Bryn 'Delta' Whittaker
She/Her
26 years old
Typical
50 kg
Personality
Delta is a friendly yet reasonably cautious person. Violence is a response, at least in regards to her. Picking fights isn’t something she enjoys doing and generally will attempt to avoid, but in regards to needed scenarios you will find little remorse from her. Smiling first, and keeping her history close to the chest, Delta generally is helpful and incredibly observant. Periodically caught in wonder or her own trains of thought.
Appearance
Delta stands at 5’- with long, wavey blonde hair- often let loose and wind-tangled. She bears a lightly tanned complexion- freckled occasionally in spots along her shoulders and arms. Her eyes- a pale brown, near sepia sort of color- always watching something you’re not. Distant, and wary- but not quite unfriendly, with a habit of drifting mid conversation as if her thoughts were a mile ahead of her body. Light on her feet, she has quiet steps. Her frame wiry and compact due to her years growing up in the apocalypse. The right corner of her lips semi-often tugging upward- giving her the ghost of a smirk even while she is not attempting to smile. Her clothes are a patchwork of extra sewn on pockets and patched pieces of cloth- her boots beat to all hell and well-loved gloves pulled over her fingers, with bandages littered about her figure, both for coverage against direct contact with infected items and assumedly covering old scavenged scars.
Background
Born in the spring of 1985, Bryn grew up in New Miami - back when it was just Miami. The loud, rambunctious city ripe for adventures of a curious girl such as Bryn, the smell of motor oil from her fathers auto repair shop in the humid summers still lingered in her memories. A city kid- by no means rich or even comfortable, but fairly craftily joyful no less. When she wasn’t spending time in school, she was either scampering about picking up trinkets to bring home and weld into metal creations with her father- or aiding her mother in gardening.
Daisies, ironically, were her mothers favorite sort of flower. So when the daisy bloom began in ‘98 - Bryn remembers ever vividly the time her mother pointed it out. Walking along the road, her mother paused.
“Look, Bry.”
She urged, smiling as she knelt beside Bryn and pointed towards a patch of growing daisies.
“How beautiful.”
A year later, her mother died choking on her own blood as roots stretched from her ribs like rebar.
It wasn’t the same case for her father, at least not at first. Protecting Bryn from the idea of the world outside was no longer something impossible after the death of her mother. Thus he decided to come by the state of the world honestly - yet keep said world as far away from his daughter as was manageable, yet later in the year as he would go out to barter for water during the Blackout, he would be bit.
At 14, the Collapse hit. And she had one corpse to her name.
In the early 2000s, Bryn took to surviving along a crew of salvagers and mercenaries. They taught her where to scour the Earth for material- how to avoid pollen-heavy zones, and how to fix what others threw away.
“I want to go with.”
“Easy there, Delta Force. There’s no way we’re dragging you with us into the DZ. Its a quick scavenging mission, we’ll be back. Cool?”
“Okay.. Cool.”
“There ya’ go. See you soon.”
‘Easy there, Delta Force’ became something she’d hear very often. And it was from that offhanded joke by one of the old mercenaries where her nickname was picked up from- the crave to move and adapt, and earn her keep in the group. That name took a warm place in her heart, and she ran with it ever since. Taking her place between Coalition-friendly caravans and survivor towns- Delta majorly keeps to herself. Carrying the gear in her backpack and the weights of memory on her shoulders, her eyes turned to Kentucky after being offered a fairly lucrative amount of bullets if she could gather information on the Greenhands’ movements of the hordes.
