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When Frank’s eyes opened, the logic of gravity had been replaced by a sickening, undulating drift.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 day of wandering the silent, dust-choked expanses of the wasteland, and the silence is starting to feel as heavy as the heat. I spent most of the daylight hours scouting the ruins of the old outskirts, searching for anything of value, but the dunes offered nothing but grit and empty wind. My blade stayed sheathed and my ammunition stayed full, as I didn't cross paths with a single living soul—or a dead one, for that matter. It was a quiet, uneventful trek, but in this life, surviving a day without blood spilled feels like a victory in itself.
Frank Frost: Encounter.
Frank Frost: Encounter.
Frank Frost: Encounter.
Frank Frost: Encounter.
Frank Frost: Encounter.
Another day in the suburbs, and another day where the silence was my only true companion. I spent the hours drifting through the skeletal remains of the old residential blocks, scavenging for anything of value amidst the dust and decay, but the wasteland felt particularly hollow today. There was no blood spilled and no gear lost, yet the stillness of a zero-kill streak weighs heavy on my mind just as much as a skirmish does. I survived, but as I sit here in the dim light, I can't help but wonder if I'm truly progressing or just slowly fading into the ruins.
Frank Frost: Encounter.
Another day in the wasteland, and the silence of the dunes is starting to feel as heavy as the heat. I spent most of the daylight hours wandering the outskirts of spawn, searching for any sign of scrap or useful salvage, but the ruins yielded nothing but dust and old shadows. No close calls with mutants and no blood spilled today, which is a blessing, but it leaves me wondering if I’m truly progressing or just drifting. It was a quiet, lonely trek, yet surviving another cycle without a single scar feels like a victory in its own right.
Frank Frost: Encounter.
Frank Frost: Encounter.
Frank Frost: Encounter.
Frank Frost: Encounter.
Frank Frost: Encounter.
Frank Frost: Encounter.
Frank Frost: Encounter.
Frank Frost: Encounter.
Frank Frost: Encounter.
Another day spent wandering the hollowed-out remains of the suburbs, and the silence of the ruins is starting to feel heavier than the gear on my back. I spent most of the daylight hours picking through the debris of old neighborhoods, looking for anything of value, but the scavenge was thin today. I didn't cross paths with any mutants or raiders, so my blade stayed dry and my heart rate stayed steady. It’s a rare relief to return to camp without a single wound or a kill to my name, yet there’s a lingering uncertainty in knowing that the quiet can turn into a bloodbath in an instant.
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