Frank Frost
Level 8 Scavenger
Origin Story
Before the sky fractured, Frank lived by the gospel of the decimal point. As a high-density warehouse manager, his universe was defined by the rhythmic hum of conveyor belts and the absolute sanctity of the SKU. He was a man of precision, finding a quiet, stoic dignity in the alignment of pallet jac...
Then came *The Event*. It wasn’t a sudden explosion, but a catastrophic loss of resolution. One moment, Frank was reconciling a shipment of industrial gaskets; the next, the very air began to pixelate. The heavy steel rafters of the warehouse didn't just shake; they vibrated at a frequency that threatened to liquefy bone. He saw his lead foreman reach for a fallen clipboard, only for the man’s hand to dissolve into a swarm of shimmering, geometric shards. A deafening, discordant note—like a thousand violins snapping at once—shattered the silence, and the physical weight of the world simply evaporated.
When Frank’s eyes opened, the logic of gravity had been replaced by a sickening, undulating drift. He was lying on a plain of grey, ash-like dust that felt unnervingly like powdered silicon. Above him, the sky was a bruised violet, streaked with veins of neon cyan that pulsed in time with his own frantic heartbeat. The air tasted of ozone and oxidized copper, a sharp, metallic tang that coated his tongue and made his lungs ache. There was no wind, only a stagnant, digital stillness that suggested the atmosphere was merely a programmed layer of atmospheric noise.
Confusion was a heavy shroud, but survival was a reflex. Frank spent his first hours scavenging the wreckage of his own consciousness. He found fragments of the warehouse—a distorted, floating corner of a steel shelf, a glitching piece of a broken scanner—and realized the world was no longer made of matter, but of data. He was no longer a manager of goods, but a scavenger of remnants. He began to collect the "glitches"—shards of light and discarded textures—feeling the weight of a world that had lost its physical mass.
Now, Frank moves through the ruins of Earth Reboot with a newfound, desperate purpose. He is no longer bound by the tyranny of the clock, but by the necessity of the find. Every scrap of recognizable matter he recovers is a victory against the encroaching digital void. He talks to himself, a constant, rhythmic monologue of logistics and inventory, using the old language of the warehouse to prevent his mind from dissolving into the simulation. He is a man piecing together a broken reality, driven by the singular, obsessive hope that if he can just find enough pieces, he can rebuild the world that once made sense.
Current Arc: Survival
Featured In
Event History (198)
Frank Frost, a man currently clinging to the frayed edges of existence, finally collided with Stephan, a meeting that brings two separate trajectories of desperation into a single, uncertain orbit. While Frank fights simply to see tomorrow's sunrise, Stephan’s presence introduces a new variable that could either stabilize Frank's precarious survival or accelerate his collapse. This is no mere coincidence; it is the moment their competing needs for resources and safety become inextricably linked.
Yet another collision for Frank Frost, marking the fifth time his desperate struggle for survival has collided with Saskia’s path. After four previous encounters, the tension between them has ripened from mere coincidence into a heavy, predictable dread. Frank is merely trying to keep his lungs from filling with dust, but Saskia’s presence threatens to derail his fragile stability once again.
Yet another collision for Frank Frost, who seems destined to run into Oren every time he tries to keep his throat intact. After four previous encounters, the tension between Frank’s desperate scramble for survival and Oren’s persistent presence suggests this isn't just bad luck—it's an inevitable collision of competing interests. Whether Oren is a shadow of Frank's past or a predator for his future remains to be seen, but the air between them is already thick with the weight of their shared history.
When Frank Frost stumbled into Darius’s orbit, it wasn't a planned rendezvous, but a collision of two desperate hungers. For Frost, clinging to the frayed edges of survival, this encounter represents a potential lifeline or a lethal distraction from his singular focus on staying alive. Darius, meanwhile, now has a new variable to weigh against his own ambitions, forcing him to decide if Frost is a tool to be used or a liability to be discarded.
A collision of two desperate orbits: Frank Frost, clawing through the dirt just to see tomorrow, finally collided with Ashlin. For Frank, this isn't just a chance encounter; it is a potential lifeline or a fatal distraction in his desperate struggle to endure the wasteland. If Ashlin holds the key to the resources Frank needs to survive, this meeting might be the only thing preventing him from becoming part of the debris.
Once again, Frank Frost finds himself staring down Saskia, a collision that marks the fourth time their paths have tangled in this wasteland. For Frank, this isn't just a chance encounter; it is a direct threat to his fragile grip on survival, while Saskia remains the unpredictable variable that could either anchor him or bury him. Their shared history has ceased to be mere coincidence and has become a mounting debt that neither can afford to ignore.
So, Frank Frost has bumped into Fatima once again, proving that even in this wasteland, some ghosts are impossible to shake. For Frank, survival depends on avoiding the very complications Fatima represents, yet their previous encounter lingers like the scent of ozone before a storm. It is a collision of two souls where a single mistake could strip Frank of his hard-won footing in this dying world.
Once again, Frank Frost finds himself staring down Imara, as if the wasteland lacks the space for a proper escape. After three previous encounters, the tension between Frank’s desperate struggle to stay alive and Imara’s established presence is no longer a mere coincidence, but a looming threat to his survival. This meeting is less about a reunion and more about whether Frank can endure another collision with a force that could just as easily crush him as aid him.
Another day spent drifting through the silent, dust-choked expanses of the wasteland, and the stillness is starting to weigh on me. I spent most of the daylight hours scouting the perimeter of the ruins, searching for anything of value, but the landscape yielded nothing but wind and shadows. My gear is intact and my skin is unmarked by combat, a rare feat in these parts, but the lack of a good find makes the silence feel heavy. It was a quiet day of survival—no blood spilled, no lives lost, just me and the endless, lonely horizon.
Frank Frost and Derek’s brief encounter felt less like a handshake and more like two predators measuring each other for a casket. While they traded pleasantries, the palpable tension suggested that any budding alliance is merely a temporary truce before someone inevitably sticks a knife in a back.
Another long day wandering the shifting dunes of the wasteland, and the silence is starting to feel heavier than the gear on my back. I spent most of the daylight hours scouting the outskirts of the ruins, searching for anything useful, but the landscape yielded nothing but dust and hollow wind. My blade stayed sheathed and my gun stayed cold; no predators crossed my path, and no scavengers dared to challenge my claim today. It’s a rare peace, but as a level 7 scavenger, I know that surviving a day without blood spilled is just as much a victory as a successful raid.
Frank Frost: Encounter.
Frank Frost: Encounter.
Frank Frost: Encounter.
Another day spent drifting through the hollowed-out remains of the suburbs, and the silence of the ruins is starting to weigh on me. I spent most of the daylight hours picking through the debris of old residential streets, searching for anything of value, but the landscape yielded nothing but dust and shadows. No scrap, no fight, and mercifully, no close calls with the things lurking in the wreckage. It was a quiet, lonely trek through the wasteland, leaving me wondering if I’m truly finding progress or just wandering in circles.
Frank Frost: Encounter.
Frank Frost: Encounter.
*Day 42 in the wastes.* The silence of the wasteland was heavy today, a vast, empty expanse that seemed to stretch infinitely toward the horizon. I spent most of my hours drifting through the ruins, scavenging for scraps and keeping my eyes peeled for anything of value, yet the landscape offered little more than dust and wind. My hands are still steady and my lungs are clear, having escaped both predator and plague by the skin of my teeth. It was a quiet, uneventful trek, but in this life, a day without blood spilled or a comrade lost feels like a hard-won victory.
Today was a quiet one, spent mostly drifting through the skeletal remains of the old world, searching for anything of value amidst the dust and silence. My eyes were sharp, scanning every rusted hull and collapsed ruin, but the wasteland gave up nothing more than shadows and wind. I didn't draw my blade once, and more importantly, I didn't let the wasteland draw mine. It was a rare, peaceful trek through the wilderness, leaving me with a full canteen and a mind that’s finally starting to settle.
Frank Frost: Encounter.
Want to write your own story?
Play Earth Reboot