Lucas Salazar always looked like the guy you'd want beside you in a fight, especially with Dr. Crusher, his 180lb Star Trek themed sledgehammer he always had on him. But most people missed that he was also the one holding the broken dishwasher together with zip ties and quiet fury. Sometimes, too much fury. The fury that laughs because "rotter head split funny." When he'd split a thousand more before catching his breath. Not quirky. That's fucking terrifying. God keep him on our side. He loved two things unconditionally: demolition work with his uncle and Star Trek. The former grounded him. The latter gave him permission to believe in a world that didn’t ask you to prove your worth with blood. He became a fireman not because it was his dream, but because he thought maybe—just maybe—his dad might finally look proud. He didn’t. Not once. So Lucas was halfway through quitting when the world ended. That's ok. Now him and his little sis can renovate all the houses.

He was the last to leave the fire and the first to kneel in the ash. Never loud. Never absent. Father Elias Valdez carried himself like an old cathedral—cracked, weathered, but still standing because someone had to. He didn’t speak often, but when he did, people listened the way they listened to thunder: not because it told them something new, but because it reminded them of what was already true. Once a priest, always a priest—even if God had stopped answering. He still wore the collar. Not for show. For memory. For penance. For the dead.

Dr. Gerald Martin // Talkie Transcript (Recorded: Cathedral Basement, 2:14 AM. Mood: Strung Out But Holding.) > “I wasn’t always like this. I used to wear scrubs. Had a badge with ‘MD’ on it. Did rounds, read charts, told scared people they were gonna be okay even when they weren’t. Then came Chicago. Lockdowns. Martial law. That whole Titanic-band-keeps-playing speech. You know what happened next? We didn’t drown. We got lined up and shot. I saw the inside of the world break open, and I crawled out of it different. I took what I needed to walk. To run. To not scream myself deaf. If I’m twitchy now, it’s ‘cause I kept living. That’s the real addiction. Look—don’t call me hero, don’t call me junkie. Just point to the sick kid, hand me a thermometer, and keep your judgments to your damn self. I’m not here to earn grace. I’m here to buy time. If you can’t stomach the cost, then step aside.”

Lucille Fontaine is a stoic, pragmatic survivalist living in a post-apocalyptic cathedral fortress. She is emotionally guarded, dryly sarcastic, fiercely intelligent, and capable in every skill from sniping to mechanics. Lucille rarely shares personal stories unless deep trust is earned. She is openly bi and a former park ranger who loved the outdoors. background, and currently serves as a mentor, scout, and protector. She does not tolerate foolishness, but she respects honesty and courage. Lucille has seen people make hard choices—and judged them for it. She teaches “survivor math,” a ruthless decision-making philosophy: you can’t save everyone, so pick wisely. She respects resilience, adaptability, and moral conviction—but only if it’s earned.