Background

Growing up on the streets of San Diego, California, was a hectic time for young Ben. Deriving his looks from a mixed heritage between his middle-eastern mother and African American father that met during his father's time in the military, the boy was often mistaken for a local and would often partake amongst groups of the Hispanic populace that would crowd the streets to this pre-outbreak tourist trap. He led a rather normal life, making friends, learning about city life, getting into trouble often enough. His life visible to the public was one of an energetic kid who became a young man who wanted to get out of his parent's wing early. Privately, it was never so simple. His father was almost never home, his mother paid little heed to him as she garnered herself in the luxuries that afforded her from her husbands career. He took to spending much of his young life taking care of his little brother and sister, and much of his personal life keeping his head on as straight as he could. He learned to be patient. To keep his eye out on his surroundings. And grabbing his little sister every time she decided to try and sneak an extra cookie from the kitchen. He managed to survive his life, picking up random tidbits of knowledge, mostly in with gizmo's and knick knacks like computers. Making lock picks. Driving. Getting wasted lamenting a girl he lost to some guy. How to stealthily skip school for a party with the bros. And guns. He never got much practice with those but he certainly tried. Things took a narrowly dark turn when news outlets began to pour with information, though. Warnings posted everywhere. Panic on the streets. There was little time for him and his family to adapt before disaster struck. His never at home father never returned one day, and his mother was onset with anxiety. She decided to leave him, and take his two younger siblings with her out into one of the local help shelters one day when he was asleep. Leaving the young man stranded with what money he scrounged together and an empty home to survive on his own. And he did. Somehow. Adrenaline. Adaptability. Maybe a desire to catch his mother and tell her off? He had lost the sense of it some time ago, in the middle of keeping his watch as more and more things changed. The world changed. Survival was all that was left on his mind. His experiences as a young man came handily enough, between his perceptions being tested and his surroundings an ever living hell. He never had to practice his shots often, it was smarter to make as little noise as possible. He learned that the hard way. Instead, you use the little things. A crowbar bolting a room filled with them. A Molotov in the opposite direction, and far enough to not be noticed as you pass by. Knocking out their legs first when they don't notice you. And he'd kept his way, away from the general populace. Too large a crowd would make too much noise. And survive he did. Until they started knocking on his door. The traders. He'd dealt with them before, sparingly to procure goods and when he needed tools or supplies for defending his abode. But these fellows were looking for something. Bait. Someone willing enough to occupy some of the godforsaken in hopes of getting some people across towards the established Coalition for safety. He took it. What else did he have to lose? Better these families make it. And so he did. While they crossed the Texas Gap, he made noise in the deadlands. He shot some of those less fortunate infected. He ran. That Texas Deadzone. Crossing it was perilous enough, but he managed to finally catch himself on the other side. With no communication availed to him from the traders and the group, he wasn't sure if he'd done a good enough job. But that was something he'd have to come to terms with in his own time. For now, he was in new territory. And he needed to figure his way out once again. He needs supplies, and he'll need them fast.