• As of today (12/20/2021), Build 41 of Project Zomboid has been pushed to the stable branch!

    Everything written in our Build 41 FAQ posted 12/19/2021 still stands—Gateway Roleplay's applications will not be opening up again until What We Become Part II: What Remains concludes. Notes have been added to the FAQ to clarify this.

    We are still deep in the development stage of our next lore and need more time to make it as great as we possibly can for you all. We also don't want to cut short a lore that's been running for nearly a year and a half for the few players that have stuck it out with us.

    We're expecting to be finished with What We Become Part II: What Remains sometime in March, but that's not a hard date. It may be earlier, it may be later. So, stay tuned for the announcement on our next lore! If you join our Discord, you'll be notified as soon as our announcement drops.

    We're also looking for new admins! If you're interested in joining the team, don't hesitate to send in an application here. All new admins will be added to the team once our current lore has concluded.

    Thanks for your understanding!!

Terry - Regrets


The sounds echo down the hall. Horrible, terrible sounds.

She doesn’t look up. Eyes locked on the task at hand. Hands occupied scrubbing the floor. It’s good work. It’s reliant. There’s always something to scrub--

An animal noise. Shrill. Shrieking. She doesn’t look up.

They were going to butcher one of the cows today. They told her so she knew the place would need cleaning. She said yes, of course she’d help, reminded them she used to live on a farm. She’s seen many animals slaughtered for food.

She doesn’t mind the blood.

That noise is no animal.

She can’t be sure of that. They all need the meat. It’s been weeks since there was anything but dry bread and rice and canned--

The screams are getting louder, they cut hrough the hum of thought and scrubbing. Loud. Pained. Desperate. Begging.

She doesn’t look up.

They call it “business”. They always have “business” to “take care of”. It involves-- no. It doesn’t involve anything. It doesn’t involve her. They’re getting meat for later. That’s what they told her.

Stop lying to yourself. Cows don’t scream. You saw them drag him in.

She didn’t see anything. She made sure of that.

Plausible deniability.

She ignores the voice in her mind, just as she tries to ignore the screams. But it’s getting harder. And there’s something else now, down the hall - voices she recognizes, voices of people she once thought of as friends. Voices twisted in anger, violence, demands.

“...didn’t find everything...”

“...know you’ve hidden it somewhere...”

“...let you go, just tell us...”

“...choosing the hard way, I see...”

The screams return.

She’s going to survive. She needs them to survive. And they need her as well, they told her so. She’s safe with them. There’s nothing wrong with that.

There’s everything wrong with that.

No. Enough. She has to escape this. She has to block it out.

She focuses her mind on a memory. A hard but kindly face, marked by life and circumstance. The unwelcome sounds around her finally begin to fade to the voice of that face, the memory of her only living relative, a lifetime ago.

“You’re doing it right, and that’s why you’ll be one of those who survive this. Don’t be seen. Don’t make a fuss. Keep your head down, ya hear? It’s those who make a stir that don’t live to see tomorrow. Always make sure there’ll be a tomorrow.”

She remembers. She’s alive. She’s doing it right.

And yet why does it feel so terribly, terribly wrong?

How can you let them do this? What is wrong with you?

Even if her worst fears are true, whoever he is, he’s done equally horrible things to others. He’s just a bandit.

Like them. Like you.

No. There’s a difference. There has to be.

How many times have you allowed this to happen, now? How many times did you value your own wellbeing over that of another?

Live to see tomorrow. Don’t ask questions. Don’t partake. Don’t get in the way. Don’t be seen. Don’t make a fuss.

At least your so-called friends are honest about what they’re doing. What they’re becoming. You should be ashamed to call yourself human.

Those who left last week were found dead a few miles down the road. They didn’t make it alone. She’d never make it alone.

You’re letting them do this. You’re as bad as they are.

No. She’s not a part of it.

You’re still here. You’ve stayed. You’ve made your choice.

She’s alive.

You’re despicable.

She doesn’t notice until minutes later that the screams have stopped. She doesn’t notice the tears, either. She’s scrubbed the same spot for five minutes, putting so much force into it she’s left the wood pale with her efforts.

The door opens. Heavy footsteps make their way inside. Stop and pause. A gruff, familiar voice lets her know that the room is ready to be cleaned now. Outside, someone is dragging something heavy with them, past the door and then away down the hall. The door closes, the heavy footsteps recede as well.

She doesn’t look up. She takes her washcloth and bucket. She’ll have to come back and finish here later.

She has work to do.
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