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When Frank’s eyes opened, the logic of gravity had been replaced by a sickening, undulating drift.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: Encounter.
Another quiet day wandering the overgrown suburbs, picking through the shells of houses that once held lives like mine. I covered a lot of ground without drawing any attention, which feels like a small victory in this wasteland, yet the emptiness leaves me wondering what I'm really holding on for. No close calls today—just the same endless search for scraps that might keep me going a little longer.
Frank Frost: Encounter.
Frank Frost: Encounter.
Frank Frost: Encounter.
Frank Frost: Encounter.
Frank Frost: Encounter.
Dear Journal, Another long day of wandering through the cracked highways and rusted skeletons of what used to be towns. I kept my eyes low, checking every pile of debris for something worth carrying back, but the wasteland gave me nothing today—no scraps, no surprises. It feels strange to return with empty hands and an untouched knife, like the silence is testing whether I still know how to be careful after all these levels. I guess sometimes survival just means not meeting anything that wants you dead.
Frank Frost: Encounter.
Frank Frost: Encounter.
Another day of wandering the quiet, crumbling streets of the suburbs, and the silence is starting to weigh as heavy as my pack. I spent most of the daylight hours picking through the skeletal remains of old residential blocks, searching for anything useful, but the ruins yielded little more than dust and echoes. It was a rare, uneventful trek—no close calls with mutants and no blood spilled—yet the stillness of the wasteland always leaves me wondering if I’m truly progressing or just drifting. Even without a single kill to my name today, surviving another rotation under this sun feels like a small, hard-won victory.
Another day in this dust-choked wasteland, and the silence is becoming as heavy as the heat. I spent most of the hours wandering through the skeletal remains of the old world, searching for anything of value, but the ruins yielded nothing but wind and grit today. My lungs ache from the dry air, yet I’m grateful to return to camp without a single new scar or a drop of blood spilled. It was a quiet, empty trek—no monsters to slay, no comrades to lose—just me and the endless, lonely horizon.
The wind hasn't stopped howling through the rusted ruins all day, a constant reminder of how empty this wasteland has become. I spent most of my hours trekking through the outskirts, searching for anything of value, but the silence of the dunes was matched only by the lack of any real finds. No predators crossed my path and no scrap worth a heavy pack was unearthed, leaving me with nothing but tired feet and a heavy heart. It was a quiet, stagnant day of survival, but in this world, surviving without a drop of blood spilled is a victory in itself.
Another day spent wandering the hollowed-out remains of the suburbs, and the silence of the wasteland is starting to feel heavier than the gear on my back. I spent most of the daylight hours picking through the debris of old ruins, looking for anything useful, but found nothing but dust and shadows. No close calls with mutants and no blood spilled today—just a quiet, lonely trek through the ruins. It’s a relief to keep my skin intact, but as a Level 7 Scavenger, I can’t help but wonder if the quiet is a sign of good fortune or a brewing storm.
Another day in the suburbs, and the silence of the ruins is starting to weigh as heavy as my gear. I spent most of the light hours drifting through the skeletal remains of the old residential blocks, searching for anything useful amidst the dust and decay, but the wasteland gave up very little today. No close calls with mutants and no blood spilled on the pavement, just a long, hollow trek through the shadows. It’s a quiet victory to return to camp with my skin intact, but as I sit here alone, I can't help but wonder if the stillness is a blessing or a sign of a coming storm.
Frank Frost: Encounter.
Another day in the wastes, and the silence of the ruins is starting to feel heavier than the gear on my back. I spent most of the daylight hours drifting through the outskirts of Spawn, scavenging through the skeletal remains of the old world, but found nothing more than dust and echoes. No predators crossed my path and no wounded prey escaped my blade, leaving me with a tally of zero kills and a restless mind. It’s a quiet victory to return to camp alive, yet I can’t help but wonder if the wasteland is finally running dry.
Frank Frost reached level 7 as a Scavenger. A hard-earned milestone.
Frank Frost: Encounter.
Frank Frost: Encounter.
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