollomstown. And women. But manly, butch women. Not necessarily butch as in the sexual preference butch, just that they're tough as nails.

So, with a nostalgic smile, Rubin York, firefighter, pirate, DRRP member, removed the tag from his flak armour, folded it carefully and hid it behind the dartboard at the Dollis Arms. Using a little spraypaint, he proudly marked himself as a member of HARD. And subsequently killed some zombies to celebrate. It's been good fun ever since. - 8 October, 2007.

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	Sobriety
	Rubin York is currently so drnuk a tht ehc nat spllee raaaaaaaai,,,

	Ban Stupidity
	This user or group does not tolerate stupid people.

Zero-Tolerance

This user has abso-fuckin'-lutely no tolerance for mindless PKers, GKers, RKers, Griefers (especially thems), Zpys, Zombies that have no interest in behaving, or the Dutch. This user also belives that kicking the bloody shite out of these people (except the Dutch) is NOT PKing, but a public service. Or personal service. Depends on how you want to look at it.

	A Pirate's Life for Me
	This user does not let the lack of oceans keep him from sailing the high seas and looting his filthy black guts out. Yo-ho-ho, matey.